Tidszoner

På den fjerde morgen var toget et sted vest for Novosibirsk. Polly kiggede på det lille ur over kupédøren. Det viste 06:30. Uret var ikke blevet ændret siden Moskva. Alle transsibiriske køreplaner kører efter Moskva-tid, hele linjens længde, i syv dage og syv tidszoner. Man kan ikke drive en jernbane over otte tusind kilometer, hvis hver station har sit eget ur.

On the fourth morning, the train was somewhere west of Novosibirsk. Polly checked the small clock above the compartment door. It read 06:30. The clock had not been changed since Moscow. All Trans-Siberian timetables run on Moscow time, the whole length of the line, for seven days and seven time zones. You cannot run a railway across eight thousand kilometres if every station has a different watch.

Lokal tid udenfor vinduet var dog omkring 10:30. Solen havde været oppe i seks timer.

Local time outside the window, however, was about 10:30. The sun had been up for six hours.

Denne forskydning mellem togtid og lokal tid var, som konduktøren havde sagt, en af de små mentale udfordringer på rejsen. Ved Vladivostok ville toguret sige én ting, og den lokale sol noget syv timer forskelligt.

This dislocation between train-time and outside-time was, the conductor had said, one of the small mental challenges of the journey. By Vladivostok the train clock would say one thing and the local sun would say something seven hours different.

Polly hoppede ned og gik på opdagelse.

Polly hopped down and went exploring.

Spisevognen lå tre vogne længere nede. Hver vogn var en lang træpaneleret tunnel. Konduktørerne i grønne uniformer sad med fødderne oppe og læste aviser mellem stationerne. De så ikke overraskede ud over at se en papegøje. Toget havde set ting.

The dining car was three carriages down. Each carriage was a long wood-panelled tunnel. The conductors in green uniforms sat with their feet up reading newspapers between station stops. They did not look surprised to see a parrot. The train had seen things.

Spisevognen var malet falmet rød udenpå, lyseblå indeni. Tunge blondegardiner. Træbåse. Et lille køkken i den fjerne ende. Polly satte sig ved den tomme bås ved vinduet.

The dining car was painted faded red outside, pale blue inside. Heavy lace curtains. Wooden booths. A small kitchen at the far end. Polly perched at the empty booth by the window.

En tjener i en lidt for stor jakke dukkede op med en menu på russisk, engelsk og kinesisk. Borscht. Pelmeni. Lakse-kaviar. Tjeneren tog menuen tilbage og vendte så tilbage med en lille tallerken i Pollys højde: brød, smør og mørk sild.

A waiter in a slightly too-large jacket appeared with a menu in Russian, English, and Chinese. Borscht. Pelmeni. Salmon caviar. The waiter took the menu back, then returned with a small plate at Polly's height: bread, butter, and dark herring.

"Køkkenets komplimenter," sagde han på engelsk.

"Compliments of the kitchen," he said in English.

Silden var saltet og stærk. Brødet havde en svag surhed fra tre dages gæring. Smørret var usaltet. Kombinationen var noget, russerne havde spist på langdistancetog i hundrede og tyve år.

The herring was salt-cured and pungent. The bread had a faint sourness from three days of fermentation. The butter was unsalted. The combination was a thing Russians had been eating on long-distance trains for a hundred and twenty years.

Udenfor vinduet var taigaen tyndet ud til høje åbne græsmarker. En flok køer græssede nær et lille træhus. En mand på cykel ventede ved en jernbaneoverskæring.

Outside the window, the taiga had thinned into high open grassland. A herd of cows grazed near a small wooden house. A man on a bicycle waited at a level crossing.