No, not this table,” I think and move towards the next one as my eyes scan the name cards neatly placed in front of the tulip-shaped glasses and emerald serviettes. The search for a seat is the only bit of chaos amongst the moving silhouettes in tuxedos and gowns reflecting the chandelier light. I cannot find a name card for me, so I pick the free spot near a gentleman in perfectly tailored three-piece.
Before long, a server pours the champagne, and I can take a look at my fellow travelers. After all, we are all traveling in one direction and watching together as the scenery changes from forests to islands in an archipelago, and the drizzle turns into pouring rain. We may be from different countries, but we all understand the language of a perfectly seared steak and good champagne.
Philip, my companion, turns out to be a well-mannered man with a plenty of remarks. “I have been riding this train since I was a child, visiting my grandpa every summer. We had to renew the upholstery and the carpets a few years ago, but Dunn and Son simply lost the original sketches. A disappointing business, that ghastly green they put in. You can replace the springs, you can reprofile the wheels, fine, nobody sees that. What would my grandfather say? It just seems no one has taste anymore,” he goes on as my gaze drifts towards the green chair fabric.
“Birch plywood has been unavailable since the embargo,” he sighs. “You can identify the coach's production year simply by the wood panels. And this humming sound— it is the wrong silica rail sand for this weather. Eh, even the training schools for the servers have fallen short of the standard.”
I can barely keep track of all he has said, so I step out to the front vestibule for a breath of fresh air. The door has a manual latch underneath a faded yellow sign. I am not supposed to, but the heaviness of being confined in this carriage for days makes me force the latch down with a screech that is silenced by the roar of the tracks.
A rush of wind puts me off balance for a second, its coldness awakening me from the drowsy intoxication of champagne. The fresh air revives me, so I lean into a void, barely distinguishing anything in a blur of trees, rocks, and water that moves with a terrifying speed. My vision adjusts to the darkness, and I look ahead along the curve of the train path. A jolt runs from my chest down to the tips of the fingers.
I must tell Philip. I must tell everyone. We can make it if we change course, so I hurry back to the tail.
“You mean well,” Philip says, putting down his glass. “It is understandable, given your past. The view from the vestibule can be disorienting if you are not used to it. You would not want to be in the front carriages anyway- oh, the smell and the filth! But trust me, this carriage is safe. Still, if you feel so strongly about it, perhaps you might be better off traveling by foot.”
The wheels keep churning, and with every mile, I wonder if I took it too far. Has my mind played tricks, has my memory betrayed me? What could I see that the coach driver missed? Had these tracks not been laid by the proper engineers? The panoramic window view slowly replaces the memory of the vestibule landscape as the tracks keep roaring. The roughness of wind-chapped cheeks quietly gives way to the rosy flush, and the server pours another glass.