Stamboul Train

by Graham Greene

  P.S. Did you hear that Uncle John died suddenly the other day almost on my doorstep?

  Miss Warren’s pen ended the letter in a large pool of ink. She enclosed it in a thick line and wrote Sorry. Then she wiped the pen on her skirt and rang the bell for a steward. Her mouth was terribly dry.

  Coral Musker stood for a little while in the corridor, watching Myatt, wondering whether what Mabel Warren had suggested was true. He sat with head bent over a pile of papers, running a pencil up and down a row of figures, always returning it to the same numeral. Presently he laid down the pencil and put his head in his hands. Pity for a moment touched her, as well as gratitude. With the knowing eyes hidden he might have been a schoolboy, despairingly engaged on homework which would not come right. She could see that he had taken off his gloves the better to grip the pencil and his fingers were blue with cold; even the ostentation of his fur coat was pathetic to her, for it was hopelessly inadequate. It could not solve his sums or keep his fingers warm.

  Coral opened the door and came in. He raised his face and smiled but his work absorbed him. She wanted to take the work away from him and show him the solution and tell him not to let his master know that he had been helped. Who by? she wondered. Mother? Sister? Nothing so distant as a cousin, she thought, sitting down in the easy silence which was the measure of their familiarity.

  Because she grew tired of watching through the window the gathering snow she spoke to him: ‘You said that I could come in when I wanted to.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I couldn’t help feeling a beast,’ she said, ‘going away so suddenly and never thanking you properly. You were good to me last night.’

  ‘I didn’t like the idea of your staying in the compartment with that man when you were ill,’ he said impatiently, tapping with his pencil. ‘You needed proper sleep.’

  ‘But why were you interested in me?’ She received the fatal inevitable answer: ‘I seemed to know you quite well.’ He would have gone back to his calculations if it had not been for the unhappy quality of her silence. She could see how he was worried and surprised and a little harassed; he thinks I want him to make love to me, she thought, and wondered, do I? Do I? It would complete the resemblance to other men she had known if he rumpled her hair a bit and pulled her dress open in getting his lips against her breast. I owe him that, she thought, and the accumulated experience of other women told her again that she owed him a good deal more. But how can I pay, she asked herself, if he doesn’t press for payment? And the mere thought of performing that strange act when she was not drunk as she supposed some women were, or passionate, but only grateful, chilled her more than the falling snow. She was not even certain how one went about it, whether it would be necessary to spend a whole night with him, to undress completely in the cold carriage. But she began to comfort herself with the thought that he was like other men she had known and was satisfied with very little; the only difference was that he was more generous.

  ‘Last night,’ he said, watching her closely while he spoke, and his attitude of attention and his misunderstanding of her silence told her that after all they did not know everything of each other, ‘last night I dreamed about you.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I dreamed that I picked you up and took you for a ride and presently you were going to . . .’ He paused and evaded the issue. ‘I felt excited by you.’

  She became frightened, as if a moneylender were leaning across his desk and approaching very gently and inexorably to the subject of repayment. ‘In your dream,’ she said. But he took no notice of her. ‘Then the guard came along and woke me up. The dream was very vivid. I was so excited that I bought your ticket.’

  ‘You mean that you thought—that you wanted—’

  The moneylender raised his shoulders, the moneylender sat back behind his desk, and the moneylender rang the bell for a servant to show her out to the street and strangers and the freedom of being unknown. ‘I just told you this,’ he said, ‘so that you needn’t feel you owe me anything. It was the effect of a dream, and when I’d bought the ticket, I thought you might as well use it,’ and he picked up his pencil and turned back to his papers. He added formally, without thought, ‘It was brash of me to think that for ten pounds—’

  Those words did not at first reach her. She was too confused by her relief, even by the shame of being desirable only in a dream, above all by her gratitude. And then pursuing her out of the silence came the final words with their hint of humility—this was unfamiliar. She faced her terror of the bargain, putting out her hand and touching Myatt’s face with a gratitude which had borrowed its gesture from an unknown love. ‘If you want me to,’ she said. ‘I thought that you were bored with me. Shall I come tonight?’ She laid her fingers across the papers on his knee, small square hands with powder lying thick in the hollow of the knuckles, nails reddened at the tip, hiding the rows of numerals, Mr Eckman’s calculations and subterfuges and cunning concealments, offering herself with an engaging and pathetic dubiety. He said slowly, half his mind still following Mr Eckman in and out of hidden rooms, ‘I thought that you disliked me’; he lifted her hands from his papers and said absent-mindedly. ‘Perhaps because I was Jewish.’

