What time’s the express due? the strong man with the mustache asked. Luca didn’t answer, and the man didn’t ask again. They probably haven’t sent word about it yet, and Manolache said: so, shall we start playing? but they could see he didn’t really feel like it. I’ve got a pain here, he said, pointing to the left lapel of his overcoat. Why don’t you take that wet coat off, the stationmaster said. I had a bad dream last night, the old man said. No one asked him what he had dreamed, the stationmaster stood up and went to the window; the clouds didn’t look as thick as before. Manolache sighed: he’d dreamed that he was at the circus and was removing his costume after a training session. Only two spotlights were still on, up near the cheap seats on the left. He saw a lion appear there, grinning like a man and ambling toward him. It stared at him with yellow, perfectly round eyes. He and the lion were alone in the ring. He looked up but, instead of the marquee, he saw the starry sky far away, right up above, or down below, and he became dizzy; the circus span round and round, and he felt that he was slipping over the rim of a well, having leaned too far over the side, and that the lion was falling too, or perhaps flying, on top of his body as he sank into the sky as into water. .
The clouds were indeed less closely packed, and a rosy light glowed in a patch of sky above the forest. He gripped the window ledge and waited. All that could be heard in the room was the monotonous, exasperating patter of fine raindrops, and the breathing of the other two men. Manolache, bent over the chair, was almost panting. Luca swiveled round and looked toward the window, trying to see over those broad solid shoulders: the sky seemed to be brightening. Come over here a minute, the stationmaster said. Manolache jumped, as if he’d been asleep. Luca stood up and went to the window; the old man joined them a little later. The stationmaster took the clerk by the arm: look, there, above the forest. Yes, Luca mumbled, that means it will soon be heading off. Out there I don’t even think it’s raining.
That morning it began to snow again. Manolache, wearing no more than a gray pullover and a high tapering fur hat pulled over his ears, swept the snow from the platform and the side of the track, adding it to the huge heap more than chest-high that had built up on the other side over the past few days. The stationmaster appeared at the window of his upstairs room with lather all over his face, good morning, Manolache, he called out, waving the razor in one hand. Manolache looked up toward the window; the hat was covering his eyes, so he tried to push it back on his head, but he stumbled on the rail (or perhaps on the spade that had slipped between his legs) and fell on his back in the snow. The stationmaster roared with laughter at the window; he was only in shirtsleeves, but he didn’t mind the cold — you call this cold? — the sun had cleared a space for itself among the clouds, what a wonderful morning! Then suddenly Luca was there, coming out of his office and shouting something; Manolache still hadn’t stood up, he felt so good lying in the snow, what’s that? the boss said, I can’t hear a thing, and he laughed again, the old man finally got to his feet, supporting himself on the spade handle, the 4223 has derailed, Luca’s voice rang out, and this time the man at the window heard the news, leaning over the ledge with the razor in his free hand. The freight train’s derailed, Luca shouted, the express will stop here until we get instructions. What’s that, it’s derailed? I’ll be down in a second, the stationmaster said, let me just put my jacket on, and he wiped away the lather, leaving one cheek unshaven. Manolache stuck the spade in the heap of snow and went after Luca into the Traffic Control Office. The young man worked away at the telegraph, which was crackling and whistling like hell, what’s it saying? is there more news? Then the stationmaster came in, with a strangely serious expression; you could see he hadn’t finished shaving, and there was still some lather under his ear. He came in and slammed the door. He had the red cap on his head, and his jacket was unbuttoned.
I bet tomorrow will be sunny, Luca said as he dealt the cards. No one answered. Don’t you think so? And he sat still, the rest of the cards in his hand, stared at the other two with a look of surprise or inquiry, and repeated: it’ll be sunny tomorrow. Come on, forget your theories and deal, the boss said, and Manolache mumbled something about his rheumatism and how it boded no good. This time your rheumatism’s got it wrong — or maybe not, maybe it’s just that the weather’s changing; it’s getting better, the sun will come out, and that’s why your bones are aching. Come on, get on with the game, the boss said, there’s nothing we can do about it anyway. Nothing depends on us, Luca muttered, and that roused Manolache too a little; nothing, he said with evident satisfaction, throwing a card on top of the pile in the middle of the table, nothing.
And now, by the window, Luca could have said: you see I was right, it’s stopped raining over the forest, and soon it’ll be like that here. The stationmaster had taken him by the arm, emotional as always: look over there, above the forest! The sky had taken on a rosy hue, as if mirroring a little fire, or a tall pyre in the forest. That was the sign. It’s obviously not raining anymore, he whispered through his mustache, holding the young man’s arm in a clawlike grip. The sky grew redder, and a silvery gray eagle flew up among the forest trees, rising in a spiral as narrow as a screw, sundering the rose and crimson of the sky. How big it’s grown! Manolache exclaimed in awe, holding his hand to his mouth. Yes, it’s still growing, the moustachu said between his teeth. The eagle became smaller and smaller, circling high above in the sky, watching over the wooded hills and the railroad that snaked its way between them. It was a long time since it had really spread its wings. Or perhaps it had flown without our seeing it. Perhaps at night. At night? It can’t fly at night. Why not? That’s just the way it is: it can’t fly after dark; it’s not a bat after all! The stationmaster fell silent: the other two were beginning to annoy him. He took a few steps back from the window, then left the room. It was no longer raining outside.
