Train. Somewhere on the Romanian border. July. He knew it was the border because the soldier was pointing a machine gun in his face. He’d been asleep, now bleary-eyed he rummaged through his bag for the train ticket. When he eventually held it up, the soldier jabbed the gun.
There was a snigger. He looked across at his travelling companion in the compartment and saw that the young American he’d been chatting with before had changed into an old man.
“They want your passport lad,” the old man said. “Guards don’t carry guns, even round these parts.”
He searched again, produced the passport and the soldier sneered, grunted angrily, threw it back at him and walked out, leaving the sliding door open. He’d kept the gun aimed at his head the whole time.
He closed the door, sheathed the passport and slumped back. The old man kept sneering. He preferred his previous fellow traveller. The American may have been full of bullshit arrogancem, but was interesting. The trip was all about meeting new people with stories to tell.
They’d talked overnight. The Yank was a student on work experience in Germany and was now spending the rest of his summer on the Eurail, same as him. “They’ve got a sense of history, the Germans,” the Yank told him. “They don’t want to make the same mistakes again.”
They each had a berth to themselves in the brown leather and brass carriage; the fittings were a ghost of colonial travellers and Jules Verne. They’d slept stretched out on either side of the compartment and it was more comfortable than most of the beds he’d paid for. Now, the American was gone and he was stuck with this old man, who was starting to look strangely familiar through sleep-crusted eyes.
“Eurail eh?” said the old man. “Hell of a journey. Great for your age – open ticket, get off anywhere, have an adventure…”
He yawned. “I don’t know where here is.”
“That’s the point though, isn’t it? Explore the unknown. Meet new people, see new places. You could get out at the next stop. See where the leap of faith takes you. Where’s the adventure in knowing where you’re going? You need that mystery, that edge, that sense of danger, feeling anything could happen. Rocket blind into the dark…”
“I’m going to Venice.”
The old man snorted. “Bah! You’ve already seen Venice. How many times you wanna take the same walk around the same square.”
It was true. Venice was a hub of intersecting routes on the Eurail map. If he’d planned his travels in advance he may not have ended up in the same terminal time and again, but he hadn’t planned anything.
“You don’t know… wait, how do you know that?”
“You’ll work it out. Bright, but slow. I was…”
He leant back into the soft battered leather. The old man kept staring and his gaze only made him want to finish the sleep he’d started earlier. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the old man was gone and he was alone once more.
A CAJOLING DEMON ON HIS SHOULDER, BALANCING HIS ANGEL OF INTEGRITY?
Nice. August. He got off in Monte Carlo and felt poor. A Lambo and a Ferrari and an Aston drove past and his pack felt heavier than ususal. There wasn’t a prix carte in the cafes and he didn’t know if he could afford a coffee. He got one at a road stall, saw the sea, then lugged his pack back to the station, sweating past people who didn’t. Nice was more his tempo.
He put his bag into a station locker and went down to the Promenade des Anglais, stripping off T-shirt and boots down to his shorts, pale-pink bared amidst the sea of brown beauties. He let the sun bake him; eyes closed, his mind drifted over the month’s adventuring until the old man appeared in the cache.
Could it really have been the same guy each time? Every suggestion the old man made would have led down a disastrous path. He could have been arrested for vandalism in Paris. Reprimanded with the Americans in Amsterdam or itching a case of crabs? Body bag rotting on a Danube mudbank? Lost in the Eastern European hills?
Or was the winter chicken a figment of his stoned-drunk-knackered imagination? A cajoling demon on his shoulder, balancing his angel of integrity?
Sun spots exploded his eyes when he opened them, but he could see he was turning lobster. Time for a drink in the shade. The old demon was standing at the top of the steps, smiling as he came off the beach.
“Leaving so soon?” said the old man. “You should get some colour in those cheeks. Bronzed gods fit in better than lilywhites on the Riviera. Maybe let it all hang out. Join the locals.”
“It’s not a nudist beach, I’d get…” He paused. Time to solve the puzzle. “Look, who are you? You are the same guy I saw in Paris aren’t you? Amsterdam, Romania?”