  ‘You’re tired.’

  ‘There’s something here I can’t get straight.’

  ‘Leave it,’ she said, ‘until tomorrow.’

  ‘I haven’t the time. I’ve got to get this done. We are not sitting still.’ But in fact all sense of motion had been rapt from them by the snow. It fell so heavily that the telegraph poles were hidden. She took her hands away and asked him with resentment: ‘Then you don’t want me to come?’ The calmness and familiarity with which he met her proposal chilled her gratitude.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘come. Come tonight.’ He touched her hands. ‘Don’t think me cold. It’s because we seem to know each other so well.’ He appealed to her, ‘Be it a little strange.’

  But before she could gather her wits for a pretence, she had admitted to him, ‘Yes, I feel that too,’ so that there was nothing else to say, and they sat on in silence like old friends, thinking without excitement of the night before them. Her brief passion of gratitude was over, for now it seemed as unnecessary as it was unwanted. You were not grateful to an acquaintance of so long a standing; you took favours and gave favours and talked a little of the weather, not indignant at a caress or embittered by an indifference; and if you saw him in the stalls, you smiled once or twice as you danced, because something had to be done with your face which was a plain one, and a man liked to be recognized from the stage.

  ‘The snow’s getting worse.’

  ‘Yes. It’ll be cold tonight.’ And you smiled in case a joke was intended and said as enticingly as possible to so old a friend, ‘We’ll be warm,’ unable to forget that night was coming, remembering all that friends had said and advised and warned, puzzled and repelled that a man should feel indifference and lust at the same time. All that morning and all through lunch the snow continued to fall, lying deep at Passau on the roof of the customs-shed, melted on the line by the steam from the engine into grey icy streams, and the Austrian officials picked their way in gumboots and swore a little, searching the luggage perfunctorily.

  PART THREE

  VIENNA

  I

  Josef Grünlich moved to the sheltered side of the chimney, while the snow piled itself all round him on the roof. Below the central station burned like a bonfire in the dark. A whistle screamed and a long line of lights came into view, moving slowly; he looked at his watch as a clock struck nine. That’s the Istanbul Express, he thought, twenty minutes late; it may have been held up by snow. He adjusted his flat silver watch and replaced it in his waistcoat pocket, smoothing the creases over the curve of his belly. Well, he considered, it is lucky to be fat on a night like this. Before buttoning his overcoat he ran his hands between pants and trousers and adjusted the revolver which hung between his legs by a piece of string twisted around a button. Trust Josef for three things, he
reminded himself comfortably, for a woman, a meal, and a fat crib. He emerged from the shelter of the chimney.

  It was very slippery on the roof and there was some danger. The snow beat against his eyes and caked into ice on the heels of his shoes. Once he slipped and saw for a moment rising like a fish through dark water to meet him the lit awning of a café. He whispered, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ digging his heels into the snow, clutching with his fingers. Saved by the rim of a gutter, he rose to his feet and laughed softly; it was no good being angry with nature. A little later he found the iron arms of the fire-escape.

  The climb that followed he considered the most dangerous part of the whole business, for although the escape ran down the back of the flats, out of sight of the street, it faced the goods-yard, and the yard was the limit of a policeman’s beat. He appeared every three minutes, the dim lamp at the corner of a shed gleaming on his black polished gaiters, his leather belt, his pistol holster. The deep snow quietened the sound of feet, and Josef could expect no warning of his approach, but the ticking of his watch kept him in mind of danger. He waited at the head of the ladder, crouched low, uneasily conscious of his white background, until the policeman had come and gone again. Then he began his climb. He had only to pass one unoccupied storey, but as he reached the top window a light flashed on him and a whistle blew. I can’t be caught, he thought incredulously, I’ve never been caught, it doesn’t happen to me, and waited with his back to the yard for a word or a bullet, while his brain began to move like the little well-oiled wheels of a watch, one thought fitting into another and setting a third in motion. When nothing happened he turned his face from the ladder and the blank wall; the yard was empty, the light glowed from a lamp someone had carried into the loft of the goods-shed, and the whistle had been one of the many noises of the station. His mistake had wasted precious seconds, and he continued his descent with a reckless disregard of his icy shoes, two steps at a time.

