Seven
The Red Arrow
Babies cry. So do new fathers. Alexander Hawke sat on the deep, plush carpeted floor of the luxurious ivory and gilt two-room train compartment, rocking his child in his arms. Both of them were weeping copiously. One did so loudly, at times violently, screaming red-faced, demanding his mother. The other did so silently, his own red eyes periodically welling and spilling a potent mixture of indissoluble happiness and sadness.
Some time after leaving the station, they could still be found sitting there when the luxury train’s concierge peeked in the door and said, “I beg your pardon. Tickets and papers, please?”
Hawke looked up from the floor and smiled at the woman.
“My own ticket is inside the pocket of that black leather jacket hanging over the armchair. This young fellow here doesn’t have one, I’m afraid.”
“How old is he?”
“Three. Today’s his birthday.”
“A free ride for him, then, on his birthday,” she said kindly, removing the ticket envelope from Hawke’s jacket and inspecting the contents.
Hawke put his lips beside his son’s ear and whispered.
“See, Alexei? You were right! Three really is ‘ free.’ Magic. You’ve always got to be on the lookout for it.”
The concierge was a woman of ample proportions in a tailored dark green uniform with red piping at the wrists and lapels. Her thick blond hair was gathered at the back of her head into what used to be called a “french twist.” She was quite pretty, spoke perfect English, and Hawke instinctively liked and trusted her. A mother, he was sure, for the boy brought those instincts instantly to the surface of her features.
“You are Mr. Alexander Hawke, traveling on business to St. Petersburg? Correct?”
“Yes.”
“And this gentleman?”
“This young gentleman is Alexei.”
“Last name?”
Hawke stared up at her for a moment, then down at Alexei, briefly startled by such a profoundly unexpected question, and then said, “Hawke. His name is Alexei Hawke.”
“Your son, then. Well. He looks just like you. Look at those eyes.”
“Yes, he is,” Hawke said, slightly dazed. “Yes, he is indeed my son.” Hearing himself utter those words, Hawke was filled with a flood of warmth and joy that was nearly overwhelming.
“Well, Mr. Hawke, you should give your son some milk. At least water. All those tears have dehydrated him.”
“I have none of either to give, I’m afraid.”
“No milk?”
“You see, Alexei was-is-well, the thing is, he decided to join me at the last moment. He’s somewhat- spontaneous. Rambunctious boy. Never know what he’ll do next.”
She reached down with open arms. “May I take him a moment? You’re not holding him at all properly. And he’s very tired. I think he’ll be more comfortable tucked into the berth in the second room. I’ll bring him a cup of warm milk. It will help him sleep. Does he have any toys?”
“Toys? Oh. Only this sad little teddy bear I found in the pocket of his coat.” Hawke held it up, a poor ragged thing the color of oatmeal.
“Lucky for him I keep a healthy supply of wooden soldiers and horses for just such emergencies.”
“That would be very kind. I wonder about… feeding him. I’m not sure when he last ate, I’m afraid. And I’m not really sure what he-”
“Well, I’ll bring hot porridge, too. He looks very hungry. The first seating in the first-class dining car is at five this evening. Shall I book a table for two?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be lovely. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?”
“Luciana.”
“Italian?”
“My mother. My father is from Kiev.”
“I appreciate your help, Luciana. I’m rather-rather a new father.”
She laughed. “Really? Why, Mr. Hawke, I should never have guessed.”
A few hours later, Alex found himself sitting side by side with Alexei in the extravagantly decorated dining car. It was all gleaming ivory cream walls, curving up to form the ceiling, and furniture, every square inch trimmed in gold leaf, with upholstery of deepest claret red. The decor was exactly like his first-class compartments. The whole train was done up in this scheme, he imagined. The table linen was snow white, and the silver, though not sterling, was quite elegant, emblazoned with Russian double-headed eagles.
Alexei, grasping his much-loved teddy bear, sat on his velvet-covered, raised baby chair. Save for his rapidly shifting eyes, he was perfectly still, his eyes wandering up and down the long rows of tables inhabited by strange people from this new world he’d never known existed; then he was turning briefly to the window and the blur of some dizzying world turned red and purple in the sunset. And then, he stared unblinking at this new man in his life. Absorbing, Alex could sense, absolutely everything.
A fastidiously moustachioed waiter was suddenly hovering above the candlelit table, bowing and smiling solicitously at Hawke.
“Monsieur?” he said, preposterously, in French.
Alexei suddenly looked up at the waiter and said in a loud voice, “Watch out! I’m the birthday boy!”
“Ah, mais oui,” he replied bowing his head slightly. “Bon anniversaire.”
“Good evening,” Hawke said, looking up from his menu. “I’ll have a glass of Krug Grande Cuvee and the cold borscht to start. And the rack of lamb, please. Rare. And decant a bottle of the 1959 Petrus if you’d be so kind.”
“Very well, monsieur. And for the young gentleman?”
“Bananas? I have no idea. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Well, I–I mean it’s difficult to-c’est tres difficile-”
Hawke said, “Quite right. Difficult. Mashed potatoes? Of course. Alexei, do you like mashed potatoes? Everyone does.”
“No potatoes! No!”
“Peas?”
“No peas! No! No!”
“Carrots, then?”
“No carrots!”
“Perhaps the saute foie gras, monsieur?” the waiter said, inexplicably.
Hawke returned the ornate menu and said, “Everything. He’ll have one of everything on the menu.”
“ Everything, monsieur? But surely you don’t mean-”
“Yes, yes. Just bring us one of everything on the menu. Let him lead us through the jungle. We’ll soon find out precisely what he likes and doesn’t like. It’s the only way we’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t you agree?”
The waiter shrugged his shoulders in that very French way and said, “Mais ouis, monsieur. Mais certainement. Le roti d’agneau pour monsieur. One of everything on the menu for the young gentleman. Merci beaucoup.” He bowed and disappeared toward the rear of the car, shaking his head and probably murmuring ooh- la-la or oomph, or something of that ilk.
Ten minutes later, a platoon of waiters in wine-red livery appeared, streaming down the aisle to arrive at Hawke’s table, all bearing large silver platters filled with every possible kind of food. This of course caused a great deal of amusement among the other diners, all of them turning in their seats and peering at the little boy, his uncomfortable father, and the enormous amount of food they had ordered.
What Alexei liked to eat was immediately apparent. Hawke was busily preparing a large plate with a small sampling of all the dishes when Alexei made his decision. Ignoring Hawke’s offering entirely, Alexei stood in his high
