Edgar Brau

The Journey

Translated by Donald A. Yates

(excerpt)

Étonnants voyageurs!
Baudelaire, Le voyage, III

I

At the hour when night seems to gather in its tapestries to the tinkling of frozen crystal, and the weakest of the stars throw themselves toward the still-darkened earth, terrified by the inminent catastrophe of daybreak, at that hour, propitious for the plotting of outrageous things and for the bubbling up of fantasy, precisely at that hour, the brief tolling of a bell, sterile and seemingly veiled  in cobwebs, shook the sleeping town. Just when the familiar silence of the ordinary is about to return, another peal, equally brief, rouses the sleepers, whose drowsy attention is inmediately solicited by two or three additional tollings that seem to be testing the metal integrity of the bell. But after another especially intense stroke of the clapper, followed by others in hurried succession, the bell emits a high-pitched and continuous boom that, turning its sound waves into a lengthened serpent, begins first to course through the town´s streets with implacable sinuosity, and then, by means of its necessary and repeated forkings, assaults the doors, rattles tehe windows and, slipping through cracks, draws  out into the streets with the furor of a wartime levy the amazed occupants who do not yet understand but nonetheless cannot ignore the irresistible command of the bell that back at the station continues to toll.

It takes only a moment for the main street, which has slightly tilted so as to facilitate the procession, to overflow with the growing hubbub of the crowd advancing, at different paces, toward the station. To be sure, the procession is disorderly. The children run ahead screeching and swerving from one side of the street to the other; some women carry their dogs in their arms; others drag suitcases behind them, sidestepping the perplexed people who, falling back, are muttering curses. Occasionally, someone turns around, as if to determine if he is the only person responding to the call; he disappears immediately, swallowed up by the multitude that is frantically pushing ahead amid clouds of dust.

Finally, the mob, gasping with astonishment, stops in front of the station. There, straddling the rusty rails, dark and shining, a locomotive trembles impatiently, trying to communicate with snorts and whistles and vibrating connecting rods its eagerness to depart. The coaches, that stretch along the entire length of the platform, are also straining and their bright metal surfaces dazzle the sleepy crowd that can do nothing but stare.

After a moment, the most intrepid of the group climb up the boarding stairs to take a look at the inside of the coaches, which, to judge from their shouts, are empty. Suddenly, a cry of surprise greets the appearance, on top of the locomotive, of the engineer, a man of rosy complexion with a long mustache, whose chubby hands are stroking constantly at his blue uniform. From his vantage point he greets the crowd with broad gestures and then, with a playful smile, pulls a lever releasing a thick cloud of smoke that rises several feet in the air and then suddenly, just as it is about to assume the shape of  a genie or some such creature, drops onto the people below, who run off in terror in all directions. But it is merely a joke, a frightening specter made of smoke that promptly dissipates to the amusement of the engineer as well as the relieved townspeople, who nonetheless immediately back off again, since next to the engineer, amid traces of smoke, as if emerging from a swamp, has begun to appear the figure of the fireman, whose presence, once he has risen to his full height, draws an exclamation of fright from the crowd. And in fact his appearance is frightening: extraordinarily tall, a true titan, his muscular body strains at his tight-fitting clothes, which are completely covered with soot, as is his enormous head, crowned with kinky hair that looks like a spider´s nest. His face, dark and shiny, is fixed in an evil grin, calculated and self-sure, in whose presence each person feels himself confronted with an old, uncertain fear.

Placing his claw-like hands on the side of the engine, the fireman looks down at the crowd, which continues to move back. Suddenly, he whispers something to the engineer, who nods and turns away. Another cloud of smoke billows out from the smokestack, but the crowd, alerted to the trick, pays no attention and simply continues observing the stoker, who, annoyed at the failure of his joke, disappears inside the locomotive.

In the meantime, the smoke has begun to change into a kind of fog that, while it lends a fantastic aura to the place, also gives it an air of importance, making it appear somehow like the train stations of great cities, where imposing men in trench coats bid farewell to their lovers or, silhouetted againts a curtain of mist, await the secret password of a fugitive. Of course, this impression lasts only a moment, since the milling about of the future travelers, their jockeying for position, the darting about of little children and the last-minute concerns about things left behind all prevent the creation of the low, impersonal murmur of a large city’s train station, which is so appropiate to more sophisticated setting. A guard, whom no one has seen until that moment, suddenly appears on the platform, clapping his hands and announcing the train’s departure; arriving alongside the locomotive, he signals to the engineer. Immediately, a whistle sounds, whose increasing shrillness not only causes the fog, whipeed into a whirling cloud, to be pulled back into the smokestack, but also as it disappears has drawn all of the passengers into their seats. So it is that when it ceases, everyone is aboard, and even the people who a short time before were seeing their friends onto the train now find that they themselves are among the passengers. After having accommodated their baggage in the overhed racks, the travelers spend time delightedly examining their seats, the walls, the ceiling, decorated with an eye for warmth and intimacy, and no matter where one sits, the luxury and the views are magnificent; every seats is the best seat.

The platform is now deserted and everyone is awaiting the signal to depart. Nervously, the passengers peer out of the windows, trying to determine the reason for the delay; but no one is on hand to offer an explanation. The whole town is deserted and the only thing to be heard is the throbbing of the engine. Attached to a wooden crossbar, the solitary bell sways gently. The travelers are seized with panic and questions arise. What if someone appears to announce that the journey is suspended, that is was all an absurd mistake…? But then a mood of calm expectancy quiets them, like that which precedes some extraordinary event. At that moment, a single ray of sunshine, after reflecting off the metallic surfaces of the train, strikes the little bell, which begins to ring merrily (Who rang the bell? God, an old woman replies), thus indicating the train’s departure and receiving the reply of a long whistle from the engine. At the same moment, without the passengers being aware of it in the midst of their wild cheering, something astonishing happens: a tremor shakes the earth and the worm-eaten sleepers, that have barely sustained the weight of the rails and the train, seem to bring forth new life, since a great outflowing of sap, issuing from the ground itself, rejuvenates and strengthens them; the moss that has grown over the rails now begins to crumble away and the resulting fragments turn into patches of spongy flannel that an invisible hand rubs over the metal; and then, a little farther on, emerging from a long arthritic sleep, the switch point levers creak in gratitude for the welcome dew that flows like an oily elixir through their rusty and creaking joints. The engine driver, taking note of this sudden metamorphosis, leans out of his cab and makes a signal with his arm; in the distance someone replies to him with the same sign. All of this seems to indicate that everything is in order, in compliance with regulations, so that the time has come for departure.

And so it is: amid shouts, the waving of arms, the barking of dogs, endless joyful embraces, the handsome train at last draws away from the abandoned station and, advancing over a field of clover split by rails, the train, with an eager pawing of its wheels, lunges forward into the mysterious iridescence of the wondrous…

From Casablanca and Other Stories, MSU Press, 2007