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September 12, 1939
En route from Los Angeles to New Orleans
United States of America
The gentle rolling of the cars and the steady click-clack of wheels on steel rails lulled many passengers to sleep at night. Richard was apparently one of these people, as he was snoring so loudly Wilkins could hardly hear the train over him. The young scholar laid his book down in his lap and reached up to turn off the lamp over his shoulder. The bed upon which he sat, if one could call it that, served as upright seating during the day. At night, it could be folded flat to facilitate sleep. But between the thin padding and his companion’s sonorous breathing, Wilkins found unconsciousness to elude him. Even enjoying some time reading seemed nigh impossible with the constant noise.
He huffed in frustration, blowing out his mustaches as he did so, and removed his glasses to rub his eyes. With a strip of embroidered linen firmly secured in the book to mark his place, he stood and shrugged into his canvas coat before stepping into his shoes. He might have had an easier time of sleeping had he changed out of his pants and shirt, but Wilkins had expected this to be a sleepless night. He never possessed a stomach for travel, and although not as trying as being at sea, the swaying of the train was nonetheless unsettling.
With his book in hand, Wilkins slid open the wood-paneled door and leaned out into the corridor. Across from him, windows ran the length of the car. In the faint moonlight, he could barely make out the hills and sparse trees of the American mid-west sliding by. The corridor itself was empty save for a porter seated in the car’s rear, his head lolling with the movement of the train and his chin planted against his chest.
With the door firmly closed behind him, Wilkins walked down the corridor, past the sleeping man, and through the two doors into the next car. This was another sleeper car, identical to the one he had just left, which he quickly made his way through.
He opened another door and stepped into the space between the cars. The noise grew louder there, and the floor between the cars was slightly uneven. Wilkins rushed to open the door to the next car, feeling great unease in the cramped transitional area. If he hated one thing more about travelling by train than trying to sleep on one, it was walking between the cars while the thing was underway.
The dining car seemed oddly empty at that time of night. Even the small kitchen in the front corner near the door—usually a bustle of activity in the daytime—was devoid of occupants. The tables, normally covered in white linens and meticulously arranged place settings, were bare. Wilkins considered taking advantage of the empty space, but had his mind set on another destination. Steeling his nerves with a deep breath, he passed one last set of doors into the observation car at the rear of the train.
It resembled a lounge, and one might think it to be the sitting room of some mountainside retreat if not for the narrow confines, constant noise, and regular swaying to remind one they were in fact aboard a locomotive. This, and the tall windows which ran the length of the car on both sides to provide panoramic views of the passing countryside, for which the car itself was named.
Next to the door was a small bar, although at that time of night there was nobody on duty to tend it. Several arrangements of chairs and tables were present. They were appropriate for a friendly game of cards to pass the time or to take a light meal away from the ostentatious dining car, but the furnishings consisted mostly of armchairs with a few small tables between them; presumably to rest drinks upon.
Large windows, which ran from the floor to the ceiling, dominated the rear of the car. In the center of these, a glass-paned door led outside to a rear observation deck. All of this was decorated in bright colors accented by ample lighting. The setting might seem cheery in the daytime.
To Wilkins, it felt unnervingly surreal surrounded by the darkness of night.
He had fully expected the observation car to be empty, as the hour was quickly approaching midnight, but found himself sharing the space with one other passenger. Seated in one of the ubiquitous armchairs, in the rear of the car, was a figure he saw while boarding the train. It was the Frenchman, or so Wilkins had assumed, given the man’s accent. His thin handlebar mustache was an instant reminder; not a rare characteristic in those days, but more suited to styles of decades past.
The Frenchman wore a different suit than Wilkins had seen him in on the station platform, this one a deep charcoal gray but still as beautifully tailored as the other. In his khaki field jacket and wrinkled slacks, the Englishman was suddenly feeling quite under-dressed.
After silently nodding for the sake of decorum and receiving a similar gesture in response, Wilkins took a seat at a table near the front of the car. He set his book on the surface, opened it to the linen mark, and adjusted his glasses before diving back into the novel. He glanced up at his unnamed companion from time to time. The man seemed too intent upon studying the passing scenery—despite the meager moonlight—to pay Wilkins any attention. After some time, the steady rhythm of the train became soothing without Richard’s snoring to accent it, and Wilkins found himself engrossed in the book.
The tear shed for the departing soldier went unseen as he mounted his horse. The gray wool uniform seemed to suck all the color from the world around him, and the promise of coming violence he heralded became as if a blemish upon an otherwise vibrant morning. He spared his love one last glance from afar as he trotted from the yard onto the road; too far to see the tears she wept.
