"Ok, it's your call. Let me know what else I can help you with. But come on, you can't deny you haven't noticed those beguiling eyes of hers."
Later, Jeff. Gotta go,” Drake cut off with a miffed tone.
Of course he'd noticed her eyes. They had a melting effect on his desire to keep a professional facade when he was around her, and it annoyed him to no end. He rationalized that it was simply because he could not decide if they were blue or gray. He would just have to avoid staring at her even for strict professional reasons.
Alas, it was not only her eyes that held his interest. He had caught himself remembering her face last night as he lay down to sleep, counting the number of freckles she had on her cute nose and upper cheeks. Whenever she tried not to smile, he noticed that her pupils danced with glee. It was in his line of duty to study facial expression and body language to decipher what the wrongdoers would hide with their action and speech. She’d exhibited positive signs of nervousness around him. In addition, something was off with the way she dressed. The clothes fit her well enough, bringing out her easy-on-the-eyes figure, but she kept fidgeting with them as if they were not hers. One would think with the cost of those designer clothes, the least you could get for your money was comfort.
***
I arrived as they were about to serve lunch in the Cote D’Azur dining car. The exquisite room was decorated with frosted glass panels featuring goddess figures with grapes, all adding a charming touch to the bygone decor. The dishwear were sporting the golden VSOE logo while the silverware and glass glisten from the sun’s rays piercing through the windows. One could really see why this train had earned, according to the company’s brochure, the title of “old fashion train de luxe” during a time when dignitaries, princesses and international spies traveled across the 1,400 miles of steel tracks between Paris and Istanbul.
A few seats were still available. I didn’t know if I was relieved or intrigued by Steinfield’s absence in the dining car. Maybe he requested a lunch tray to eat in his cabin. What a shame to miss out on this exquisite room. My initial thought was to rejoice because I’d get to escape his continuous interrogation and enjoy a nice lunch by myself. He reveled in dissecting me with his eyes slanting and focusing like a missile head every time I’d replace a tendril of hair behind my ear, shift in my seat, toy with my napkin or turn my head slightly away to catch other passengers’ tidbits of conversation. On more than one occasion, he reminded me of a cat toying with a mouse before going for the jugular. So why did I experience an inexplicable sense of excitement in my chest whenever he was near? Albeit, he’d never convince me he had more than a mere professional interest in me.
Before I could advance further in the dining car, a bejeweled hand waved in my direction. I had only exchanged a nod with the woman upon embarking yesterday, but she was signaling with insistence for me to join her at her table. Her limp fox was draped around her shoulders. I guess she’d find me rude to defer, and besides, my options were limited as most people traveled in pairs or small groups. Her crimson lips formed a smile which did not veil her intended order. She didn’t strike me as a woman who was used to be ignored. I hoped she would be an agreeable enough lunch companion.
“Hello again, my dear.” She extended her hand, laden with a variety of multicolored gem stones. “My name is Marjory Flaggerty, and I’ve been dying to make your acquaintance.”
“Hmm… nice to meet you. I’m Mara Ellington.” I extended my hand. Her firm handshake was powerful, even masculine.
“Now darling, you must forgive my curiosity, but I’ve been observing you since your terrible… accident at Victoria Station. You seem to have suffered a most unusual fall with that silly man running into you like he did,” she said with a cultured European accent.
For a moment, I was glad that someone else acknowledged that my tumble didn’t occur because I’d been clumsy. But before I could reassure her that I had suffered no serious injuries, she continued her firing squad.
“And now, you must tell me everything about tall, dark and handsome who’s been pining for you.” She leaned closer with a conspirator’s tone.
She had no intention of letting me off the hook on this one. Wow, she wasted no time. Instead of being grilled about the peculiar incident and the gas bomb nearby, this woman was roasting me about a supposed romantic relationship that did not exist. Romantic relationship, my foot. Agent Steinfield and I had no relationship whatsoever. I was a job he needed to deal with, and that’s all there was to it.
