The train to Pyongyang was late. Not like some places, where a late train means twenty minutes, even an hour on a bad day. This train didn't come that day, or the next. People drifted in and out of the station. A few set up housekeeping. There were no station police that I could see, no one checking papers, but everything stayed orderly enough. Jeeps squealed around the corner and passed by every hour, sometimes honking at a trader walking his bicycle, carrying an impossible load too slowly across the road. I kept away from the windows and back in the shadows as much as I could. At night there were no lights, but in the day shafts of sunlight played across the floor. The place smelled moldy, maybe because the roof leaked and the ceiling beams were rotting. There was probably a room reserved for officials, with more light and fewer puddles on the floor, but I didn't want to attract attention or have to answer any questions.
I found a dry spot against the wall, put the bag under my head, and tried to sleep. The jar of blueberry jam kept me awake. When I reached to move it aside, I realized what I should have known. There were some slices of black bread and a bottle of beer as well-and also a note: "Sorry about the picnic. Already I miss what might have been. Lena."
Attached to the note was a blue button.
About two in the afternoon on the second day, the stationmaster shuffled past. I figured he might know something. "Any chance of a train, old friend?"
He stopped and looked down at me. "Always a chance, but they'll have to lift the hold first."
"What hold?"
"Whole line is shut tight, some official party traveling around the province, so they just stopped traffic. Nothing in. Nothing out. Nothing moving."
"And what do we do? Stay here forever?"
"No danger of that, is there. You may lose a couple of days, but sooner or later we always get a train. What's your rush, anyway? Where do you need to get that can't wait awhile?"
I thought it over for a minute. He took my hesitation for evasion.
"You know where you're going? Or is it a secret? Let's see your ticket."
I patted my pockets, looking for the paper that Kang had given me at the last moment. "This will get you on the train," he had said. "It might even get you some fruit or dried fish." I asked if it would work for a cup of tea. Kang laughed as the truck pulled away. "Plenty of tea in China," he shouted, and waved his hand. Just before the truck disappeared around the corner, his head popped up again. "Books," he yelled, "in French."