Collected Stories (38 page)

If the fat bitch in the next room roars and moans in her stinking lust I will not become distressed. I will not even hear her. While her
organ grips and slides over her latest lover’s aching penis, I will be far away. Nothing will touch me. I will not hammer on the wall in rage. Nor will I be so base as to press my ear closer to catch the obscenities she mutters or the details of the perversions she commands him to perform.

I will travel first through the old tickets, pale gold with ornate copperplate, then over the commemorative journeys with their ornamental insignia, their laurels, crests and specially commissioned engravings. The list, although not endless, is certainly long. There are five hundred and thirty-three separate tickets.

If the following day is a Sunday I will wake early and travel by blue bus to the Central Station. It is not permitted to visit the platform itself but one can look through the wire grille and watch the activity. The passengers, beautifully dressed, occasionally accompanied by servants, stroll to and fro on the platform. One may also catch a glimpse of a courtesan, white-skinned and dark-eyed, her position in life denoted by the small white umbrella she holds in one small gloved hand. Porters bustle. Waiters in red uniform, their faces as empty of expression as the glass window they stand behind, examine the status of those whom they will shortly serve. At one time a string quartet was established in a long white carriage and when the train at last departed it was possible to hear the sweet music of a cello above the muscular sound of the locomotive.

Doubtless you think me a poor fellow, forever watching, never travelling, my red hands gripped around the wire mesh, doomed to be left behind, to watch from cuttings, to peer from bridges, to stand amongst thistles in driving rain whilst the train passes me by and leaves me to walk two miles through muddy paddocks and wait for a bus to take me back to my room. If you think me pitiful, you are not alone. My co-workers have belittled me, taken every opportunity to play some cruel trick on me and in general have acted as if they are in some way superior, and all the while they have complained about their own lot, the monotony of their lives, the injustice of the state, the cruelty of their superiors. Little did they know how I pitied them, how I laughed at their presumption that they might one day control their own destiny.

But I, I have not complained. I have worked day in, day out, forever filing away the mountains of paper which record the business of the state: births, deaths, marriages, all tucked away in
the right place so they can easily be found when needed. I have filed acts of parliament, executions, stays of execution, punishments of greater and lesser degree, exhumations, cremations, promotions and so on. When my clothes have become worn I have spent my precious savings in order that I might do honour to my lowly position and not disgrace my superiors.

My colleagues’ frayed cuffs and stained suits have appalled me. Their scuffed shoes, their dirty hair, their missing buttons have affronted me day in and day out for nearly thirty years.

They have thought me vain, foolish, lonely, pathetic but they, like you, do not know everything, and when they hear of my reward, my gift, my privilege, we will see who is laughing at who.

For I, Louis Morrow Baxter Moon, am to travel on the train on official business.

Ha.

Today I have been to the bank and withdrawn my savings, every penny. I have purchased a new suit, a pair of shoes, one pair of dark socks, and I still have some not insubstantial amount left to cover such items as tips and wine. The state, of course, will pay normal expenses but I do not intend to travel as a lackey.

In addition I intend to drink gin and tonic.

The ticket is palest pink, denoting a journey of two thousand miles. A black diagonal line across the corner entitles me to a private salon of the second rank which, humble as it may sound to the uninitiated, is more sumptuous than anything my co-workers will experience if they live to be three hundred years old.

The ticket is held between two gloved fingers. I hand it to the man on the gate. He looks at me quizzically. Does he remember me? Has he seen me here on Sunday mornings and is he now indignant that I shall at last pass through his gate? I stare him down. He waves me through and I enter the platform with my heavy suitcase.

I had expected a porter to rush to my service, but this is not the case. All around porters carry cases belonging to other passengers. Perhaps my dress is not of the style normally worn by travellers. I carry my case without complaint. In any case it will save me the difficulty of tipping. I would rather save the money for other things.

I experience a strange sense of unreality, perhaps explained by my
sleepless night, the curious nature of the mission that has been given me, the experience of walking, after so many years, on the platform itself. How often have I dreamed of just this moment: seeing myself reflected in the large windows of the carriages, a ticket in my hand, ready to board the train.

Through the windows of the dining car I see maids laying tables with fine silver. Three wine glasses are with each setting and do not think that when the time comes I will not use at least two of them.

I present myself at car 23 and hand my ticket to the steward.

“Who is this for?” he asks. He is red-haired and freckled-faced. His elegant uniform does not disguise his common upbringing. I do not like his tone.

“It is for me. Mr Moon. A booking made on the account of the State, on whose business I am travelling.”

“Ah yes, I see.” He seems almost disappointed to have found my name in his register. His manner is not what I would have expected.

He allocates me the salon next to his office.

“Here we are.”

“Is this over the wheels?” I ask this as planned. It is well known that a salon directly over the wheels is less comfortable than one between the wheels even though the rails are now laid in quarter-mile sections, thus eliminating the clickety-clack commonly associated with trains.

“It don’t float on air,” he says and somehow thinks that he has made a great joke. He leaves, laughing loudly, and in my confusion I forget to open the envelope I had marked “Tips”.

Any feeling (and I will admit to the presence of certain feelings) that he has somehow given me an inferior salon soon disappears as I investigate.

The salon, in fact, was roughly the same size as my room. But there the similarity ended. The floor, to begin at the bottom, was covered with a plush burgundy carpet so soft and luxurious that I removed my shoes and socks immediately. There were two couches, not velvet, as I had expected, but upholstered with soft old leather and studded along the fronts with brass brads, each one gleaming and newly polished. The bed stood along one wall, a majestic double bed with high iron ends in which I discovered porcelain plaques depicting
rural scenes. The bed, of course, could be curtained off from the rest of the salon and one reached the toilet and shower through a small door disguised as panelling. The wallpaper was a rich wine red, embossed with fleurs-de-lys.