I was beyond glad to see the waiter coming to pour ice water in the monogrammed crystal glasses. As he did so, I pointed to him my choice of wine from the wine list. The happy sound of the pitcher’s ice cubes hitting the crystal sounded delightful to my ears with its typical reverberation. I wondered what it would sound like if I succumbed to the childish fun of rubbing my index finger against the rim of the glass to make music. Before I yielded to temptation, I opted to avoid the magnified eagle eyes and regrouped behind the menu card to study my choices of food and diversion.
Once the waiter brought my glass of Pinot Griot and took our orders, I turned my attention back to my interlocutor. I guessed, judging by her ultra polished and sophisticated look, that she must crave attention. Unlike me.
“Mrs. Flaggerty.”
“Please call me Marjory, dear,” she ordered in a guttural modulation.
“Ok, Marjory, then. I think you are under a false impression about Agent ... I mean, Mr. Steinfield.” That was close.
“Is that so?”
I had to give her something, or she was not going to drop the subject.
“We just … ran into each other at Victoria Station in London.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping she would be satisfied. If I was a kid believing in fairy tales, I would think that my nose had just grown an extra two inches for lying right to her face.
To give me some countenance, I forked the Dover Sole A la Colbert which the waiter had promptly brought. It didn’t disappoint. I took my time to taste the melt-in-your-mouth fish with a zesty butter parsley sauce.
I’d be wise to leave out the fact he was an FBI agent. If that ever leaked out, I didn’t even want to think about the consequences. All passengers on board would infer that there might be a criminal among the passengers or even think that I was in trouble with the authorities.
“Then why are your lovely cheeks blushing?” she said in an indulgent tone, satisfied she had made a point.
Should I lie and pretend I knew him before the trip and let her fantasies fill the blanks about an unlikely romance or tell her the truth? Likewise, I was well aware of my reputation to be the worst liar in the world, according to Josie. In fact, my coworkers had dubbed me “Surprise spoiler” because I can’t even tell a white lie when the occasion calls for it. Yep, pathologically honest. But if I told her why Steinfield was interested in me, there would be no end to her questions and besides, she might think the passengers were in danger so I had no alternative but to lie.
A few minutes later, the waiter returned to refill our glasses. It bought me a few seconds to improvise my next move. She was scrutinizing me behind her two microscope eyes while giving a few strokes to the dead fox. Later, when the waiter came back with our orders, she paused from her constant chatter to eat.
“You are right; I blush all the time because of my skin complexion. It’s a curse and maybe I’d better use make-up lessons.” Hiding those damn juvenile freckles was already a job but I would need a clay mask to hide this blushing problem of mine.
Mrs. Flaggerty had put down her fork, still impaled with her asparagus drenched in a buttery hollandaise sauce. Her gesture broadcasted that she was more than curious about my explanation. She was not buying my act for one second. This would be a long lunch. Where was Steinfield now anyway? At this point, I was becoming so desperate, that I’d rather deal with him than with Mrs. Nosy Fox Stole, even if she seemed well in
tentioned.
“We met at the train station by coincidence and felt a… connection to each other right away.” I emptied the remaining of my wine. “He is a man with a very… commanding presence.” Time to stuff my mouth with a piece of bread.
“Oh, he is interested, darling. Mark my word.” She winked with a satisfied smirk, hinting she held a scoop on the subject.
An incredulous half laugh and snort escaped my lips before I could stop it. What was wrong with me? I was behaving like a thirteen-year-old school girl instead of twenty-seven-year-old career woman who received countless praise from coworkers and supervisors as being the most Cartesian, fast decision maker and no-nonsense personality around. I did not recognize myself since I had met Agent Steinfield. Maybe there was a simpler explanation for my immature behavior. The wine perhaps. That was it. I wasn’t not used to drinking so much at home.
