Read Online Voice of Our Shadow by Jonathan Carroll - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
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Interunfall Versicherung , cars are Puch and Lada, Mercedes. Coca-Cola as well, only here Coke macht mehr draus!
I had a cup of coffee at one of the stand-up buffets and then started the long hike down the endless platform to the car with my reserved couchette. The lights in the train were off when I passed through the departure gate, but they suddenly clicked on all at once; street lamps at the end of dusk. A workman and a baggage porter, both dressed in different shades of blue, were leaning against a metal support post, talking and smoking. Since we were the only ones there, long appraising looks passed back and forth. This was their land until train time — what was I doing out there so early, trespassing? The porter looked at his watch, scowled, and flicked his cigarette away. The two of them separated without another word, and the workman walked over to the other side of the platform and climbed into a darkened first-class coach that said on a white and black sign that sometime deep in the night it would be going to Ostend, and then on to London.
Far up the tracks a single black engine scooted shrilly away and out of sight. I hefted my overnight bag and kept looking at the numbers on the sides of the cars. I wanted to be in my compartment. I wanted to be in my seat, eating the jumbo hero sandwich I’d made at home for dinner and watching the other people arrive.
The light was out in one compartment of my car. Climbing up the steep metal stairs, I made a silent bet with myself that it would be the light in mine. It would be broken, and if I wanted to do any reading before I went to sleep, I would have to walk ten cars back to find an empty seat. The light in the corridor was on, but sure enough, the dark one had my berth number on the door. The blue curtains were drawn across both windows. The Inner Sanctum. I reached down and pulled the door handle, but it didn’t move. I put my bag down and pulled with both hands. Nothing happened. I looked up and down the corridor for anyone who could help, but it was empty. Cursing, I snatched at the damned thing again and pulled with all my might. Not an inch. I gave the door a kick.
Immediately the curtains began to slide aside. I took a startled step backward. A theme from Scheherezade came on faintly. A match flared and broke the inner dark. It moved slowly left and right, then stopped. It went out, and a dull yellow flashlight beam came on in its place.
Outside, I heard the chunk of railroad cars being coupled together. The lemony light held, motionless; then it moved over a white-gloved hand that held a black top hat. A second white hand joined it on the other side of the shiny brim, and for a moment the hat moved in time to the sultry music.
“Surprise!” The light blasted on, and India Tate stood with a bottle of champagne in her hand. Behind her, Paul had the top hat on his head at a rakish slant and was opening another bottle with his clown-white gloves. I remembered the painting on the wall of their apartment. So this was Little Boy.
“Jesus Christ, you guys!”
The door slid open, and she yanked me into the little hot room.
“Where’re the cups, Paul?”
“What are you doing here? What happened to your movies?”
“Be quiet and take a glass of this. Don’t you want any of your going-away champagne?”
I did, and she slopped so much into my cup that it foamed up and over the edge and onto the dirty floor.
“I hope you like this stuff, Joey. I think it’s Albanian.” Paul still had his gloves on when he held his cup out to be filled.
“But what’s going on? Aren’t you missing North by Northwest ?”
“Yup, but we decided you deserved a proper send-off. So drink up and don’t say anything else about it. Believe it or not, Lennox, we love you more than Gary Grant.”
“Baloney.”
“You’re absolutely right — almost as much as Gary Grant. I would now like to propose a toast to the three of us. Comrades in arms.” A man walked past in
I had a cup of coffee at one of the stand-up buffets and then started the long hike down the endless platform to the car with my reserved couchette. The lights in the train were off when I passed through the departure gate, but they suddenly clicked on all at once; street lamps at the end of dusk. A workman and a baggage porter, both dressed in different shades of blue, were leaning against a metal support post, talking and smoking. Since we were the only ones there, long appraising looks passed back and forth. This was their land until train time — what was I doing out there so early, trespassing? The porter looked at his watch, scowled, and flicked his cigarette away. The two of them separated without another word, and the workman walked over to the other side of the platform and climbed into a darkened first-class coach that said on a white and black sign that sometime deep in the night it would be going to Ostend, and then on to London.
Far up the tracks a single black engine scooted shrilly away and out of sight. I hefted my overnight bag and kept looking at the numbers on the sides of the cars. I wanted to be in my compartment. I wanted to be in my seat, eating the jumbo hero sandwich I’d made at home for dinner and watching the other people arrive.
The light was out in one compartment of my car. Climbing up the steep metal stairs, I made a silent bet with myself that it would be the light in mine. It would be broken, and if I wanted to do any reading before I went to sleep, I would have to walk ten cars back to find an empty seat. The light in the corridor was on, but sure enough, the dark one had my berth number on the door. The blue curtains were drawn across both windows. The Inner Sanctum. I reached down and pulled the door handle, but it didn’t move. I put my bag down and pulled with both hands. Nothing happened. I looked up and down the corridor for anyone who could help, but it was empty. Cursing, I snatched at the damned thing again and pulled with all my might. Not an inch. I gave the door a kick.
Immediately the curtains began to slide aside. I took a startled step backward. A theme from Scheherezade came on faintly. A match flared and broke the inner dark. It moved slowly left and right, then stopped. It went out, and a dull yellow flashlight beam came on in its place.
Outside, I heard the chunk of railroad cars being coupled together. The lemony light held, motionless; then it moved over a white-gloved hand that held a black top hat. A second white hand joined it on the other side of the shiny brim, and for a moment the hat moved in time to the sultry music.
“Surprise!” The light blasted on, and India Tate stood with a bottle of champagne in her hand. Behind her, Paul had the top hat on his head at a rakish slant and was opening another bottle with his clown-white gloves. I remembered the painting on the wall of their apartment. So this was Little Boy.
“Jesus Christ, you guys!”
The door slid open, and she yanked me into the little hot room.
“Where’re the cups, Paul?”
“What are you doing here? What happened to your movies?”
“Be quiet and take a glass of this. Don’t you want any of your going-away champagne?”
I did, and she slopped so much into my cup that it foamed up and over the edge and onto the dirty floor.
“I hope you like this stuff, Joey. I think it’s Albanian.” Paul still had his gloves on when he held his cup out to be filled.
“But what’s going on? Aren’t you missing North by Northwest ?”
“Yup, but we decided you deserved a proper send-off. So drink up and don’t say anything else about it. Believe it or not, Lennox, we love you more than Gary Grant.”
“Baloney.”
“You’re absolutely right — almost as much as Gary Grant. I would now like to propose a toast to the three of us. Comrades in arms.” A man walked past in
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