Conrad Aiken - A Heart for the Gods of Mexico

“I guess we’d better step on it. If those travelers get there without us, they might just think—”

“Damndest thing I ever saw,” said Gil. “Not even a light. And as for porters —”

Another sleeper, and another, and another; the green curtains drawn, the sleeping humans lying there in unconscious tiers under the sky, men, women and children; while outside, unknown to them, Blomberg and Gil and Noni walked anxiously past them on the gravel, staring ahead for a glimpse of the engine. The express car, the mail car, and at last — the great monster breathed softly above them, gleamed, vibrated. The cab seemed to be empty. The driver would of course be at the other side. Suppose he got the signal to start just as they were crossing—

Without a word they crossed, close to the hot headlight and the blunt angry-looking cowcatcher, found themselves squeezed between a wooden level-crossing guard arm and the engine, so close that they could touch it, and began the long journey back to the day coach, which of course would be at the very end of the train. Now there was a row of dim lights, each showing a little are of dirty wooden pillar; they hurried up the worn wooden ramp to a low platform, and it was here that Noni suddenly stopped, stood still, let the hatbox fall from her hand.

“Ohhhh,” she wailed, “I can’t ! Someone please —”

She blew out a long breath, clapped her hands against her breast, looked comically from one to the other of them. She seemed to be swaying slightly, she was out of breath. Was it possible that her heart—

“Here, Gil,” he said quickly, “throw those coats over my left arm and take Noni’s hatbox. And hurry , my lad! And Noni, you take it easy, follow us, don’t worry, we’ll keep a piece of the train for you!”

“Thanks, Blom dear!”

She was still standing motionless, as they hurried off ahead, standing there with her hands lightly crossed on her breast, looking amusedly after them — he could see the smile on the half-averted and half-lamplit face — but then he heard her steps slowly begin, heard them follow more firmly, and he listened to them as he might have listened to the beating of his own heart. She was coming; she was all right. To Gil he said:

“I’m afraid she’s tired. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yes. Guess she’ll be all right. She worries too much!”

The thick spectacles flashed, the mouth looked somewhat prim. Before them the conductor waited by the train, his hand on the handhold, the lantern on the splintered platform.

“Is this the coach for St. Louis?”

“Yes, sir; through car to St. Louis.”

“Good. There’s a lady coming, just behind us.… Guess we’d better get the bags aboard, Gil—”

“Okay.”

Brown seats instead of green, and pale green metal walls, and an almost empty car, except for the six salesmen who were already composing themselves for what was left of the night. Time with a hundred hands, time with a thousand mouths! A man drinking water, a man in his shirt-sleeves, a man taking his shoes off. Poised for departure in the extraordinary stillness of the night, poised in a wilderness without shape or sound, placeless and nameless — (but no, Galion!) — they waited for Noni. And now Noni’s light steps came up the echoing stairs, and along the littered aisle, and she walked towards them, taking off the blue-winged hat and brushing the fair hair back from her forehead with a white ringless hand. She came towards them gravely, said simply, “I’m tired ”—and sank into the seat beneath the rack with the hatbox. Gil, his battered felt hat still on, took her hand in his, sat down beside her, said something to her; she was staring out of the window, her shoulder against his. What did she see there? And what was Gil saying? They sat very still together; and then, subtly, softly, the train had begun to move, the murmur of time had resumed its everlasting monotone.

Galion — Marion — Sidney — Muncie —:

Ohio — Indiana — Illinois —:

“Ommernous,” he muttered; “it’s all ommernous; every bit of it is ommernous! Waking and sleeping we lay waste our powers.…”

The cry of the whistle punctuated his sleep; and then the glaring ball of the sun above the low rich land, blazing straight into his eyes over the cindered window sill; the rich land reeling fanlike in ribs and volutes of green, a file of cattle, a dog, haystacks by a clump of trees, a house dark against the brightened east. Blades of yellow light, too, from beneath the lowered curtain, light and sound mixing confusedly as if positively they might interchange: the rails beating at his cheeks and eyes like light, the sun’s rays assailing his ears in an overbearing intricacy of endless rhythm. And then the early morning passengers, the new arrivals, the intruders—

“—well, I always think—”

“—yes, isn’t that strange—?”

“—rather annoyed at a reaction a child gave, several years ago—”

“—and so long, and then we flop—”

“—yes — and he met her that night !—”

“—worldly, mundane sort of a girl—”

“—place where you stay is very comfortable, single room with bath—”

“—association. No, I don’t keep up—”

“—well, what I don’t know about T.B.—”

“—expose the whole pleural cavity — right middle left lower lobe — lot of lymph—”

“—and use a cautery along that line—”

“—no, just a—”

“—capillary?”

“—just an ordinary—”

“—Christian Scientist, with a tumor of the lung — back five weeks afterward — yes, sir, five weeks—”

“—hope you’ll give my regards to the good wife—”

“—I surely will—!”

“—and my regrets that she doesn’t turn up at Atlantic City any more—”

Blah — blah — blah — blah . — Comfort. Safety. Scenic Interest. A great fleet of fast trains at convenient hours between the East and Midwest. Centrally located terminals. The ever beautiful and historic Hudson River and Mohawk Valley. Majestic and inspiring Niagara Falls. Electric automatic signals and automatic train stop .…

Swaying and cursing in the tiny lavatory he had shaved the sleep-blanched face, noting the hollows under the dark eyes, steadying himself with one hand on the metal basinrim, his legs braced apart. Blom the lighthouse, Blom looking not quite so well. The floor had been flooded by someone’s indiscretion, he tried to keep his feet in the drier places. Paper towels only; he was glad they had thought of pinching towels out of the Pullman on their way back from the diner the night before — that had been Gil’s idea. Clever. The night before? Already it seemed centuries ago. The clamor of the train was louder and more immediate in the lavatory, came up rounded and echoing, drafty, almost musical, through the w.c. A good thing to shave today and tomorrow, because after that, when they got into Mexico, God alone knew—

And then Gil was saying, as they waited for Noni, wiping his hands a little nervously with a handkerchief, just the tips of the fingers, then tucking it back in his breastpocket:

“Look here, Blom. I haven’t wanted to ask you before, in fact there hasn’t really been any chance, and I don’t quite know how to say it, but don’t you think all this is a little queer?”

“What do you mean, Gil?”

“Well, the suddenness of it. The abruptness.”

Gil swayed his head and shoulders forward and back, very slightly, very quickly, a habit he had when he was nervous: the pointed lean face, ascetic and Bostonian, but kindly, and the gray eyes, peering through the thick glasses, were frankly puzzled.