The Club Dumas

He ate his dinner, rocked by the swaying of the train, and had time for a coffee and a gin before they closed for the evening. The moon, in shades of raw silk, was rising. Telephone poles rushed past in the darkened plain, fleeting frames for a sequence of stills from a badly adjusted movie projector.

He was on his way back to his compartment when he saw the girl in the corridor of the first-class carriage. She had opened the window, and the cold night air was blowing against her face. As he came up to her, he turned sideways so he could get past. She turned toward him. “I know you,” she said.

Close up, her green eyes seemed even lighter, like liquid crystal, and luminous against her suntanned skin. It was only March, and with her hair parted like a boy’s, her tan made her look unusual, sporty, pleasantly ambiguous. She was tall, slim, and supple. And very young.

“Yes,” said Corso, pausing a moment. “A few days ago, at the cafe.”

She smiled. Another contrast, this time of white teeth against brown skin. Her mouth was big and well defined. A pretty girl, Flavio La Ponte would have said, stroking his curly beard.

“You were the one asking about d’Artagnan.” The cold air from the window blew her hair. She was still barefoot. Her white sneakers were on the floor by her empty seat. He instinctively glanced at the book lying there: The Ad­ventures ofSherlock Holmes. A cheap paperback, he noticed. The Mexican edition, published by Porrua.

“You’ll catch cold,” he said.

Still smiling, the girl shook her head, but she turned the handle and shut the window. Corso, about to go on his way, paused to find a cigarette. He did it as he always did, taking one directly from his pocket and putting it in his mouth, when he realized she was watching him.

“Do you smoke?” he asked hesitantly, stopping his hand halfway.

“Sometimes.”

He put the cigarette in his mouth and took out another one. It was dark tobacco, without a filter, and as crushed as all the packs he usually carried with him. The girl took it. She looked to see the brand. Then she leaned over for Corso to light it, after his own, with the last match in the box.

“It’s strong,” she said, breathing out her first mouthful of smoke, but then made none of the fuss he expected. She held the cigarette in an unusual way, between forefinger and thumb, with the ember outward. “Are you in this carriage?” “No, in the next one.”

“You’re lucky to have a sleeper.”  She tapped her jeans pocket, indicating a nonexistent wallet. “I wish I could. Luckily the compartment’s half empty.” “Are you a student?” “Sort of.”

The train thundered into a tunnel. The girl turned then, as if the darkness outside drew her attention. Tense and alert, she leaned against her own reflection in the window. She seemed to be expecting something in the noisy rush of air. Then, when the train emerged into the open and small lights again punc­tuated the night like brush strokes as the train passed, she smiled, distant.

“I like trains,” she said.

“Me too.”

The girl was still facing the window, touching it with the fingertips of one hand. “Imagine,” she said. She was smiling nostalgically, obviously remembering something. “Leaving Paris in the evening to wake up on the lagoon in Venice, en route to Istanbul...”

Corso made a face. How old could she be? Eighteen, twenty at most.

“Playing poker,” he suggested, “between Calais and Brindisi.”

She looked at him more attentively.

“Not bad.” She thought a moment. “How about a cham­pagne breakfast between Vienna and Nice?”

“Interesting. Like spying on Basil Zaharoff.”

“Or getting drunk with Nijinsky.”

“Stealing Coco Chanel’s pearls.”

“Flirting with Paul Morand... Or Mr. Barnabooth.”

They both laughed, Corso under his breath, she openly, rest­ing her forehead on the cold glass. Her laugh was loud, frank, and boyish, matching her hair and her luminous green eyes.

“Trains aren’t like that anymore,” he said.

“I know.”

The lights of a signal post passed like a flash of lightning. Then a dimly lit, deserted platform, with a sign made illegible by their speed. The moon was rising and now and then clari­fied the confused outline of trees and roofs. It seemed to be flying alongside the train in a mad, purposeless race.

“What’s your name?”

“Corso. And yours?”

“Irene Adler.”

He looked at her intently, and she held his gaze calmly.

“That’s not a proper name.”

“Neither is Corso.”

“You’re wrong. I am Corso. The man who runs.”

“You don’t look like a man who runs anywhere. You seem

the quiet type.”

He bowed his head slightly, looking at the girl’s bare feet on the floor of the corridor. He could tell she was staring at him, examining him. It made him feel uncomfortable. That was unusual. She was too young, he told himself. And too at­tractive. He automatically adjusted his crooked glasses and moved to go on his way.

“Have a good journey.”

“Thanks.”

He took a few steps, knowing that she was watching him.

“Maybe we’ll see each other around,” she said, behind him.

“Maybe.”