“All we need here are lace curtains,” Herbert remarked.
“Yes, and a fringed lampshade. My grandmother’s parlour looked like this.”
Little Bert, who seemed about to say what he thought of the furnishings, shut his mouth again; the owner of the window seat had arrived. This was an old woman carrying bags and parcels and a heavy-looking case that she lifted like a feather to the rack before Herbert could help. She examined her ticket to see if it matched the number at the window seat, sat down, pulled out the drop-leaf shelf under the sill, and placed upon it some food, a box of paper handkerchiefs, a bundle of postcards, and a bottle of eau de cologne, all drawn from a large carryall on which was printed WINES OF GERMANY. She sprinkled eau de cologne on a handkerchief and rubbed it into her face. She had sparse orange-blond hair done up in a matted beehive, a long nose, small grey eyes, and wore a printed dress and thick black shoes. As soon as she had rubbed her face thoroughly she opened a plastic bag of caramels. She did not wait to finish eating one caramel before unwrapping the next, and before long she had her mouth full.
Christine said to Herbert in French, “The German train may have unexpected facilities.” The air coming in at the window was hot and dry. The houses they passed looked deserted. “What would you call the colour of these seats?” she asked him.
“We’ve said it: middle class.”
“That’s an impression, not a colour. Would you say mustard?”
“Dried orange peel.”
“Faded blood stains.”
“Melted raspberry sherbet.”
“Persimmons? No, they’re pretty.”
“I have never eaten one,” said Herbert. He was not at all interested.
Little Bert spoke up and said, “Vomited plum tart,” quite seriously, which made the woman in the corner say “Hee hee” in a squeaky tone of voice. “Read to me,” said little Bert quickly, taking this to be universal attention.
“It isn’t a book for children,” Christine said. But then she saw that the woman in the corner was beginning to stare at them curiously, and so she pretended to read: “ ‘It was the fourteenth of July in Paris. Bruno put on his blue-and-gold uniform with the tassels and buttons shining …’ ”
“No, no,” said Herbert. “Nothing military.”
“Well, you read then.” She handed the book across. Herbert glanced at the title, then at the flyleaf to see if it was Christine’s. He pretended to read: “ ‘Bruno had a camera. He wore it on a strap around his neck. He had already dropped one in the lake so this one was not quite so expensive. He took pictures of Marianne, the housekeeper …’ ”
“ ‘Who was really a beautiful princess instead of an ugly old gossip,’ “ said Christine.
“Don’t,” said Herbert. “She loves him.” He went on: “ ‘He took pictures of a little boy his own age …’ ”
“Is Bruno a bear or a boy?” said Christine.
“A male cub, I imagine,” said Herbert.
“It’s a sponge,” said the offended child. He threw it down and went out to where the bearded man was still gazing at the dull landscape. All this was only half a gesture, for he did not know what to do next.
“That’s sulking,” said Christine. “Don’t let him, Herbert. For his own sake make him behave.” The woman in the corner looked again, trying to make sense of this odd party. Christine supposed that it was up to her to behave like a mother. Perhaps she ought to pick up the sponge, go out to little Bert, stoop down until their faces were nearly level and say something like, “You mustn’t be touchy. I’m not used to touchy people. I don’t know how to be with them.” Or, more effectively, “Your father wants you to come back at once.” She realized how she might blackmail little Bert if ever she married Herbert, and was ashamed. It was an inherited method, straight from her late grandmother’s velvet parlour. But by now Herbert was trying to show little Bert something interesting out the window, and little Bert was crying hard. She heard the bearded man telling Herbert that he was a Norwegian, a bass baritone, and that he had been asked to teach a summer course in Germany. His teaching method was inspired by yoga. He seemed to expect something from Herbert, but Herbert merely mouthed “Ah,” and left it at that. He was trying to get little Bert to blow his nose. Then, after an exchange she was unable to hear, all three disappeared down the corridor, perhaps looking for a conductor. The toilets and washrooms were still locked.
A few minutes after this, at a place called Bietigheim, their carriage was overrun by a horde of fierce little girls who had been lined up in squads on a station platform for some time, heels together and eyes front. Now there was no holding them. “Girls, girls!” their camp monitor screamed, running alongside the train. “Move along! Move along to second class!” They took not the slightest notice; she was still calling and blowing a whistle as the train pulled away.
Christine and the old woman sat helplessly watching while their compartment was taken over by a commando, led by a bossy little blonde of about eleven. Six children pushed into the four empty seats, pulling up the armrests and making themselves at home. “These places are taken,” said Christine. The commando pretended not to hear. All six wore knee-length white lace socks and home-made cotton frocks in harsh colours. For all their city toughness, they seemed like country children. Their hair, loose and unbraided, was clasped here and there with plastic barrettes. The child sitting in Herbert’s place had large red hands and the haunted face of a widow. Another was plump and large, with clotted veins on her cheeks, as if she were already thirty-five and had been eating puddings and drinking beer since her wedding day. When she got up suddenly the others giggled; the pattern of the first-class velvet was imprinted on her fat thighs. As for the bossy one, the little gangster, showy as a poppy in red and green, she could not leave the others alone, but seemed compelled to keep kicking and teasing them.
“No standing in first class!” This voice, growing louder and nearer, was so comically Bavarian that even the two adults had to laugh, though more discreetly than the children, who were simply doubled over. The voice was very like Herbert’s, imitating a celebrated Bavarian politician addressing a congress of peasants. But Herbert was not unexpectedly being funny out there in the corridor, and the voice belonged to the conductor, now seen for the first time. He stumbled along saying “No standing,” quite hopelessly, not really expecting anyone to obey, for who could possibly be afraid of such a jolly little person? He was only repeating something out of a tiresome rules book, and the children knew it. They leaned out the windows (also forbidden) trailing souvenir streamers of purple crêpe paper, past miles of larches with bedraggled branches, past a landscape baked and blind. The bossy blonde peeped out to the corridor and giggled and covered her mouth. She had small green eyes and resembled a thief. Yes, Christine could easily see her snatching something and concealing it — a ring left on a washstand, say. She took her hand away to offer a gap-toothed smile to Herbert, struggling along past girls and crêpe paper and long tangled hair and piles of luggage as if wading in seaweed. Instead of evicting the children at once he said a few comic words, which convulsed them anew, and asked for his briefcase. They would have murdered one another for the sake of being the favourite. The bossy blonde won, of course. She smiled adoringly. He appraised her as though she were twenty. All this took less than a minute. They were approaching Stuttgart.