A day passes

Dreams and complicity

This day is like any other day on a train. I got up in this empty compartment. I began to reflect and talk with dad. We arrive in a station and dad gets off the train. I finish writing the text I started and then I follow him. I end up in front of a market on the platform that resembles the market of Saintes Maries de la Mer, a lovely little city in Camargue that I recommend you to go visit. Over there is my childhood, adolescence and a part of my life that took place there; there’s the soul of a small town that I love. So, from this train that crosses forests and Russian forests, I embrace all those I love who are over there now. Before our eyes, the market is filled with food, objects and things that are always useful. Dad returns with a headlamp, a Swiss knife and food. When the train leaves, I’m inside but dad isn’t, so he runs and jumps in the train. “Well, Marina, you were right. It’s indeed Indiana Jones, or rather Afghana Jones.” We both stay in the carriage and we write, read and laugh. I imagine other traveling I would like to do later and talk to dad about them. Then, we go see Putin and we meet two young men: one that looks strikingly Pakistani while the other is blonde. They are young and drunk. We learn later that these two men were workers on the train’s maintenance; that’s reassuring. We eat and go back to the compartment. I collapse from exhaustion and sleep.