Stranger on a Train by Jenny Diski Read Free Book Online

spine, I doubled over and tears started to flow. Udi’s death, the reality of his not being in the world any more, hit me, kicked in, quite literally it felt. By the time I got back to my cabin the tears were streaming down my face, and once the door was shut and I was private, I began to sob. Mostly I cried for myself, for the loss of Udi as a friend. I was wracked with sadness, bereft, quite unable to stop crying. It went on for an hour or so, and then there was a knock at the door. I wiped my eyes, though not very effectively, and opened the door. The third engineer, whose cabin was next to mine, stood in the hallway looking worried.
    â€˜Are you ill?’
    I explained that I had just heard that a friend of mine had died. He looked sympathetic, and said he was sorry. I said that I’d known he was going to die, but still, hearing that it had actually happened …
    â€˜Yes. It is always terrible. Were you very close?’
    â€˜He was a friend.’
    He nodded seriously. ‘I am going in to the city for the evening. There is a cab coming. You come too. We will go to a bar and have a drink and see America.’
    I thanked him, but said I thought I would stay on board and have a quiet evening, I wasn’t feeling very much like socialising. My friend’s smiling face took on dark, worried expression, and he shook his head.
    â€˜It is not good to be alone when you are sad. You must make an effort. Come out for a drink. Enjoy yourself.’
    No, I said, thanking him for his concern, I was all right, but I wanted to be on my own and quiet this evening.
    â€˜It is bad to be alone. You must not be sad and cry. Yes, your friend is dead, that is a shame, but you are alive. You must live. Life goes on. You should come out and enjoy life.’
    He spoke insistently, almost angrily, it was more now than just going into the city with me. I said as definitely and finally as I could manage without offending that I appreciated what he was saying, but that I would be staying on board. He shook his head one final time against mourning what was lost rather than grasping what still remained. I wanted to remember, he didn’t. He had his reasons, I’ve no doubt.
    â€˜Well,’ he said. ‘I must get ready.’
    The following day I called my friend John in Phoenix, Arizona, who I’d met on a previous trip to Antarctica. We’d kept in touch by email.
    â€˜Come and stay,’ he said.
    I had another couple of days aboard the Christiane, before I disembarked in Savannah, and no definite plans.
    â€˜Let us know what flight you’re coming in on. We’ll meet you at the airport.’
    â€˜No, I don’t think I’ll fly. I’ll take a train.’
    I hadn’t thought about it before I said it, but it seemed I wasn’t finished with watching the miles go by.
    I returned to the Christiane, my cabin and my bunk, happy to feel again the gentle uncertainty of a watery existence. There was just a day or two left before I was permanently back on dry land. I idled the rest of the afternoon away recalling a message I once, long ago, left for myself and had only recently picked up.
    I am nine years old, in bed, in the dark, in my bedroom. The detail of the room is perfectly clear. I am lying on my back. I have a greeny-gold quilted satin eiderdown covering me. I have just calculated that I will be fifty years old in the year 1997. Hard as I try, ‘fifty’ and ‘1997’ don’t mean a thing to me, aside from being the answer to an arithmetic question I set myself. I try it differently. ‘ I will be fifty in 1997.’ 1997 doesn’t matter, it just complicates the thought I am trying to grasp. ‘I will be fifty.’ The statement is absurd. I am nine. ‘I will be ten’ makes sense. ‘I will be thirteen’ has a dreamlike maturity about it. ‘I will be fifty’ is simply a paraphrase for another senseless statement I make