But again, to get to that situation where people used trains, one would have to penalise cars. Seriously. And if they seriously penalised cars in this area, people would go elsewhere – to Calabria, say, or Sicily. And the trains would remain empty.
So any measures must be national, not local.
But if they penalised cars all over Italy (this is unimaginable) – and not internal domestic flights, too, since planes pollute three times as much as trains – then non-Italians would go elsewhere, perhaps to France or Spain. The government that introduced the measures would lose the next elections.
So any measures must be international, not national. A change like this would have to be Europe-wide, perhaps worldwide.
So, I reflected – and it was definitely time to put my T-shirt back on, because the sun was blistering – to get people to use Ferrovie Sud Est from Lecce to Otranto there would have to be a massive swing in world opinion away from the present individualism that prefers cars and in general favours individual destiny over the fate of the collective and our contemporary life now over the inheritance of future generations.
And even if there were that swing in opinion across the world, there would remain the thorny question of governance. How could massive decisions penalising car travel be made worldwide when the world is composed of hundreds of separate and competing nations, some democracies and some not, all at different stages of development?
So, I realised, stepping into a bar to order a lemon granita before the return trip, the problem of how to make Ferrovie Sud Est viable was exactly the same increasingly urgent problem that now faces the whole damn human race: how to govern the planet when there are unpleasant decisions that sooner or later will have to be made and that no one nation wants to make or has the power to make alone. Until that problem is solved, we will never have a transportation system, or much else, that makes sense. There’ll just be this pious half-arsed funding that keeps alive the idea of a train service and that makes sure there are well-designed logos and stair lifts for the handicapped, but in a general context that feels unviable and with levels of efficiency and hygiene that only second-class citizens can accept.
The granita was good. I was sitting outside a small kiosk on a low hill looking down over the beach and the Bay of Otranto, with the castle looking squat and forbidding in the distance, but, as I had already observed, very far from the Gothic pile evoked in Horace Walpole’s celebrated novel. They say that Gothic novels came into being because science and eighteenth-century rationalism were threatening to empty the world of any romance, spirituality or caprice. Two hundred years later the planet is full of technology but utterly irrational. And I don’t feel any need for Gothic excitement.
NOR, FORTUNATELY, WOULD I be getting any during the night to come. In Lecce I retrieved my bag from two men in orange jumpsuits playing cards. They showed only mild irritation at the interruption. Everything was intact. Ninety euros purchased me an upper berth in a so-called Cabina Comfort on the 19.10 night train to Milano. No lower berths were available.
‘Let me apologise in advance,’ I tell the couple already under the sheets below me as I climb the ladder to my bunk, ‘if I wake you during the night to head for the toilet.’
‘Oh, please, that’s no problem.’
This is an old Intercity carriage, beautifully refurbished and impeccably clean. There are freshly laundered sheets and blankets in polythene bags. I spread them out, remove my trousers in the half-light and get under the covers in my underwear. I lie there, listening. The couple below me are speaking in soft whispers. Outside, the familiar station noises are muffled and pleasant: a bustle of passengers in the corridor, an urgent coincidenza ringing around the platforms. I’m in the midst of life here, but protected, too. It feels good. Then, with a lurch, the train begins to move, the station lights flash across the cabin walls, the rails begin to tick as the train gathers speed, and I know that despite the early hour, sleep will soon be irresistible.
Sometime later the train has stopped and I’m aware of a young man climbing up to the bunk opposite mine. Is this Bari? Foggia? He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt but carries a smart office worker’s briefcase. He knows how things work, has his ladder up quietly enough, and is soon in bed. ‘Buona notte,’ he murmurs. ‘Buona notte,’ the couple reply. ‘Buona notte,’ I say, so softly I’m not sure if they heard.
Then at 3 a.m., there I am of course having to creep down the ladder to go to the toilet. Can I go in my underwear? No. I wriggle into my trousers on the bed. The first step on the ladder makes it creak. Damn. Have I woken them? I don’t think so. There’s a night-light that gives just the visibility you need to move while allowing people to sleep. There’s air conditioning at exactly the right temperature. The knob turns and the door opens without a sound. Thank you, Trenitalia. It seems they’ve got this one just right.
We’re racing up the Adriatic. On my way back from the toilet I stand in the corridor, holding the bar across the windows, looking out. The rails are running right by the sea, on a raised dyke. On the beach you can see the dark spears of rows upon rows of closed sunshades, then the luminous surf beyond. I watch it for a while, the mystery of the sea at night and the throb of the train under my feet, then hurry back to bed. When I wake again, it’s to hear an announcement warning me that we will shortly be arriving in
