There is no station here, the old man said.

by Maria Galina
     translated by Larissa Shmaylo

There is no station here, the old man said.
But I remember precisely that there was.  I remember the station
square…the nut sellers.
And apples.  Apples were sold in buckets.  Yellow apples with
broken peels.  I guess they
just fell from the tree.  Nobody bought them, but the merchants
still sat there.
Perhaps, the old man said, it seemed that way to you.  False
memory.
What—what about the apples?
Apples-tend to appear to people in the first place.
But somehow, she objected, somehow I got here.
There is the possibility that you have always lived here, said the
old man.
There should be a train station anyway.  Every city should have a
place to leave it.  Leave it
altogether. Otherwise, this city is absolutely no good.
There is no station here.  Perhaps there once was.  A long time
ago.  Once there even was an
airport.
What? she asked.  You can’t leave here?
If you want, I can take you on a boat, the old man suggested.
No thanks, she said, thanks a lot.  Not necessary.
Then get out of here, said the old man.  This place is shot through.