“You know, my dear, being a writer, you develop an uncanny skill at deciphering characters. Of course, also being a spokesman for the company running the Orient-Express has given me the opportunity to meet all kinds of people. During my many rides, I get a chance to observe my fellow travelers in a most pleasant way. And the minute I saw him with you at Victoria Station, I noticed some peculiar things about him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you two were meant for each other, but you seem to have unresolved issues. Of course, this is none of my business and I wouldn’t want to pry, but you must understand that when men are, how should I put it… hungry for something, it can make them quite temperamental. But there is definitely something between the two of you. You must forgive the ramblings of a writer’s imagination, but…” She backed off, no doubt taking a hint from my sudden interest in the scenery passing by our window.
The alpine landscape provided a nice distraction. I could almost picture myself sitting over there on the lush grass, stringing wild flowers and daisy chains.
“Some people say that train travel is a waste of time. Do you share this opinion, dear?”
“Of course.”
“Really, Miss Ellington, you have not been listening to a word I said during the past two minutes.”
“I’m sorry. Must be the jet lag.”
We were approaching another chain of snow-capped peaks. Must be a fun experience to ski there. I even spotted a tall waterfall further down the valley. As the Melba peach arrived, I turned my attention back on the beady eyes of her russet stole and tried to redeem myself for my momentary lack of attention to the conversation.
“Mrs. Flaggerty, what kind of novels do you write?”
“Only best-sellers, my dear. I have dabbed into many genres, but I specialize in crime and thriller…” she started and continued on with the citation of her multiples awards until my second cup of coffee was finished. As she left the dining room, she promised she’d send me a dedicated copy of her most recent novel.
After lunch, I reflected that it didn’t take long to meet everyone on board a train. Not that I talked to all of them but still, by listening, or eavesdropping on people's conversations, I got a quick idea of what type of people they were.
For example, there were four Asian business men, always sitting together during their meals. Spoke only Chinese with inflections that made them always sound angry about something. I crossed the honeymoon couple a few more times. She had whined earlier that there was no double bed accommodation and that she could kill for a Big Mac. The groom could have saved himself a lot of money and taken her to Niagara Falls instead, like they did in the good old days. There was this handsome man. I couldn’t tell if he was Moroccan, Tunisian or even Arab, but he was very elegant and I caught him a few times peddling ultra light leather jackets to the passengers. He was heading to meet a supplier, I heard him say to the spoiled Texan bride. She had already ordered two coats for herself and one for her husband.
But the one who made more of an impression on me was an elderly couple. The gentleman kept reminding his wife they had taken this train sixty years ago. While they ate in the dining room, one could easily notice how he tenderly nursed and almost spoon fed his wife—she kept confusing the fork for the spoon. His devotion for her was more than endearing. I hope that one day, if I meet the right man, he will take care of me with the same compassion if I get old and senile.
And Mrs. Flaggerty, when not busy writing on her notepad, was looking everywhere for inspiration, I gathered. Unfortunately, too often in my direction. I hoped I wouldn’t someday find a distorted version of myself in one of her novels.
At last, there was Agent Steinfield, who had so far monopolized most my time onboard. Therefore, it was not surprising that I hardly established any decent conversation with the rest of the passengers. In all honesty, I didn’t see the point to meaningless chit chat considering the fact I would most likely never see these people after today.
When I reached my cabin, I rechecked my itinerary for my upcoming visit to Verona. Timewise, it was tight but feasible, and I made sure to remember how to get there in the simplest way. Looking out the window, my eyes glazed over the monotonous scenery: a succession of forested valley, more or less fifty shades of green. Dotting the emerald canvas were clusters of small towns and a multitude of even spaced telephone poles, all coming and disappearing into view at a clockwork frequency. Their hypnotic effect was potentialized by my satiated belly and the subtle rolling motion of the compartment. Soon, I couldn’t keep my eyes opened and had almost succumbed to my growing drowsiness when I jerked back on my seat as I remembered to set my watch’s alarm to wake me up in twenty minutes.
