The waiter appeared and asked if he could clear the table. David, trying to digest all that he had just heard, not to mention what he’d had to eat and drink, leaned back as the waiter picked up their plates. The man sitting across the aisle was smiling at him through thin lips and gray teeth and said, with what sounded like a Swiss accent, “Forgive me for intruding, but are you honeymooners?”
Olivia smiled, and David said, “No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh,” the man said, embarrassed at his faux pas. “Please pardon my mistake.”
“No problem,” David replied, secretly pleased that they made that kind of impression.
“I had taken the liberty,” the man said, “of ordering a round of a special schnapps, made in my hometown, and traditionally used to toast a bride and groom.”
“That is very kind of you,” Olivia said, beaming at David.
“So perhaps you’ll allow me to wish you well, all the same?”
He gestured at the three small glasses, which were lined up on his table. Extending two of them, he said, “It is made from the wild cherries that grow in our valley, and we’re quite proud of it. I think you’ll see why.”
Although another drink was the last thing David needed, it would be too rude to turn it down. Olivia thanked him, too, and after a few minutes of conversation—the man introduced himself as Gunther, a salesman of medical supplies from Geneva—they shook his hand and excused themselves.
David, his valise slung under one arm, was halfway down the aisle when he realized just how much he’d had to drink, and how exhausted he really was. Olivia seemed to be feeling the same way. They were nearly staggering by the time they got back to their compartment, and he fumbled at the lock.
Any dreams David had had of their first night together would just have to wait. Olivia flopped onto the lower bunk without so much as pulling the blanket back, and David tossed the valise onto the upper berth. Stumbling into the tiny bathroom, he looked at his face in the mirror. His expression was weary, almost blank, and the taste of the cherry schnapps was still strong on his tongue.
Turning out the light and closing the flimsy door, he laid Olivia’s coat over her. Then he clambered into the upper berth, which, in his present state, felt like the best and softest bed he had ever been in. All he wanted to do was sleep, and the gentle, constant rumble of the train was like a lullaby. One arm rested on the valise, the other dangled off the side of the bunk.
But his thoughts were restless, and he entered into that strange state where he could not be sure if he was dreaming or not. He thought of the salesman with the gray teeth, and pictured him picking cherries and putting them in a basket.
He thought of Olivia’s old boyfriend, Giorgio, his face smeared with blood, his mouth gagged, but in the dream he was trying to tell David something urgent.
He pictured a parade of knights on horseback, crossing the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, with Hitler himself leading the procession. Torches were lighted all along the way, and in the fiery glow David saw his sister, standing on the other side of the bridge. Why was she there? Her hair was still gone, and she was dressed in a blue hospital gown. She was watching the knights, a look of horror on her face, and David was trying to run to her. But the horses were in the way and though he kept shouting her name, she could not hear him. The horses and riders kept nudging her closer and closer to the edge of the bridge. She was about to fall off! David was pushing his way through the knights—Nazi pennants were flying from their lances—but he couldn’t make any progress. Someone, or something—a horse’s muzzle?—was nudging his arm … moving it, very gently, to one side.
“Sarah,” he cried again, “Sarah.”
And his arm was moved again.
He opened one eye. A corner of the pillow stuck up in front of it. But something was stretching over him, reaching into that space between his body and the wall.
He closed his eye, trying to get back to the bridge, trying to get back to his sister before she plummeted over the edge.
But the knights on horseback still blocked the way.
His arm was lifted, and once more he opened his eye. A tiny light, as bright and sharp as a pinprick, was focused on the wall. It reminded him of the light the optometrist used when testing his eyes.
But now the light was directed elsewhere. It was pointed at something under his arm. Something black and firm and smooth as leather.
The valise.
His eye opened wider, and his whole body tensed.
Thick fingers were groping for the handle, and suddenly David knew this was no dream. He could even hear the low breathing of the intruder.
His own arm pressed down on the valise, while he swung himself up in the bed. His head hit the ceiling, and he kicked out a leg that collided with something. He heard a muffled oath, and he shoved the valise out of reach against the wall.