Orient Express by Graham Greene

Author:Graham Greene [Greene, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2018-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

PART FOUR

SUBOTICA

I

The telegraph receiving set in the station-master’s office at Subotica flickered; dots and dashes were spilt into the empty room. Through the open door Lukitch, the clerk, sat in a corner of the parcels office and cursed the importunate sounds. But he made no effort to rise. ‘It can’t be important at this hour,’ he explained to the parcels clerk and to Ninitch, a young man in a grey uniform, one of the frontier guards. He shuffled a pack of cards and at the same time the clock struck seven. Outside an indeterminate sun was breaking over grey half-melted snow, the wet rails glinted. Ninitch sipped his glass of rakia; the heavy plum wine brought tears to his eyes; he was very young.

Lukitch went on shuffling. ‘What do you think it’s all about?’ asked the parcels clerk. Lukitch shook his grimy tousled head. ‘One can’t tell of course. But I shouldn’t be surprised all the same. It will serve her right.’ The parcels clerk began to giggle. Ninitch raised his dark eyes, that could contain no expression save simplicity, and asked: ‘Who is she?’ To his imagination the telegraph began to speak in an imperious feminine way.

‘Ah, you soldiers,’ said the parcels clerk. ‘You don’t know half of what goes on.’

‘That’s true,’ Ninitch said. ‘We stand about for hours at a time with our bayonets fixed. There’s not going to be another war, is there? Up to the barracks and down to the station. We don’t have time to see things.’ Dot, dot, dot, dash, went the telegraph. Lukitch dealt the pack into three equal piles; the cards sometimes stuck together and he licked his fingers to separate them. He ranged the three piles side by side in front of him. ‘It’s probably the stationmaster’s wife,’ he explained. ‘When she goes away for a week she sends him telegrams at the oddest times, every day. Late in the evening or early in the morning. Full of tender expressions. In rhyme sometimes: “Your little dove sends all her love,” or “I think of you faithfully and ever so tenderly.”’

‘Why does she do it?’ asked Ninitch.

‘She’s afraid he may have one of the servants in bed with him. She thinks he’ll repent if he gets a telegram from her just at the moment.’

The parcels clerk giggled. ‘And of course the funny part is, he wouldn’t look at his servants. His inclinations, if she knew it, are all the other way.’

‘Your bets, gentlemen,’ said Lukitch and he watched them narrowly, while they put copper coins on two of the piles of cards. Then he dealt out each pack in turn. In the third pack, on which no money had been placed, was the knave of diamonds. He stopped dealing and pocketed the coins. ‘Bank wins,’ he said and passed the cards to Ninitch. It was a very simple game.

The parcels clerk stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, while Ninitch shuffled. ‘Was there any news on the train?’

‘Everything quiet in Belgrade,’ said Lukitch.

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