Lena woke to dry sunlight burning hot on her face. She thought she was waking up at one of her childhood summer camps, because she felt stiff and achy like she did there; but when she tried to get up she realized she felt infinitely worse than she ever had before, and was lost somewhere in a Midtown Manhattan penthouse.
She rolled over and peered at a coffee table filled with empty and half empty drink glasses from the night before. The living room was empty, and she was having trouble remembering exactly how she got to wherever she was. She got up and went to find the bathroom. Her legs hurt and she felt as though she had been punched several times in the stomach.
She took as quick shower as she could, dressed and headed for the door. On her way out she met one of the other women whom she had glimpsed last night, still dressed in black fishnet hose and a red miniskirt. It dawned on her that the woman was probably a prostitute.
"Hi," she said to the woman. "Do you live here?"
The woman laughed. "No honey, they just pay me to sleep here with them until they're done. You want me to call you a cab?"
"No, thanks, I can get home on my own."
"I'm Betty," said the woman. "You look like hell."
"I'm Lena. Thanks," she said, and left. She headed for the subway.
Foma watched the night begin to retreat in the face of the steel-grey dawn approaching from the East. He ate another one of his sandwiches, and calculated he could reach Los Angeles without having to jump off at another stop to buy bread somewhere.
As he watched the receding night, he saw figures moving on the freight cars. They were grey and almost impossible to see, except for those accustomed to watching for the motion of dimly lit figures advancing in the middle of the night. Foma, a veteran, had so disliked Soviet army life that he had sworn to forget as much of it as he could, except whatever would most help in keeping him alive. He disliked admitting that this meant remembering much more than he would have chosen to.
The figures advanced. There were three of them, but Foma could see that only one of them carried anything, a small bag which he gripped with one hand as he steadied himself along the cars with the other.
He stayed motionless and was sure they couldn't see him, until they were almost on top of him. They each had black hair, wore faded jeans with paint stains, and were speaking in a foreign language as they came toward. him.
He decided not to shock them, merely greeting them. "Buenos dias, amigos. ¿Que pasa?"
They stopped before him but did not register that he had surprised them. They hesitated only a moment before one returned the greeting. "Todo tranquilo, amigo. ¿Que tal tu?"
"Pues todo bien, gracias," said Foma. "¿Quieres fumar?" He offered them his pack of opened cigarettes.
"Que si, gracias, hombre," said the first, taking a cigarette. The other two each took one also, and Foma passed him his lighter. He then lit one for himself.
"Me llamo Foma. Como se llaman ustedes?"
"Yo soy Enrique. Esto es Abel, y esto es Cornelio."
Abel laughed. "Aquí está Foma que fuma," he said. ¨This is smoking Fuma," he said. Enrique and Cornelio laughed with Foma.
"So where are you headed?" Foma asked Enrique, continuing their conversation in Spanish.
"We're going to Riverside. We heard there are a couple of jobs there which can take us through summer."
"Where are you going, amigo? ¿Adónde vas?" asked Chilo.
"I'm going to LA. I'm going to see family."
"Que bién," Enrique said. "We're going to see ours too, after we send them some more money."
Foma was not accustomed to talking abouthis family or personal matters with new acquaintances. But after Enrique and the others told him about their wives and children, and how they were trying to bring everybody north, Foma talked about Alicia and Svyeta. He couldn't be with them right now, but as soon as he could he would rejoin them for good.
"It's good you're going to go see them now, but it sounds like you're keeping Alicia waiting," said Enrique. "How's she know when she'll see you? Is she sure you're coming this time?"
"She knows I'll be along," said Foma.
They sped through the steel grey dawn, talking about work and family, some from Mexico, one from Guatemala, one from Leningrad.