died out, and was replaced by a weary look. The brick rear walls of houses went gliding past; one of them displayed the painted advertisement of a colossal cigarette, stuffed with what looked like golden straw. The roofs, wet from a rainstorm, glistened under the rays of the low sun.
Old Princess Ukhtomski could control herself no longer. She inquired gently in Russian: “Do you mind if I put my bag here?”
The woman gave a start and replied, “Not at all, please do.”
The olive-and-beige man in the corner peered at her over his paper.
“Well, I’m on my way to Paris,” volunteered the Princess with a slight sigh. “I have a son there. I am afraid to stay in Germany, you know.”
She produced an ample handkerchief from her
sac de voyage
and firmly wiped her nose, left to right and back again.
“Yes, afraid. People say there’s going to be a Communist revolution in Berlin. Have you heard anything?”
The young woman shook her head. She glanced suspiciously at the man with the paper and at the German couple.
“I don’t know anything. I arrived from Russia, from Petersburg, the day before yesterday.”
Princess Ukhtomski’s plump, sallow face expressed intense curiosity. Her diminutive eyebrows crept upward.
“You don’t say!”
With her eyes fixed on the tip of her gray shoe, the woman saidrapidly, in a soft voice: “Yes, a kindhearted person helped me to get out. I’m going to Paris too now. I have relatives there.”
She started taking off her gloves. A gold wedding ring slipped off her finger. Quickly she caught it.
“I keep losing my ring. Must have grown thinner or something.”
She fell silent, blinking her lashes. Through the corridor window beyond the glass compartment door the even row of telegraph wires could be seen swooping upward.
Princess Ukhtomski moved closer to her neighbor.
“Tell me,” she inquired in a loud whisper. “The sovietchiks aren’t doing so well now, are they?”
A telegraph pole, black against the sunset, flew past, interrupting the smooth ascent of the wires. They dropped as a flag drops when the wind stops blowing. Then furtively they began rising again. The express was traveling swiftly between the airy walls of a spacious fire-bright evening. From somewhere in the ceilings of the compartments a slight crackling kept coming, as if rain were falling on the steel roofs. The German cars swayed violently. The international one, its interior upholstered in blue cloth, rode more smoothly and silently than the others. Three waiters were laying the tables in the diner. One of them, with close-cropped hair and beetling brows, was thinking about the little vial in his breast pocket. He kept licking his lips and sniffling. The vial contained a crystalline powder and bore the brand name Kramm. He was distributing knives and forks and inserting sealed bottles into rings on the tables, when suddenly he could stand it no longer. He flashed a fluttered smile toward Max Fuchs, who was lowering the thick blinds, and darted across the unsteady connecting platform into the next car. He locked himself in the toilet. Carefully calculating the jolts of the train, he poured a small mound of the powder on his thumbnail; greedily applied it to one nostril, then to the other; inhaled; with a flip of his tongue licked the sparkling dust off his nail; blinked hard a couple of times from the rubbery bitterness, and left the toilet, boozy and buoyant, his head filling with icy delicious air. As he crossed the diaphragm on his way back into the diner, he thought: how simple it would be to die right now! He smiled. He had best wait till nightfall. It would be a pity to cut short the effect of the enchanting poison.
“Give me the reservation slips, Hugo. I’ll go hand them out.”
“No, let Max go. Max works faster. Here, Max.”
The red-haired waiter clutched the book of coupons in his freckled fist. He slipped like a fox between the tables and into the blue corridorof the sleeper.
Old Princess Ukhtomski could control herself no longer. She inquired gently in Russian: “Do you mind if I put my bag here?”
The woman gave a start and replied, “Not at all, please do.”
The olive-and-beige man in the corner peered at her over his paper.
“Well, I’m on my way to Paris,” volunteered the Princess with a slight sigh. “I have a son there. I am afraid to stay in Germany, you know.”
She produced an ample handkerchief from her
sac de voyage
and firmly wiped her nose, left to right and back again.
“Yes, afraid. People say there’s going to be a Communist revolution in Berlin. Have you heard anything?”
The young woman shook her head. She glanced suspiciously at the man with the paper and at the German couple.
“I don’t know anything. I arrived from Russia, from Petersburg, the day before yesterday.”
Princess Ukhtomski’s plump, sallow face expressed intense curiosity. Her diminutive eyebrows crept upward.
“You don’t say!”
With her eyes fixed on the tip of her gray shoe, the woman saidrapidly, in a soft voice: “Yes, a kindhearted person helped me to get out. I’m going to Paris too now. I have relatives there.”
She started taking off her gloves. A gold wedding ring slipped off her finger. Quickly she caught it.
“I keep losing my ring. Must have grown thinner or something.”
She fell silent, blinking her lashes. Through the corridor window beyond the glass compartment door the even row of telegraph wires could be seen swooping upward.
Princess Ukhtomski moved closer to her neighbor.
“Tell me,” she inquired in a loud whisper. “The sovietchiks aren’t doing so well now, are they?”
A telegraph pole, black against the sunset, flew past, interrupting the smooth ascent of the wires. They dropped as a flag drops when the wind stops blowing. Then furtively they began rising again. The express was traveling swiftly between the airy walls of a spacious fire-bright evening. From somewhere in the ceilings of the compartments a slight crackling kept coming, as if rain were falling on the steel roofs. The German cars swayed violently. The international one, its interior upholstered in blue cloth, rode more smoothly and silently than the others. Three waiters were laying the tables in the diner. One of them, with close-cropped hair and beetling brows, was thinking about the little vial in his breast pocket. He kept licking his lips and sniffling. The vial contained a crystalline powder and bore the brand name Kramm. He was distributing knives and forks and inserting sealed bottles into rings on the tables, when suddenly he could stand it no longer. He flashed a fluttered smile toward Max Fuchs, who was lowering the thick blinds, and darted across the unsteady connecting platform into the next car. He locked himself in the toilet. Carefully calculating the jolts of the train, he poured a small mound of the powder on his thumbnail; greedily applied it to one nostril, then to the other; inhaled; with a flip of his tongue licked the sparkling dust off his nail; blinked hard a couple of times from the rubbery bitterness, and left the toilet, boozy and buoyant, his head filling with icy delicious air. As he crossed the diaphragm on his way back into the diner, he thought: how simple it would be to die right now! He smiled. He had best wait till nightfall. It would be a pity to cut short the effect of the enchanting poison.
“Give me the reservation slips, Hugo. I’ll go hand them out.”
“No, let Max go. Max works faster. Here, Max.”
The red-haired waiter clutched the book of coupons in his freckled fist. He slipped like a fox between the tables and into the blue corridorof the sleeper.
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