Destination

The beggar was disgusting and creepy. Bruises and clotted blood covered his hands and part of the face I could see. A shapeless knitted hat, a couple of sizes too big for him, hid his head. He was sitting on the muddy ground topped with blackened snow next to two other paupers. The guy looked at me intently. Something in his eyes made me shiver—something scary, something abnormal yet familiar. I stepped back, forcing myself to break eye contact.

“Sir, please, share a cigarette, would you? You have six in the pack. This is more than enough,” the beggar said, lisping, as I noticed he missed a few teeth.

“What do you mean? How do you…?” I twisted my lips in surprise and revulsion.

I had no idea why I’d stopped and started talking to the homeless bum. I usually avoided this poor lot when I’d encounter them. I was at the Belorussky Station on my way home after a busy day in the office. It was freezing cold and already dark. Moscow in January was not a very pleasant place to be. I stopped at the counter to buy a ticket for a train departing for the town in the suburbs where I lived. I was in a hurry as the train was leaving in a few minutes. I looked around. Russia was drowning in poverty in the mid-nineties. The least fortunate of the inhabitants of Moscow had found their dwelling at this busy train station, alongside all sorts of swindlers, drunkards, gamblers, and all the dregs of society. Respectable businessmen like myself had nothing in common with this kind and tried to stay away from them.

“How do I know? Oh, I know, sir…it has been written…” He leaned forward and tried to touch me. I stepped back even further, but he reached and grabbed my coat. “Wait…a cigarette, be kind, sir…you won’t need it.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?” For some reason, I took pity on the beggar, got out my pack, and passed a cigarette to him.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, picking a dose of tobacco from my hand and showing his toothless smile.

“I see death…today is your last day…I know where you are going. Your destination. You shall see!” With these words, he extended his hand and put a piece of paper into the pocket of my coat. Then he fell backward and started laughing, rolling in the snow, as if he had a seizure.

I felt goosebumps on my skin. The guy was obviously insane, but still, nobody likes to hear some madman’s prophecies about their death. I turned around and ran toward the departing train. My heart was pounding as if I had a forge inside my chest. I could not understand why this poor wretch had made such an impression on me. I promised myself never to interact with these outcasts ever again.

Later, sitting in the passenger coach by the window, I looked at the depressing winter landscape outside. Skeletons of old buildings and warehouses left in eternal damnation from more prosperous times, interspersed with tiny single car garages and storage areas, covered with graffiti and obscenities, passed within my view. These pictures of abandonment and scarcity reminded me of the interaction with a beggar at the train station. I also recalled an earlier conversation with a priest at the church, where I had stopped shortly after leaving the office at the end of the day.

The Church of Saint Nicholas the Miracle-Maker was on my way to the Belorussky Station. I’d visited it once in a while to calm my nerves after a busy and stressful day at work. The church had been rather crowded that day. People of different backgrounds and social statuses had come in the hope of obtaining divine grace. Some of them had prayed by the icons, others had been lighting up the candles, and some had just sat in silence, occasionally blessing themselves with a sign of a Holy Cross, the tips of the three fingers brought together, from right to left, in an Orthodox tradition. I had simply stood there, observing, pensive, more out of respect than piety. Attending the church had become a social habit; people were expected to demonstrate their faith. I was not a true believer; I just followed a convention. Besides, I liked the solemn atmosphere. It was the place where I could leave my troubles and pretenses at the entrance and be myself.

“Pray, my son, pray for forgiveness, repent your sins, as we are all sinners.” I had not noticed a priest approaching.
“Thank you, father, but I have nothing to repent. Not really a big sinner, and I don’t think God is interested in my petty transgressions.”

“There is nothing petty about the sin, my son.” He’d looked at me with understanding. “We are born with sin, we suffer because of sin, and we die sinners. It is part of human nature. So pray for God’s grace, as it is the only way to Salvation.”

“I am not sure about being born with sin, father. This is not how I think about it. But I am sure I can take care of myself. My good judgment, reason, and free will should be enough to keep me away from sin.”

