Earlier, Louise had been surprised to find him sitting in the compartment—and in the wrong seat, she had noticed, glancing down at her own ticket. She wondered whether the choice had been intentional. Surprise was not the only emotion she had experienced in that moment—there was relief, she allowed, and embarrassment, too, after what had transpired in Belgrade, and anger as well. At him, for continuing to follow her, at herself, for allowing him. She was no longer afraid of him—not that she ever had been, only about what he might do—but even that threat had softened and rearranged itself after what had passed between them.
Now, she was left with an uncertainty—of how she felt, of how he felt, and what that might mean. She found herself grateful that her arrival had gone unnoticed, for she had needed that moment in the corridor to compose herself, to shake off the startled expression on her face, to decide how to proceed. Would she greet him with familiarity, speaking in French, using tu instead of vous? An acknowledgment that they had, in one way or another, been in the other’s company for nearly two weeks now. No. She needed to put some distance between them, needed to rebuild the barrier that had crumbled and fallen away with such ease. She needed, she told herself, to steel her resolve, to remind herself of what was important: the money and everything that it meant. A new life, a new beginning. There would never again be another opportunity like this, she knew. She would be reserved, she decided. Cold, even. The way any traveler might be toward another stranger. After all, that was what they were. Two strangers, traveling alone. Nothing more, she had told herself as she pushed through the doors.
Now, she glances toward the corridor, where not a single person has walked by, despite the passage of an hour. She tries to recall whether there had been many boarding—surely, based on the jostling crowd in the train station that morning. But then, perhaps that had only been for other trains that ran within the city, within the country. She supposes most people would choose to fly, rather than endure the tedium of a long-distance train journey.
“The age of train travel is apparently past,” Louise observes wryly.
“A train attendant once told me something similar,” her traveling companion replies, turning to her. “What made you decide to travel by rail, then?”
“I suppose I wanted to take the route while it still exists.” It’s not altogether a lie. She does remember seeing the announcements in the papers about the line cutting service, remembers feeling saddened by the news. Though she hasn’t been anywhere, not really, travel—and trains in particular—seemed a firm part of her childhood, rooted in all the books she had read. To finally step out in the world and find their popularity diminished had been startling, as if the whole world had changed while she had been stuck inside. “What about you? Not a fan of airplanes, then?”
He seems to consider. “Non, I don’t think so.”
No, she doesn’t imagine so either. There’s something old-fashioned about the man before her, despite his age—which she estimates to be a good decade or so more than her own—and that assures her that he was made for the golden age of travel. There is something in his posture, his carriage, she thinks with a small grin, the way he holds himself so different from others. Even his dress sets him apart—the carefully pressed suit and tie. She imagines long, arduous train journeys and even larger steamer trunks. If she didn’t already know why he was here, she would wonder that he had not booked a private berth on the train.
“And where will you go, once the train reaches Istanbul?” he asks. “Back again to London?”
“Perhaps.” She allows herself a small smile at the question, wondering if she said yes, whether he would follow her there—whether he would follow her around the world and back again, if that was what suited. She turns to look out the window. “Or perhaps I’ll sail across the Bosphorus and disappear forever.”