endlessly, but soon I reached the underground passageway. At the sign for track 7, I used the stairs, gasping, to reach the platform. A bell sounded, warning passengers that the doors to the dirty red train were about to close. I reached an open door on the last car and pulled myself inside. Shaking, I steadied myself against a window that looked out at the station.
As the train started to move, a crowd of policemen poured onto the first platform and spread out, looking for me, and for Jerzy Michalec. They were followed by two men without uniforms. One was tall- Ludwig-and he shouted at the policemen. The other, a short old man with three moles on his cheek, stood back a bit, his hands clasped behind his back. He was staring at my train with a severe expression. I didn’t know if he could see me through the dirty glass, but then our eyes met. Brano Sev glared at me with what looked like hatred, but he didn’t tug his friend’s sleeve to point me out.
That, of course, was another of Brano’s mistakes. I wondered, as we moved out of the station, if living so well, with a house and a family that loved him, had made him soft.
I suppose it had.
I didn’t go after Michalec immediately. In the space of a couple of hours I’d betrayed Brano Sev, taken his car and ruined it, shot four times at a man, and hijacked a woman’s day, chasing the man across town. I’d spent the last half hour acting like a young man, but I wasn’t one. I stumbled into an empty compartment and collapsed, catching my breath and fumbling with my medicine bottle.
When the conductor came along and asked for my ticket, I used most of the schillings Dijana had given me to buy second-class passage to Tarvis, on the border. The conductor told me I could buy the rest of my passage from the Italian conductor, who would take his place there.
I thanked him.
Before leaving, he paused and squinted. “Herr, are you all right? Do you need something?”
I thanked him again but shook my head, blowing air through pursed lips. The train rumbled on.
I peered out the window at the passing countryside south of Vienna. It really did look the same as home, particularly as the sky turned gray and cloudy. I rubbed my eyes; my head buzzed. I again heard that hum in my ears left over from my wife’s death. I tried to think back over the steps that had brought me here, to another country, but couldn’t. There seemed to be links missing. I wondered where Ferenc was now, and if he was with that Russian. Then I heard her voice, Lena’s, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. She sounded angry.
When the train stopped, I woke up without realizing I’d fallen asleep. We were at a station with bright lamps shining in on my face. I panicked. The sky was dark. I didn’t know where I was. I got up and tugged down the window and pulled out the pistol. It caught on the fabric of my coat, but I got it free, holding it below the window as I craned my neck to see down the length of the train. A sign told me we were at a town called Bruck.
The lights at Austrian stations are brighter than at home, and I could see the people who climbed slowly down from the train. Old women mostly, and a few young people with backpacks. Michalec wasn’t among them. I kept watching until the train closed up and we were under way again, moving into the darkness. It was 5:18 P.M.
I pushed the window shut and stepped out into the narrow corridor. The conductor squeezed past me, giving a genial nod as he went on to check tickets. I went the opposite way, to the bathroom. I tried not to look in the mirror but couldn’t help it. In the flickering train light, I was completely white except for the dark rings around my eyes. I looked like death.
I straightened my collar and adjusted my jacket under my coat, then got a sudden, sharp pain in my left arm. I squeezed it, grunting. Not yet. Later, okay, but not yet. I breathed deeply until the pain subsided, then checked the pistol again. My hand on the metal grip was sweaty, so I dried everything off and looked through my pockets for something with friction. Rubber bands would have helped, but I didn’t have any. The best I could do was take some toilet paper and press it between my hand and the grip, squeezing everything together in the pocket of my coat as I slowly proceeded up the train.
The cabins, as I moved forward, became fuller and louder. Austrian families fed plastic-wrapped sandwiches to children, and Italians, sipping smuggled wine, argued in voices that sounded like angry songs. Sometimes they paused to look up at the strange old man staring in through their doors, and once a fat Italian mother with a missing tooth smiled and offered me wine. I smiled back but went on.
I tried not to hurry. I tried to be methodical, but my sick body kept wanting to run. I stopped many times when I found elderly men facing their windows and waited for them to turn back. A couple of times I knocked on their doors and then waved embarrassedly when I saw their faces, as if I’d made a mistake, before continuing on.
The train was ten cars long, and at my steady, meticulous rate it took nearly an hour to reach the restaurant car, where I found a route schedule. Two more cars, and I was at the engine. I hadn’t seen him.
I’d neglected to bring cigarettes, so I asked an Austrian businessman for one and smoked by the window, squinting at the schedule. We had another hour before Klagenfurt, then Villach, and then Tarvis on the border. I peered out at the black mountains, just visible in the lights of a passing town, and wondered if I’d been wrong. Perhaps Jerzy Michalec was still in Vienna.
No. I wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t be.
The bathrooms. There had been seven occupied bathrooms in the train, but I’d only had the patience to wait for four of them. That was the only answer.
I slowly worked my way back down the length of the train. The toilet paper wrapped around my pistol grip was so full of sweat that it had disintegrated into slippery mud, so I waited for a bathroom, replaced the paper, and continued.
I was slower this time, again giving bashful looks of confusion after staring at passengers too long, and people became suspicious. A young Italian man asked me in German what my problem was. I told him I had no problem. I was apparently scaring his mother, so I apologized and went on. When an old Austrian man complained, the conductor also asked me questions and then asked me to please return to my seat. He was kind, though. “You’re sick, Herr. I can see that. But you cannot scare my passengers. They’re my responsibility.”
I tried to assure him of my good intentions, but people whose job it is to deal with strangers know better. They can tell, perhaps from the face, when someone has taken that final unimaginable step over the border that separates the rest of the world from murderers. Certainly I knew what it looked like-I’d seen it enough-but I couldn’t see it in myself.
Because he insisted, I let him walk me, much too fast, back to my seat. I kept leaning back to look into cabins, but he had little patience. “Mein Herr. Please.”
During my excursion, an American couple, backpackers, had set up house in my compartment. They looked disappointed when the conductor guided me to my seat. They pulled in the bags of potato chips and canned beer they’d spread over the seats to discourage just this situation. They warmed to me, though. Just before Klagenfurt, the girl offered a beer, and I finally took my hand off that damned pistol to accept it. “Thank you,” I said in my best accent.
Halfway through the can, I opened the door and leaned out to look. The conductor was at the end of the corridor, an open book in front of him. He stared at me glumly, and I drew back in.
“Where you headed?” asked the American girl.
I blinked at her. My English wasn’t very good.
“Where are you go-wing?” she repeated, slow and loud.
“Oh.” I nodded and sipped the beer. “Trist.”
“Trist?” said the boy.
“He means Trieste,” she explained.
The boy nodded.
“We’re go-wing to Ven-iss,” she told me.
“Venicia,” I said in my language and suddenly recalled my youth.
I’d worked for a while on a fishing boat up in the Barents Sea, and among the crew were men from many countries. One of them, a Croat from Split, was obsessed with Venice and the bridge that connected the courthouse to the prison, where prisoners got their last sight of freedom before descending into the their dank cells.
“Ponte dei Sospiri,” I said, remembering its Italian name.
The girl smiled, showing all her big teeth, and nodded. She had no idea what I was talking about.
As we pulled into Klagenfurt, I set aside the empty beer can and checked the corridor. The conductor had