  When he came to the next window he tapped. There was no reply, and he murmured a mild imprecation, keeping his head turned to the corner of the yard where the policeman would very soon appear. He tapped again and this time heard the shuffle of loose slippers. The lock of the window was lifted, and a woman’s voice said, ‘Anton. Is that you?’ ‘Yes,’ said Josef, ‘this is Anton. Let me in quickly.’ The curtain was drawn back and a thin hand pulled and pulled at the top pane. ‘The bottom,’ Josef whispered, ‘not the top. You think me an acrobat.’ When the window was raised he showed great agility for a man so fat in stepping from the escape to the sill, but he found it difficult to squeeze into the room. ‘Can’t you raise it another inch?’ An engine hooted three times and his brain automatically noted the meaning of the signal: a heavy goods train on the down line. Then he was in the room, the woman had closed the window and the noise of the station faded.

  Josef brushed the snow off his coat and his moustache and looked at his watch; nine-five; the train to Passau would not leave for another forty minutes, and he had his ticket ready. With his back to the window and the woman he took in the room casually, but every detail marched to its ordered place in his memory, the ewer and basin on the liver-coloured washstand, the chipped gilt mirror, the iron bedstead, the chamber-pot, the holy picture. He said, ‘Better leave the window open. In case your master returns.’

  A thin shocked voice said, ‘I couldn’t. Oh, I couldn’t.’ He turned to her with amiable mockery, ‘Modest Anna,’ and watched her with sharp knowledgeable eyes. She shared his age, but not his experience, standing lean and flustered and excited by the window; her black skirt lay across the bed, but she still wore her black blouse, her white domestic collar, and she held a towel before her legs to hide them.

  He regarded her quizzically. ‘Pretty Anna.’ Her mouth fell open and she stared back at him, silent and fascinated. Josef noted with distaste her uneven and discoloured teeth: whatever else I have to do, he thought, I will not kiss her, but it was evident that she expected an embrace; her modesty was transformed into a horrible middle-aged coquetry, to which he was forced to respond. He began to talk to her in baby language, sitting down on the edge of her bed and keeping its width between them. ‘What has the pretty Anna got now then? A great big man? Oh, how he will rumple you.’ He wagged a finger at her playfully, ‘You and I, Anna. We’ll have a good time by and by. Eh?’ He squinted sideways at the door and saw with relief that it was unlocked; it would have been just like the old bitch to have locked him in and hidden the key, but no reflection of his anxiety or his distaste ruffled the plump pink face. ‘Eh?’

  She smiled and let out a long whistling breath. ‘Oh, Anton.’ He jumped to his feet, and she dropped the towel and came towards him, with the thin tread of a bird, in her black cotton stockings. ‘One moment,’ he said. ‘One moment,’ raising his hand defensively, aghast at the antique lust he had aroused. Neither of us are beauties, he thought, and the presence of a pink-and-white Madonna gave the whole situation a kind of conscious blasphemy. He stopped her by his urgent whisper, ‘Are you sure there’s no one in the flat?’ Her face reddened as if he had made a crude advance. ‘No, Anton, we are quite alone.’ His brain began to work again with precision; it was only personal relationships that confused him; when there was danger or the need of action, his mind had the reliability of a tested machine. ‘Have you the bag I gave you?’

  ‘Yes, Anton, here under the bed.’ She drew out a small black doctor’s bag, and he chucked her under the chin and told her that she had pretty eyes. ‘Get undressed,’ he said, ‘and into bed. I’ll be with you again in a moment.’ Before she could argue or ask him to explain, he had skipped gaily through the door on his toes and closed it behind him. Immediately he looked round for a chair and wedged it under the handle, so that the door could not be opened from inside.

