The Pegnitz Junction Read Free Page B

métro with its first- and second-class cars. Foul smoke streamed past the window at which the bearded man still stood. The prickly velvet stuff their seats were covered in scratched her legs and arms. The cloth was hideous in colour, and stamped with a pointless design. The most one could say was that it would do for first class.
    “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 thewindow 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