The old man smiled wider. He still had all his teeth, unusual for a wizened old prune. “Buy an old man a coffee?” he said.
IT WAS THE FIRST POSITIVE ADVICE THE OLD MAN HAD GIVEN
They sat in a cafe/bar/whatever with floor to ceiling windows to watch the world pass. He insisted on indoors, despite the old man’s protest – he’d been frazzled enough for one day and any more UV would peel the skin from his bones the next. He ordered a beer.
“That’s the spirit,” said the old man. “Maybe have some pastis on the side. You’re on holiday.”
“Juste biere. Pour le moment.”
The old man sniggered at his broken French. “You only have to be polite once with the locals. Try too hard and it gets painful, even insulting. You’ll end up calling them a cunt by mistake.”
It was the first positive advice the old man had given. The words of wisdom were flowing – grandfatherly advice from a fart in a thunderstorm.
The old man ordered a cafe noir, but also food – moules mariniere and steak frites. “Bring it all together, I like to pour the seafood sauce over the steak.” He cackled when he looked at him. “Think I’m taking advantage? People do, don’t they? Nowt wrong with generosity, give more than you take, least you can go through life with yer head held high.” He paused, the smile soured, the eyes beading. “Least you could if you straightened those shoulders. Do some planks sonny jim.”
“I’ve got a problem with doors.” It was true, he was too tall. Mum had told him he’d die younger if he kept banging his head.
The old man snorted. “Excuses. You aren’t as tall as you think. Bowing your head doesn’t make you shorter, people can still see you coming. You’re just shy and act like an ostrich. Makes you look like a retard.”
How could he have believed the codger was going to be nice?
The food came with their drinks. The old man gobbled at the mussels, slurping so the juice ran down his chin, then poured the remains and liquor over the steak and chips.
He sipped at his beer and held the cold glass to his forehead to cool down, watching the old man chew with his mouth open. Eventually, the cabaret came to an end and he pushed the half-finished plate forward.
“God I can’t eat like I used to.”
“Haven’t done a bad job.”
“Don’t get snide, you’re not the type it works for. You should eat too. Line your stomach, get strong, build some muscles over dem bones, or you’ll just keep breaking them.”
He could feel his ankle ache in reflex and the irritation prompted the big question.
“So, who are you? Is it really a coincedence we followed the same trail this summer? Are you stalking, or is this just dumb luck”
“You don’t recognise me? Really?” The old man smirked. “Look closer boy, the eyes don’t lie.”
He looked closer, staring into the old man’s blue eyes, There was a blemish in his right eye, a red-brown dot by the pupil, the sort of stain that hinted drink and drugs even when sober. It was a birthmark. He should know, he had the exact same one too.
IT’S THE MOMENTS BEFORE THE MOMENTS THAT COUNT
“Yeah, you get it don’t you? Cogs turning slowly, but the truth… is in there.”
He leant back in his chair. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This isn’t a book or a movie. This is… real life.”
“The how’s and why’s and what’s don’t matter. You’re not bright enough yet to understand them anyway. What matters is next…”
Yeah, right, that makes complete fucking sense. But… it was so crazy he felt like running with it. The old man talked and he couldn’t help but listen, but only more questions rose without answers. If this was his future self, what was he coming back to change?
“What’s so special about now? Aren’t there big moments to change?” God help him if this was his zenith. He shuddered.
The old man shook his head and sighed. “It’s never about the big moments. It’s not the wedding, or the job interview, or the birth that counts in life. It’s the girl in the flowershop, the smile on the train, the drink too many. It’s the moments before the moments that count.”
“So just tell me what to look out for. If it’s something good I can pay attention, something bad, I just won’t do it.”
“Doesn’t work like that. We have to make our own choices in life, have to live by them. Can’t cheat the piper.”
The old man belched and stood up, holding his stomach. “Something else I can’t cheat no more. What goes in, must come out. Wish me luck, I may be gone for some time.” He hobbled off through a yellow doorway to bury his money.
The old man never came back from the toilette. After ten minutes he went out back to check he hadn’t fallen in. The alley behind the cafe housed a single bog hut with an open hole that stunk black. There was no sign of him. He looked down the hole. What a way to go…
Hove Press 