***
It was late afternoon when the train to Oujda pulled away from the platform, clacking over the tracks with its lengthy array of cargo and passenger cars. The trip mapped out to be a substantial one, consuming roughly ten hours. In organizing ourselves and plotting strategy, Pat and I had fortunately landed our second class seating in the middle of the beast. From this perspective, we conducted regular surveys of the ticketing booths and pedestrian walkways, fruitlessly searching for sign of a Jan Brat tail. Though we did not spy the Loo sentry, I sensed a menace upon us realizing a devoted Bridgework employee -- e.g., Staple -- knew no boundaries when it came to fulfilling a mission.
Further complicating our effort to cloak ourselves in ingenuousness was the wizened gray bristle-mustachioed conductor, a nosy native of Picardy as it turned out, who made it his vocation to question us about our travels. His initial sortie was of such annoyance that, upon his momentary absence, we quickly devised a makeshift cover story.
After much editorial wrangling centering around whether Ethelene would be my ex-spouse or mistress, we reached a mutually agreeable arrangement calling for the lady to be my ex-mistress. Pat, by his own device and without our objection, adopted an Australian accent to match his front as a surly Down Under lepidopterist.
Much to our anguish, the stories served but to encourage the rail official's curiosity. Believing Ethelene to be unattached -- which, in reality, she was -- he began a series of romantic runs at her, starting by suggesting a walk to the lounge car for a shared drink. In deflecting his advancing lust, Pat suffered the misfortune to discover the persistent inquisitor's second passion was, indeed, butterflies. Having one's bluff called was a harrowing enough experience, infinitely compounded by Pat's profound lack of knowledge in his selected field of study. I launched myself into the breach, hoping to quell the budding tempest in the midst of the bustling and crowded car.
"My good conductor, we are the tired representatives the Papilionidae Import Export Company. That is all. Is it too much to ask for a bit of peace?"
"I merely inquire as to your area of expertise, sir, and you give me nothing! Nothing to think about." He idly twirled the brass cancellation punch chained to his vest.
"If you must know," I replied, sensing I had the man pinned down like a prized winged sample under display glass, "we are traveling the Mediterranean coast in search of the elusive Queen Alexandra's Birdwing." My attempt to rescue Pat was moderately successful and put the aggressive steward temporarily at ease.
"Is that a fact, monsieur?" He smiled while pleasantly nodding his head. "How is it a learned lepidopterist such as Monsieur Aundybach would be seeking the world's largest butterfly here in North Africa when it is widely known only to be found in New Guinea?"
"T'is a fair observation and one I would expect to hear from a provincial person such as yourself, no offense intended. We travel the world to shatter such axiomatic thinking. Consider it, good man. Why couldn't the Q.A. Birdwing exist here? It wouldn't be any more out of place than a native of northern France fulfilling the position of a Moroccan rail porter, would it?" I smiled, allowing my reasoning to finish on this strong note. It was apparent I had only stirred the flames of suspicion in the transport worker's mind.
Sleep was fleeting during the overnight trip. As we were in an open car without any degree of privacy or personal security, Pat and I agreed on alternating three-hour watches. Still, when it was my turn for rest, I dozed with one eye open. Had I known that Jan Brat was lurking in the carriage directly behind ours, I would have altered our plans and jumped the train altogether. Just after two in the morning, Ethelene excused herself to freshen up and upon her return declared she had received a call from Angel: The fourth and final CerebStix was located in Paris. If true, this confirmed my hunch the Tunis drive was indeed number three.
What, then, to make of the phrase 'Final drive'?
Naturally, pursuing such inquiry required a belief in Ethelene's claim of Angel contacting her. At this juncture, my mind spun enough yarns to keep that venture separate and isolated. Whether or not Ethelene sourced the information from Angel was not relevant. The fact she came forward with it was significant only if it was true.
The next morning brought brilliant sunshine and, quite diametrically, a gnawing sense of looming catastrophe. The French conductor had lost his amorous urge for Ethelene but not his interest in our group. He filled his time taunting us with his erudition on the dietary habits of the cabbage butterfly. We were far out of our league with the learned gentleman, our thin cloak of contrived identity continually punctured by his repeated observation that we lacked even the most humble of specimen containers. I should have realized, with his repetitive use of the words 'nab', 'catch' and 'net', what awaited us in Oujda.
All escapes unfold on a timeline of lightning fast action and reaction and this one was no different. Pat was the first to spot the excessive security lining the station platforms, both uniformed and plain clothed. It was an obvious welcoming party we fairly guessed had been prepared for us.
"The lavatory's your best bet, Baron," Pat said as the train slowed to its final stop. "Remember the border to Algeria is officially closed. I'll take Ethelene and head in the other direction to divert these jokers."
"Thanks, Pat," I gathered my gear and stood to shake his hand. "I'll find my way to Oran somehow. Be in touch soon."
"I know you will, friend." Pat took Ethelene by the arm. She let loose a few mild protests over not joining me before disappearing into the throng headed to the rear exit. I, in turn, went the opposite way, hoping to use the bathroom window for an unobserved departure of my own.
"Going somewhere, monsieur?" The French conductor darted unseen from a corner to block my path.
"Out of my way, Madam Butterfly!" I brought a stiff forearm into his throat, followed by a resounding headbutt flattening the brim of my porkpie. The now unconscious official dropped slowly into an open bench seat, a slight smile forming upon his face. "Conduct yourself with some sweet dreams of Cho Cho San, friend."
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 43
