Flashman and the Tiger: And Other Extracts from the Flashman Papers. George Fraser MacDonald
not only a country – now a continent, a world!’ He flourished a hand. ‘Behold that which will be called the monarch of the rails, as it prepares for its first journey!’ He turned to beam up at me, his eyes glistening moistly. ‘Yes, this is my surprise, my treat, my petit cadeau to you, dearest of friends – to be one of the select band who will be the pioneers on this historic voyage! You and I, ’Arree, and a mere handful of others – we alone will share this experience, the envy of generations of travellers yet to come, the first to ride upon the magic carpet of the steel highway – l’Express Orient!’
The name meant nothing then, since this was only the inception of what I suppose is now the most famous train on earth – and to be honest, it still don’t mean that much. I’m a steamship man, myself; they don’t rattle or jolt, I don’t mind the occasional heave, and the feeling of being snug and safe appeals to my poltroon nature – once aboard, the world can’t get at you, and if danger threatens you can usually take to the boats or swim for it. Trains I regard as a necessary nuisance, but with Blowitz bouncing and pawing my sleeve I was bound to be civil.
‘Well, much obliged, Blow,’ says I. ‘Handsome of you. It looks a capital train, as trains go – but how far is it going, eh?’ It didn’t look district line, exactly, but my question was ignored.
‘Capital! As trains go!’ squawks he, flinging up his hands. ‘Milles tornades! This you say of the supreme train de luxe! A veritable palace upon wheels, the reassertion of privilege in travel! Why, thanks to my good friend Nagelmacker, le haute monde may be carried to the ends of the continent in the luxury of the finest hotel, sleeping and waking in apartments of elegance and comfort, dining on the superb cuisine of a Burgundian chef, enjoying perfect service, splendid wines, everything of the best! And all this,’ he concluded triumphantly, ‘for two thousand miles, from Paris to Constantinople, in a mere ninety hours, less than –’
‘What’s that? You ain’t getting me to Constantinople!’
He crowed with laughter, taking my arm to urge me forward. ‘No, no, that is for me, not for you, cher ’Arree! I travel on, about my business, which will be to seek interviews with ministers and crowned heads en route, with a grand finale in Constantinople, where I hope to obtain audience of the Sultan himself. Oh, yes, Blowitz works, while you –’ he glanced roguishly from me to the train ‘– journey only as far as Vienna, in the company of royalty more agreeable by far. Aha, that marches, eh? A day and a night in her charming company, and then – the city of the waltz, the Tokay, of music and romance, where you may dally together by the banks of the enchanted Danube –’
I managed to stem his Cook’s advertising at last. ‘You mean she’s on the train?’
He raised a finger, glancing round and dropping his voice. ‘Officially, no – the sleeping coach reserved for ladies will be unoccupied until Vienna. However,’ he nodded towards one of the darkened coaches, ‘for such a distinguished passenger as Her Highness, accommodation has been found. And now, my immovable Englishman,’ cries he grinning all over his fat cheeks, ‘you will tell me at last that you are glad you came to Paris, and that Blowitz’s little gift pleases you!’
Whatever I replied must have satisfied him, for he bore me off to meet the other passengers, all of whom seemed to know him, but in fact I wasn’t at all sure that I liked his ‘petit cadeau’. I’d come to France to skulk and fornicate in peace, not to travel; on the other hand, I’d never visited Vienna, which in those days was reckoned first among all the capitals of Europe for immoral high jinks, and a day and a night of luxurious seclusion with Her Highness should make for an amusing journey. The last railroad rattle I’d enjoyed had been the voluptuous Mrs Popplewell on the Baltimore line in ’59, and rare fun it had been – until she pitched me off the train, and I had to hightail it for dear life with the Kuklos in hot pursuit. Still, the Three Fates were unlikely to be operating in Austria – oh, the blazes with it, what was I fretting for?fn7 So I exchanged courtesies with the others, of whom I remember only the celebrated Nagelmacker, boss of the line, who looked like a Sicilian bandit but was all courtesy, and a Something-or-other Effendi, a fat beard from the Turkish Embassy; there were various scribblers and a swarm of railway directors, Frog and Belgique mostly, making about two score all told.