“It is good if it is so. God works in mysterious ways. But be careful, my son. Free will is given to us to follow the voice of God in our consciousness. However, when it bounds to our desires it creates evil. This is not freedom. This is a path to Damnation, not Salvation. I will pray for you to hear the voice of God and obey it.”

“No need to pray, father. As I said, I’ll be fine. I listen to the voice of reason, and it has served me well so far. I am pretty sure I can distinguish good from evil.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” the priest had repeated and blessed me with a sign of a Holy Cross.

I’d bowed respectfully, turned around, and left the Church. This conversation had impacted me deeply; I could not understand why. I’d had a feeling the priest had tried to tell me something important, something I could not grasp. His words had sounded in my head over and over as I’d walked toward the Belorussky Station.

As I listened to the gentle beat of the train’s wheels against the rails, my brain switched to the encounter with the beggar. I was confused and alarmed. How had he known I’d had six cigarettes left? Why had he looked familiar and so abhorrent? His face, colored by bloody bruises, his twisted lips peppered with dry cracks, his half-opened mouth with black holes in between dirty teeth – all this was still in front of my eyes. What had he meant by “it has been written”? Was it a threat? Was he following me? Was he trying to rob me or hurt me? He’d said he’d known my destination, that meant he knew where I lived. Determined not to let the threat bother me and to calm my nerves, I picked my cell phone from a large case on my belt, pulled the antenna out, and called my friend. He lived in the same small town but on a different side. He answered quickly, and I was happy to hear his voice and distract myself from unpleasant thoughts resulting from the earlier events. We shared daily news, exchanged some jokes, and I decided to come to his apartment this evening for a friendly chit-chat around a bottle of good cognac. We also agreed to invite two more friends over. I reasoned I might just as well spend a night at his place, if only as a precaution from whatever sinister plans this strange beggar had. I decided to deal with this tomorrow. Maybe I’d come back, grab the guy, and drop him at the Police Station for threatening serious people.

Suddenly, a violent blast shook the train. Our car rattled from side to side and started leaning to the left. People screamed as they fell onto each other. I sat on the left side and was pushed against the window. I glimpsed outside and saw the engine engulfed in fire, the coach next to it covered in smoke and flames. Explosion. Terrorists? I did not have time to think and reason. I saw the engine getting off the rails, turning sideways, and beginning to fall into the ditch, taking passenger cars with it. Among the outcry and the pandemonium, I knew I had to act. I pulled the cord holding the window, pushed the glass outward, and opened the path to escape. Holding the sill with both hands, I was ready to jump out. At this moment, I noticed a young girl sitting on a bench in front of me. She was barely twenty, dressed in a simple white fur coat, black skirt, and high black boots. Probably a student. Her face was round and plump; she was pretty and full of life. As I lifted my leg over the sill, I looked into her deep brown eyes filled with infinite fear and plea. She managed to grab my hand and begged to help her escape. Seeing the car getting off the rails and feeling the urgency to save myself, I pushed her hand off and jumped out.

As I fell and rolled down the hill, I bumped against gravel and stones, probably broke several ribs, lost a few teeth, and suffered a concussion. I blacked out for a moment, but when I regained consciousness, I was able to stand up and look around. Twisted and broken passenger cars were scattered over the field. The engine and several coaches behind it had turned into an enormous conflagration. I approached the site of the wreck and witnessed a carnage scene. People were buried underneath the mass of the coaches, some still alive, trying to get out, some stuck within the burning debris, moaning for help. I noticed an older man trying to climb out of the broken window, his right hand a bloody mess of flesh and bone. The man saw me and gurgled something I did not understand. I froze in hesitation for a few seconds but then regained my composure and was able to think rationally. I needed to take care of myself first and foremost; I did not have time for this. Firefighters and medical crews should already be on the way, and it is their job to help the injured, not mine. The voice of reason told me to run as far away as I could unless I wanted an even bigger explosion to finish me off.