I placed my case high on the rack above the bed, put my shoes and socks back on, and retired to the leather couch. From this privileged position I could watch the other passengers pass by my window without appearing in the least inquisitive. Then, remembering the matter of the tip, I removed two notes from the envelope in my breast pocket, folded them, and slipped them lightly into my side pocket. Then I rang the bell.

He took long enough to come.

“Yes?” He just stood at the door, staring in. I would have no more of this.

“Please enter.”

He entered reluctantly, tapping a pencil against his leg with obvious impatience.

First, the tip. I’m afraid the manoeuvre was not gracefully executed. Perhaps he thought I wished to hold his hand, how can I tell? But he stepped away. I clutched after him, missed, and finally stood up. Abandoning all pretence at subtlety I displayed the notes. His manner changed.

“Now,” I said, retiring to the couch, “there are services I shall require.”

“Yes, sir.”

It would be an exaggeration to say that there was respect in his voice, but at least he used the correct form of address.

“For a start I will be drinking gin and tonic.”

“Gin and tonic, sir.”

“And I wish there to be plenty of ice. On occasions I believe the ice can run out very early, is this so?”

“You don’t need to worry, sir.”

“Then I shall require a reservation in the dining car and after dinner I wish a …” and here, I blush to remember, I hesitated. I had been so intent on not hesitating that I did.

“You wish, after dinner?”

“A courtesan.”

“A what, sir?”

“A courtesan.”

“You mean a woman, sir?” I swear he smirked. He had me there. Perhaps the term courtesan was not in common use amongst the lower classes from which he came.

“A woman, a courtesan,” I insisted.

“And ice.”

“And ice.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

“That will be all.”

He left me. Was he smiling? I couldn’t be sure.

My pleasure in the train’s departure was marred by my embarrassment over this incident, but as the train passed through the slums I called for my first gin and tonic. The ice was clear and cold and the drink quickly restored my good spirits.

I sat back deep in the couch and prepared to enjoy the journey of a lifetime.

How to describe the afternoon? A long slow dream in which everything was as it should be. I perused my “Tickets” album and resisted the temptation to place my current ticket in it although I had brought hinges for just this purpose. I drank gin and tonic as planned and had a light lunch brought to my salon. The train left the city very quickly, edged slowly around Mount Speculation, and by three o’clock we were already entering that poor dry country which marks the edges of the Great Eastern Desert. Here and there I saw bands of prisoners working on some task, guarded by soldiers, and I was reminded, against my will, of the mission that awaited me two thousand miles hence. I will confess that I drank a little more than might be considered correct and by four o’clock I was sound asleep.

I woke at five thirty, feeling a little the worse for wear, showered, dressed, and, with nothing else planned, decided on an early visit to the dining car.

This was not the right thing to do. My impatience got the better of me. For had I not imagined this moment for so many years, the moment I would take my place beside my superiors at dinner. To remain sitting in my salon was thus beyond my power.

Yet, as I said, this was a mistake. The dining car was practically empty and I thought at first that I had mistaken the hour. However,
I soon noticed, at the far end of the carriage, an old gentleman already eating. I thought to join him, to engage in travellers’ conversation, but the waiter, resplendent in red coat and black trousers, escorted me to an obscure corner behind the dessert trolley where, as he pointed out, I could enjoy some privacy.

Here is not perhaps the place to record the meal for it is all entered in the menu which I quietly slipped into my jacket. But I would wish to record that I drank a bottle of Château Smith Haut-Laffite which many consider one of the finest wines in the world, although it did have the unfortunate effect of drying my mouth and making my tongue a trifle furry.

I retired without enjoying a cigar and, feeling a little below par, decided to cancel the courtesan.

The wine cannot be held responsible for the violent sickness which beset me during the night. Doubtless it was due to over-excitement on my part. But here again, even in the midst of such upheaval, I appreciated the little luxuries the train provided, for the toilet was but a short step from my bed.

The morning revealed the truth which our most experienced travellers have so often related: that there is a certain monotony in a long journey through the desert. I was pleased to find that my view coincided with that of my superiors.

We were well and truly in the desert now and even a cluster of poor rocks was welcomed as something new, eagerly awaited, studied on arrival, and reluctantly farewelled.

I strolled the corridors a little and, not feeling up to much conversation, merely nodded to those ladies and gentlemen I met. Their smiles were in no way condescending.

In the afternoon I composed my instructions to the courtesan which I took great care over, drafting them several times and, to be honest, feeling not a little aroused by the activities I described. She was to visit me before dinner. I had the money in an envelope marked “Courtesan”. I placed it under the pillow where I considered it would be easily reached when the time came.

“And this is what you want?” she said. She was so beautiful I could barely look at her.

“Yes.”

“You have written it all by hand.”

“Yes.” I wore my dressing gown, explaining that I had just had a shower. And in fact I had wet my hair a little just to go along with the story. All this was as planned.

She wore a long blue dress, very low-cut at the front. Her skin was white, so very, very white, and she smelt like a garden of flowers. A little smile played around her full lips.

“You have very beautiful handwriting,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Shall we start then?”

“Very well.”

“You want to start with,” she consulted the instructions, paused, smiled, “number one.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, master,” she began. And fell upon my ear, licking it furiously.

“Not ears,” I shouted, “not ears.”

She consulted the list again and soon realized her mistake. After that she seemed to become more familiar with my handwriting.

At dinner I was strangely pleased to hear that the dining car had run out of ice. Yet I had enjoyed ice aplenty in the gin and tonic I had ordered in my salon just fifteen minutes before. The practice of tipping had brought me rewards and I felt immensely pleased with myself in every respect.