This afternoon we had a two hour stop in Verona, and if I rushed, I had just enough time to visit the setting of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. The Casa di Giulietta featured a medieval house complete with the so-called famous stone balcony. The tourist site was nestled in a small courtyard. A convenient short walking distance from the Porta Nuova train station, it would only take me twenty-five minute to reach it. I had to be careful not to miss the train’s departure for the last stretch of this trip.
The sunny weather, with its fresh breeze, was ideal for a brisk walk. On my way, I crossed a coliseum ruin. I stood corrected about assuming Rome had the only one. The architecture on the main Piazza Bra was the central tourist area where many kiosks offered souvenirs, food and antiques. A red brick building with a marble portico sporting a winged lion fascinated me. The roof was surmounted with what looked like a decorative row of upside down cloth pegs made of brick. I stopped a minute to take a few pictures. Later, I’d check Google to learn more about this peculiar architecture style. I had to quicken my pace.
Soon, I turned on Via Cappello to a small walled secluded garden. Juliet’s bronze statue stood by the entrance of the 14th century house. One breast was polished shiny from all the groping and other indecencies she had suffered at the hands of a multitude of tourist since her erection in 1972, according to my guide book. On the gothic door of the three story building was pinned a poster announcing a small exposition of props and memorabilia from the 1968 movie Romeo and Juliet, which Josie had insisted I watch last year.
A few young women stood at the famous balcony, striking poses for their friends or obliging boyfriends taking pictures below. After a quick look at my watch, I decided that if Josie was here now, she’d throw a fit if I dared skip the visit. I had enough time anyway.
I climbed the narrow circular flight of stairs and was surprised to recognize Juliet’s bed used in the movie I’d watched. In the back, five glass cases displayed costumes used for the film. As I headed out, my eyes fell on an installation or “work of art” on the floor called “Eternal Love”.
The roped display circled a pair of full human skeletons arranged as if they were in the heated throes of a missionary position. Two school girls were giggling beside me along with three pimply adolescents making lured remarks. By this time, the staircase was congested with a new horde of tourists. I opted to see the view from the balcony before heading down. I took a de
ep breath, wishing I had the place to myself. If those foolish tourists only knew the romantic balcony was in fact a recycled 17th century sarcophagus, they wouldn’t be in such a hurry to be photographed on it. From my vantage point, I noticed half a dozen women writing on scraps of paper and then sticking them on one of the courtyard’s wall.
Once the staircase was clear of visitors, I exited the building and sat on the bench facing the wall to better observe what the girls were scribbling.
“Do you think text messages can work? I don’t have a pen and paper,” said one.
“Dummy, you’re missing the point. You’re supposed to leave your wish on the wall so that Juliet will make it happen. Unless you want to leave your iPhone here.” Her friend snickered.
“You’re asking Juliet to get Steve Miller to ask you on a date?” exclaimed her friend with a disgusted tone taking her friend’s iPhone without permission. “The guy’s a douche bag!,” she commented, handing back the device.
I rolled my eyes at the exchange and was about to leave when I felt the inexplicable pang of guilt delivered by express vibe from the relentless Josie Goodrich. I could picture her signature pout.
“C'mon, you know I don’t go for these silly things,” I argued.
After another look at the peaceful garden graced by a few chirping birds—now audible since the last group of tourist had moved on—I sighed and took out the two items from my purse.
I stared at the paper, half expecting it to prompt me about what to write. I caught myself wondering how Agent Steinfield must be like when he is not neck deep in a mission. Did he even have a wife and kids? After drawing a few doodles at the top corner of the paper to get some kind of inspiration, the picture gradually grew ears and whiskers. Amused at my puerile cartoon, I added a big toothy smile. The feline makeshift portrait ended up looking like the Cheshire Cat. Not liking the direction of my errant pen, I balled up the paper and threw it in the garbage bin where most of these notes likely ended by the end of the day.
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