As I wandered off the crash site, the shock started to disappear little by little. I felt my broken ribs and realized my left arm was twisted unnaturally. Yet, I had survived. I rejoiced. The sensation of being alive intoxicated me. I recognized the urge to smoke, but could not find my cigarettes, probably lost during my violent escape from the jaws of death. I lost the cell phone and the wallet as well. A terrible pain pierced my whole body, my head was spinning, and my thoughts were in disarray. I remembered my conversation with the beggar and laughed. Last day my ass! It was clear he’d known about the bomb on a train. I needed to go back to Moscow and report this incident to the Police. The guy was probably a terrorist masquerading as a homeless wretch. I had no idea why he’d revealed himself to me this way, but it did not matter. I was alive. I’d made the right choices and taken care of myself. Just like I’d told the priest.

Deep in thoughts, I realized I was on the road. I walked on the shoulder for quite some time, hoping someone would stop and pick me up, but there were no cars in either direction. I thought this was unusual; there should have been plenty of traffic going in and out of Moscow. Then, finally, I saw a vehicle approaching. When it drove closer, I realized it was a minibus: old, Soviet design. I signaled, and the vehicle stopped. The driver lowered the window and asked me what had happened and where I needed to go. I told him about the crash and my intent to return to Moscow. This was precisely where he was going, so I asked him to take me back to the Belorussky Station. He agreed, opened the door, and told me to sit inside the bus. When I got in, I examined the driver in more detail: he was enormous, probably around three hundred pounds; a huge birthmark covered his bald head, and his massive arms were made to lift bulldozers, not drive a bus. He was wearing a sleeveless black shirt, so I could see tattoos on his shoulders: an angel on the right and a demon on the left. We did not talk during the ride. The driver was somewhat withdrawn and barely said a few phrases besides simple “Yes” or “No.” I was not looking for a conversation either, my head splitting with pain and every breath reminding me of broken ribs.

Left to my thoughts, I remembered the young girl on the train and the older man whom I refused to help. It did not matter; I made the right choices, I reasoned. It was not my time to die yet. It was theirs.

When the driver dropped me off at the train station, and I made a few steps, I suddenly felt my legs finally giving up. I collapsed among sleeping drunkards and stinky vagabonds in rags near the ticket counter. I realized I looked like one of them. How could I have expected the Police to believe me? Feeling the cold getting deep inside my body, I grabbed the shapeless hat from the head of one of the sleeping drunkards. This gave me some comfort, at least.

And then I saw the man approaching the ticket counter with a confident gait and assertive demeanor. I shivered with trepidation: this was impossible, beyond any rational explanation. It was likely an outcome of my concussion, I told myself. Then, remembering something, I reached into the pocket of my coat and grabbed the crumpled piece of paper. I unfolded and read it. At this moment, my mind cleared up, and I understood the meaning behind the beggar’s words. This was my destination. This was where my free will had taken me—the result of my choices. The priest had warned me, but I could not hear; I’d been too proud. I looked at the piece of paper, at the words written with red ink (or was it blood?), at my own handwriting: “The choices are made. You have arrived.”

As he came closer, I pierced him with my glance, looking eye to eye.

“Sir, please, share a cigarette, would you? You have six in the pack. This is more than enough,” I said.

Later, as I saw him running away toward the departing train, I remembered what I had done following my free, rational reasoning. Was I really free? And who exactly was this “I”? I did not know the answers, but I knew the outcome. Finally, the headache defeated the last remnants of strength I had left, and I plunged into the great dark void.

When I opened my eyes, I realized I was walking briskly, approaching the ticket counter. I shook my head, trying to get rid of this momentary lapse into drowsiness. This was the moment when I saw him. The beggar was disgusting and creepy. Bruises and clotted blood covered his hands and part of the face I could see. A shapeless knitted hat, a couple of sizes too big for him, hid his head. He was sitting on the muddy ground topped with blackened snow next to two other paupers.