He hadn’t been in a town since Maria’s funeral. She didn’t want to be cremated at the sanatorium, or buried in the village nearby, so they had to carry her to the next stop on the other side of the forest, and from there by train. But first there had to be an autopsy: the people at the hospital absolutely insisted on it, in the interests of science; anyway, they said, it won’t make any difference to you. He agreed in the end, sat down on a bench in the clearing opposite the hospital, and waited for science to take a little step forward. Manolache came along to help, while Luca remained alone at the station. Then things started to move more quickly: the other stop wasn’t far, and from there it was only an hour by train to the first small town. The burial was done with great speed, with just the two of them plus the priest and gravediggers in attendance. They could even return the same day, in the evening, carrying a crateful of rum bottles and a pack of cards.
Winter set in. The rain turned to sleet and snow, and soon the white flakes had covered everything. It snowed almost every day, and special teams came twice to clear the line; the ploughs attached to the locomotives were often powerless. It was around then that the accident occurred. It wasn’t one of those disasters you read about in the papers: only two people died, later at the hospital, while a few more came out of it with injuries of varying severity. Nor was it anyone’s fault. The train derailed at a bend where the wind had piled up a snowdrift; thick flakes were still falling, so that the engineer could see only a white wall ahead. He wasn’t going particularly fast, but at that point the line must have been covered with a crust of ice. It would have been terrible if they hadn’t managed to stop the express that was just behind the freight train; it had left the last station before their stop and, defying the snow, was racing like crazy to make up lost time, but the engineer noticed the stop signal and braked just in front of their little station, where the three railwaymen, headed by the tall mustachioed stationmaster, were standing in a state of great agitation. Faces appeared at the carriage windows, more excited than upset. The falling snow looked so beautiful, and when the passengers heard what had happened — some said they’d be stuck there till evening — most decided to disembark. There had never been so many people on the platform! The stationmaster ran this way and that, not knowing what to do, while Luca chatted with the conductor. Manolache seemed to have vanished — but no, there he was in front of the freight shed, looking attentively and no doubt bashfully at the crowd of elegant strangers. Some went into the office and, not finding anyone there, came out again; when they saw the stationmaster wandering aimlessly on the platform, his cherry-colored cap pulled tight over his head, a few went up to him and asked if there was anything to drink. Manolache! he shouted, and the last bottles of rum were made available. Others filled in time by taking a walk, enchanted by the forest landscape; some even had skis, and the younger and bolder among them, following Manolache’s directions, went a few hundred meters down the forest track that led to the sanatorium. Only the tall beautiful woman with long blond hair, wearing a white pullover and blue pants, who spoke neither Romanian nor French (Luca said she was Swedish, in the long discussions the men later had among themselves), was initially unwilling to get off the train and preferred to stay in her compartment; the cage that the boss would later carry down the long sleeping-car wagon lay on the top bunk, while she sprawled on the lower one, waiting calmly with her hands crossed behind her neck. She got up a couple of times and went to the window in the corridor — once as the stationmaster was passing — then returned to the compartment, looked for a few moments at the baby eagle that was pecking at the bars of the cage, and lay down in the same position as before. The other passengers were fretfully walking up and down or discussing among themselves in motley groups. The train naturally had a dining car, but there wasn’t enough space at lunchtime when everyone suddenly became ravenous; food had to be taken into the waiting room or even the station bedrooms, to which the three hospitable members of staff had no objection. Thick powdery snowflakes continued to fall. The prevailing gaiety was rather inappropriate, given the reason for the unscheduled stop, but no one seemed to give it a second thought. Lunchtime also saw the blonde lady alight from the train: now she stepped down onto the platform without hesitating (she was used to even worse snow in Sweden, Luca explained the next day) and went straight to the stationmaster, who stood out because of his red cap and solid, athletic figure. He had no way of understanding what she said, and, finding himself unexpectedly face-to-face with her, he could do no more than nervously twirl his mustache. Sign language didn’t help. She bent her knees slightly and spread her long arms like wings, then drew them back and tried to indicate something small with her hands, before opening her arms wide again and flapping them several times. She’s round the bend, the man said to himself, and he gently tugged at his chin. Maybe you want to eat, he said, tapping two fingers against his lips and moving them down to his stomach, but she continued to alternate between flapping her arms and leaning toward him to indicate something smalclass="underline" a cup, a snake, a bird, he couldn’t figure it out. Then she took him by the hand and led him into the train, climbing up in front of him as he admired the shape of her legs and hips in her tight blue pants. He followed her along the corridor and into her compartment, where she turned and flashed him a smile.