And then there was a sudden bustle, and we were being herded aboard, with minions directing us to our compartments – I remember Blowitz and I were in Number 151, which seemed odd on such a small train – and whistles were blowing and guards shouting, and from our window we could see the mob at the barrier hurrahing and throwing up their hats, and officials on the platform were waving, and the carriage doors were closed, crash! crash! crash!, a last whistle shrilled – and then a strange silence fell over the Gare de l’Est, and I guess little Blowitz’s enthusiasm must have had its effect, for I remember feeling a strange excitement as the train quivered ever so little, the steam rushed hissing past our window, there was a faint clank of buffers, a gentle rumble of wheels beneath our feet, and we were gliding away smoothly and ever so slowly, the waving figures on the platform passing from sight in succession, and then we were out of the station and I was thinking, you’ve been in some odd vanguards, Flashy, from the Forty-Niners to the Light Brigade, and here’s another for you, and Blowitz snapped shut his hunter and shook my hand, gulping with emotion – gad, he was a sentimental little barrel.
‘Sept heures et un, précisément,’ says he reverently. ‘L’Express Orient parti!’
He was in a state of non-alcoholic intoxication if ever I saw one, exclaiming in delight over every convenience and decoration in our cabin, and inviting me to marvel at the fine upholstered furniture, the glossy panelling, the neatly concealed little basin in a corner by the door, the array of lights and buttons, the hidden cupboards and drawers, the velvet curtains, and the rest. Every second word of his babble was ‘magnifique!’ or ‘superbe!’ or ‘merveilleux!’ and once even ‘top-hole, I declare!’, and I couldn’t deny that it was. As it turned out, my first journey on the Orient Express was to be my last, but I remember it as the best-appointed train I ever struck, and delighted Blowitz by saying so.11
‘You will find no more splendid accommodation in Vienna!’ cries he. ‘Which reminds me, you should stay at the Golden Lamb on the Praterstrasse, rather than the Archduke Charles; give my name to Herr Hauptmann and you will receive every attention. And his table is all that could be desired – ah, mais écoutez! Even as I speak, le diner est servi! Allons, mettons-nous!’
That was another score for the Orient Express: we were hardly out of Paris before we had the nosebags on, and I have to concede that there was nothing wrong with the grub on offer in the opulent dining salon with its little pink shades and snowy cloths and silver and crystal and swift service. Blowitz almost burst into tears of gluttony at the sight of it, and stuffed himself to ecstasy, going into raptures at each arriving course, and reproaching me for my apparent lack of appetite; in fact I was sharp-set, but ate and drank in moderation, for my mind was on the ladies’ sleeping-coach where I supposed la Kralta would be dining in anonymous seclusion; you don’t want to be bloated when the charge is sounded. The food and wine had its effect, though; my blues had vanished, and I was beginning to enjoy the luxurious comfort. Presently, when Blowitz had engulfed his last marron glacé and staggered afoot, gasping blessings on the chef, we made our way to the little observation platform for a smoke before going our separate ways. He had given me the number of Madame’s voiture in the ladies’ car, and said with knowing chuckles that he imagined he would have No. 151 to himself for the night.
‘You will hardly wish to join the excursion at Strasbourg, which we reach at five o’clock in the morning,’ sniggers he. ‘Oh, yes, I shall take it – no rest for le pauvre Blowitz – and I confess I am still too excited to sleep anyway! Oh, my friend, what a journey! I can hardly believe it! Strasbourg, Vienna, Budapest, Bucharest … we glide through them all, the jewels of Europe, and at last the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn! I cannot prevail on you to make the whole journey? No, well, it may be best that you alight with Her Highness at Vienna – only Nagelmacker’s trusted few know of her presence, but it could hardly be secret after other ladies join us, and