  He was familiar from a previous visit with the room he was in. It was a cross between an office and an old-fashioned drawing-room. There was a desk, a red velvet sofa, a swivel-chair, several occasional tables, a few large nineteenth-century engravings of children playing with dogs and ladies bending over garden walls. One wall was almost covered by a large roller map of the central station, with its platforms and goods-sheds, points and signal-boxes marked in primary colours. The shapes of furniture were dimly visible now in the half-dark, shadows falling like dust-sheets over the chairs from the street lights reflected on the ceiling and the glow of a reading-lamp on the desk. Josef struck his shin against an occasional table and nearly overturned a palm. He swore mildly, and Anna’s voice called out from the bedroom, ‘What is it, Anton? What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘nothing. I’ll be with you in a moment. Your master’s left a light on. Are you sure he won’t be back?’

  She began to cough, but between the paroxysms she let him know, ‘He’s on duty till midnight. Anton, you won’t be long?’ He made a grimace. ‘Just taking off a few things, Anna darling.’ Through the open window the sounds of the road beat up into the room; there was a constant blowing of horns. Josef leant out and examined the street. Taxis sped up and down with luggage and passengers, but he ignored them and the flicker of sky signs, and the clinking café immediately below, questing down the pavements; few people were passing, for it was the hour of dinner, theatre, or cinema. There was no policeman to be seen.

  ‘Anton.’

  He snapped, ‘Be quiet,’ and drew the blinds lest he should be seen from one of the buildings opposite. He knew exactly where the safe was built into the wall; only a meal, a cinema, and a few drinks had been required to get the information from Anna. But he had feared to ask her for the combination; she might have realized that her charm was insufficient to bring him in the dark across an icy roof to her bedroom. From a small bookcase behind the desk he drew six heavy volumes of Railway Working and Railway Management, which hid a small steel door. Josef Grünlich’s mind was now clear and concentrated; he moved without hurry or hesitation. Before he set to work he noted the time, nine-ten, and calculated that h
e need not leave for half an hour. Ample time, he thought, and pressed a wet thumb on the safe door, the steel is not half an inch thick. He laid the black bag on the desk and unpacked his tools. His chisels were in beautiful condition, highly polished, with a sharp edge; he took a pride in the neatness of his tools as well as in the speed of his work. He might have broken the thin steel with a jemmy, but Anna would hear the blows and he could not trust her to keep silent. He therefore lit his smallest blowpipe, first putting on smoked glasses to shield his eyes from the glare. The details of the room started out of the shadows at the first fierce jab of flame, the heat scorched his face, and the steel door began to sizzle like melting butter.

  ‘Anton.’ The woman shook the handle of the bedroom door. ‘Anton. What are you doing? Why have you shut me in?’ Through the low roar of the flame, he cried to her, ‘Be quiet.’ He heard her feeling at the lock and twisting the handle. Then she spoke again urgently, ‘Anton, let me out.’ Every time he removed his lips from the pipe to answer her, the flame shrank. Trusting to her timorous stupidity, he addressed her ferociously, ‘Be quiet, or I’ll twist your neck.’ For a moment there was silence, the flame waxed, the steel door turned from a red to a white heat, then Anna called quite loudly, ‘I know what you are doing, Anton.’ Josef pressed his lips to the pipe and paid her no attention, but Anna’s next cry startled him: ‘You are at the safe, Anton.’ She began to rattle the handle again, until he was forced to let the flame sink and shout at her, ‘Be quiet. I meant what I said, I’ll twist your ugly neck for you, you old bitch.’ Her voice sank, but he could hear her quite distinctly; her lips must have been pressed to the key-hole. ‘Don’t, don’t say that, Anton. Listen. Let me out. I’ve got something to tell you, to warn you.’ He did not answer her, blowing the flame and the steel back to a white heat. ‘I lied to you, Anton. Let me out. Herr Kolber is coming back.’ He lowered the pipe and sprang round. ‘What’s that? What do you mean?’