After the sun crept across the sky and began its retreat, the trumpets blared. A hundred brave men on horseback—brave or foolhardy—spurred their mounts forward. Sabers waved above them, the evening sunlight glinting on the steel like dew upon so many blades of grass. The cannons roared as they charged uphill, and thunderous explosions rang out around them, sending gouts of debris and waves of flame through their ranks.
He was falling from his horse before he realized what had happened. Agony rippled through every fiber of his being as shards of iron tore through his flesh and shattered his bones. He struck the ground, his back meeting the stony surface like a crashing tidal wave. The blow forced the air from his lungs. His ears rang a fevered pitch, and he dully heard men and horses screaming in a song of death that was like a melody over the percussion of the cannon fire.
His throat grew raw as he screamed in pain, but amid the cacophony of battle, Wilkins could not hear his own voice.
“Monsieur! Monsieur, are you all right? Pour l’amour de Dieu, what is amiss?”
Wilkins dropped the book and ran his hands across his body, fully expecting to find his flesh torn to ribbons by the shrapnel of the exploding cannon shells. His eyes searched for blood. Both touch and sight found nothing amiss, yet he still felt the pain of a thousand shards of white-hot iron piercing his flesh and breaking his bones and bruises upon his back from the stones of the Austrian countryside.
“Monsieur, are you okay?”
Wilkins looked up to find the man with the handlebar mustache standing over him. His words rang with concern, yet his eyes seemed to bear an intensity born of something else. Wilkins took a deep breath to steady himself. “Yes, thank you. I think I will be.”
“Sacré bleu, but did you not give me a fright. Why did you scream just so, if nothing is wrong?”
Wilkins shook his head. He was having difficulty focusing, as if his mind was not fully in the present. “Apologies. I seem to be a bit out of sorts. Maybe I should turn in for the night.”
The man cocked his head to the side and glanced down at the table. Wilkins followed his gaze to find the book he had been reading closed with the embroidered title facing up. “Tears of Vienna,” the man read aloud. “It must be quite the thrilling novel, to have you react so?”
“Yes.” Wilkins struggled to reply, still rattled by the experience. Had the stone affected him from where it rested in the sleeper car, or had he simply been too engrossed in the book? “Quite thrilling, at that.”
“I have been to Vienna myself; I am fortunate to say. If you will, excusez mon grain de sel; I must say the city is très belle.” At Wilkins’s confused expression, the man smiled and blushed. “Oh, pardon my French. Beautiful... I believe you would say?” The man gestured to the seat across from him. “With your blessing, may I join you?”
“By all means.”
“Merci,” he said as he sat, smoothing the sleeves of his suit as he settled into the chair.
“I don’t believe we’ve made our introductions, Mister...”
“Marchand,” the man with the handlebar mustache smiled and extended his hand. “Henri Marchand.”
Wilkins took his hand and shook it, although his counterpart outmatched his own enthusiasm behind the gesture. In addition to the pressure of his grip, Wilkins felt another strange sensation as their hands met; something almost akin to an electric shock, but more subtle. “A pleasure, I’m sure. Wilkins Chapman.”
“Très bon! So, this book of yours—this Tears of Vienna—what about it is so engrossing that a man would be driven to scream as if he were being flayed alive?”
Wilkins ran a hand across the cover, his finger tracing the embroidery of the title. His mind began to settle. “It’s about the Battle of Austerlitz, in eighteen-oh-five. It was written by an Austrian officer.”
“Ah,” Henri sighed. “No doubt lamenting the fall of his beloved homeland to my own people’s imperialistic machinations?”
“Indeed,” Wilkins said as a blush crept up his neck.
“No worries, my new friend. I was not there, no? I bear no shame from my heritage. But that is neither here nor now—or yet it is, but only as pertains to your book. What shook you so?”
“There was a cavalry charge, and they were torn to pieces by the French artillery. I felt for a moment like I was there. It was like I could feel the pain of the men as they died...” Wilkins trailed off as the memory of the pain coursed through him again.
“Some say a well-written work of prose can transport one to another time and place. It seems this particular book...”
Henri laid his hand on the cover, and Wilkins felt a strange electricity again when the man’s fingers brushed against his. He met the Frenchman’s eyes, searching for some reaction, but the man’s gaze was calm and lacking any surprise.
Henri continued, “It seems this book has surpassed the goal of bringing its words into reality through the mind’s eye.”
