A Harsh and Fearful Thing

Dreams Were Not Enough

Wedged close to Dima, his hand no longer gripping hers, but still lingering precariously close, Katrina noticed that he smelled of smoke. Not cigarette smoke, no, it was more like a bonfire. One of her favorite smells. When his hand grazed hers, she pulled it away as if burnt.

Dima sighed and crossed his arms. "I've told you I'm harmless. But if you don't think I can keep my hands to myself, then be my guest, there's plenty of room near the window." He motioned toward the other end of the bench.

"No." Katrina forced herself to stay glued to her seat. She must seem spineless to him. "I'm fine."

He began to clap. "Molod'ets, inostranka, very nice act."

"If you're just planning on laughing at me for the rest of the trip, I'm sure I can find someone to switch bunks with me." Katrina stood up. "I can think of better ways of spending a train ride than being made fun of by a condescending idiot."

"Imperious, aren't you, inostranka. Imperious." Dima crossed his arms and leaned back. "I'm not forcing you to stay here, no, go. But stop pretending that you don't want to be here."

Katrina resisted the urge to stamp her foot and shout that he was wrong. Again, here she was, overreacting. "Okay, Dima, I'll talk with you for the next few hours. But don't you dare cross any lines."

He shook his head, smirking. "Imperious for sure. Do you have a name?"

"Katrina."

"Sounds Russian to me." He tilted his head. "But with that terrible accent, it's impossible."

Glaring at him, Katrina forced a steady voice. "I'm half Russian, but I grew up in the States."

"Me too." He shifted in his seat. "Well, not about the States, but I'm half Russian."

"With such a perfect accent though," Katrina said, widening her eyes in mock surprise "how could that be possible?"

"My mother was Russian, and my father is Tatar."

That wasn't exactly the same as being half Russian and half American; after all, the Kazan Tatars had been in Russian territories for centuries. Still, it was true that the Tatars were in Kazan first, but were conquered by Ivan the Terrible in the early 1550s. She knew that much, although she knew that she had a lot more to learn. Although Katrina had been in Russia before, it had been in Vladimir, just a half-day's trip from Moscow. Aunt Yulia had only moved to Yelabuga 5 years ago, when she married Ruzil, a Tatar widower who wanted to return to the city of his roots.

"Fair enough," Katrina said. "But do you speak Tatar?" When Aunt Yulia had told her she had arranged a job for her at the local university, Katrina had asked if she would need to know any Tatar. If so, she didn't know if she was up to the challenge. With only three months from her decision to the first day of the winter semester, she knew that there was little chance that she would be conversational, much less able to teach in Tatar, before she arrived. Aunt Yulia had assured her that Russian would be enough, but Katrina needed to make sure.

"Sure, I speak some Tatar." Dima shrugged. "But just as much as anyone else."

"So most people don't speak it?"

"No, no, not really. Some parents speak Tatar to their kids at home, and there are some Tatar villages, but in the city, most people speak Russian."

"What about you?" Katrina turned toward him. "Your mom was Russian and your dad Tatar. What language did you speak at home?"

Dima tensed slightly, and his eyes clouded, their clear blue now murky with something that made Katrina shudder. She had begun to cool down, and her sweaty cami now clung to her, its dampness a grimy blanket. "Did I say something wrong?"