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Today I have been to the bank and withdrawn my savings, every penny.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.
2.
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.
3.
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.
4.
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.