What was I thinking now, as we sped through the outskirts of Paris and a little man dragged a big heavy suitcase along the aisle of our carriage? Was I hoping not to be abandoned, as I had been all those years ago?
I rested my head against the wall and folded my arms.
We crossed the Belgian border. Our tickets were on the table in front of us; I pretended to be asleep when the conductor came along to check them.
Lisa stood up.
‘I’m hungry. I’m going to the restaurant car.’
I went with her. A man sitting across the aisle was watching a film on his tablet; I asked him to keep an eye on our bags, and he nodded. Lisa led the way; the restaurant car was packed, and we had to wait for a table. The waiter spoke French with an Eastern European accent. Outside the window darkness had fallen. We both ordered chicken; we ate, we drank.
‘You were crying in your sleep,’ Lisa suddenly said.
‘Was I?’
‘People rarely cry for no reason.’
‘I have no recollection of that at all. Nor of any dreams.’
The waiter topped up our glasses. He had developed the skill of pouring drinks on a moving train without spilling a drop, even when the carriage jolted and lurched.
‘I once took the overnight train through Switzerland,’ I said. ‘I was on my way to Italy. In the restaurant car I was seated at a table with a woman of about my age who was on her own. I was very young at the time. For some unknown reason we were drinking some kind of sugary punch. I was knocking back three glasses to her one. I had the crazy idea that I might be able to tempt her to my sleeping compartment; I had booked first class in an excess of arrogance and because I had plenty of money. I don’t know why I was so well off; I had just started training to be a doctor. If I remember rightly, it was the Easter holidays, and I had decided to go to Rome on a whim. Nothing happened, of course. When the restaurant car closed, she thanked me and disappeared. I staggered back to my compartment, opened the window and passed out, drunk. When I woke up in the morning, the bed was covered in snow. The inside of my mouth felt as if it were coated in a layer of syrup that had set. I have never had such a terrible hangover, neither before nor since. I was ill for days. My only memory of Rome is the suffocating traffic; I was furious because I had wasted my money on such a dreadful trip. I had thrown away a wonderful experience for God knows how many glasses of punch.’
‘I also have a memory of Rome,’ Lisa said, ‘although my trip was a bit more successful. I went there with two friends, one whom was about to start working there as an au pair for a Swedish diplomat. We went along to provide moral support during her first week. One day I went for a walk on my own; the other two had caught a cold and stayed in bed. I met a man called Marius, and a few evenings later I lost my virginity behind a tree in the gardens of the Villa Borghese. The whole thing consisted of inept fumbling on both sides. We were supposed to meet the following day, but I didn’t turn up. I still wonder what became of him; I wonder if he ever thinks of me.’
The restaurant car was beginning to empty. We were drinking coffee; Lisa had ordered a pudding, but it was far too sweet, and she hardly touched it.
She suddenly asked why I had turned up at her apartment that evening.
‘You already know the answer.’
‘I know nothing. But I have a suspicion.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you were hoping I would let you into my bed. How could you think such a thing?’
‘I didn’t think anything. I hoped.’
‘You snooped among my papers. You found a secret in my wardrobe.’
She angrily tossed aside her napkin, then she waved to the waiter, who appeared to be half-asleep on a stool by the kitchen door. He immediately brought over the bill, which he had already prepared. I wanted to pay, but Lisa took it. She said I had already spent more than enough. She gave the waiter a ridiculously large tip, and he beamed at her. It was the first time we had seen him smile all evening.
We went back to our carriage; this time I led the way, opening the stiff doors as we moved through the train.
The man who was supposed to be keeping an eye on our luggage was fast asleep, with the film still playing on his tablet. The bags were still there.
‘Where are we?’ Lisa asked when we had settled down. She had snuggled up under her coat, legs tucked up on the seat.
‘Maybe Germany?’ I said. I looked at my watch. ‘We’ll be in Hamburg in five or six hours; there’s always a break there.’
‘Wake me up when we get there. I love the fact that nobody knows where I am. A train racing through the night. If I could write novels, I would write about this journey.’
‘Would I be in your story?’
She didn’t answer. She had already closed her eyes and pulled her coat over her head.
I must have dozed off too. I woke up when the train stopped, and in the pale light on the platform I could see that we were in Hamburg. The man opposite got up and left. Lisa was still sleeping, one leg dangling off the seat.
We were exactly on time; it was quarter to three in the morning. In contrast to my trip all those years ago, there was no need to change trains, although we would be waiting here for thirty-five minutes. I touched Lisa’s shoulder through her coat. She threw it off as if she had been attacked, blinking at me in bewilderment.
‘We’re in Hamburg,’ I said. ‘We’ll be here for half an hour.’
‘I was asleep,’ she said, still only half-awake. ‘Such a deep sleep. I dreamed about a hole that suddenly opened up.’
‘I’m going to get some fresh air,’ I said.
Lisa pulled on her shoes, stood up and ran her fingers through her hair.
‘Can we leave our bags?’ she asked.
‘Someone usually walks up and down keeping an eye on the train. Anyway, we’ll be able to see what’s going on from upstairs.’
We were quite close to an escalator leading to the upper floor, where shops, cafes and the ticket office were located. It was cold when we got off. A man in uniform was already patrolling the platform, monitoring the train.
I asked if Lisa was hungry.
‘Are you?’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘At three o’clock in the morning?’
We bought two cups of tea to take away from a cafe. A long-haired man with a grubby rucksack was fast asleep at one of the tables. It seemed to me that he had been there for ever, the timeless vagabond, constantly reborn, always looking exactly the same. A small group of apathetic, possibly homeless youngsters was sitting at another table. They formed a sharp contrast to a couple in their thirties who were tenderly stroking each other’s cheeks and hair.
Lisa walked over to the barrier; from up here it was possible to see every platform in the almost deserted station, with its domed roof made of iron and glass, the panes grubby with the accumulated dirt of so many years. She placed her cup on the barrier.
I took a risk and put my arm around her. She didn’t resist, but she gently pulled away.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Just stay where you are. If things happen too fast, they always go wrong.’
A scruffy, emaciated junkie came up to us, begging for money. I gave him one euro; when he asked for more, I shouted at him to clear off. He moved away; Lisa watched him go.
‘I don’t understand how people find the courage to have children,’ she said. ‘When the result could be a beggar in a railway station.’
‘That’s rather cynical. Life guarantees nothing but constant risk. That also applies to having children.’