The Italian Steward by Penny Gordon
“You are travelling to Firenze?” I nodded politely. My counter clerk spoke perfect English.
The ticket back in my hand, I distinctly smelt a whiff of something I had not experienced since my ex-partner’s young son had been discovered smoking in his bedroom. Dope! ‘Maybe’, I thought quickly, ‘maybe I should go outside and breathe in the fresh air, away from this busy, unsociable, uninviting, dusty place.
A young couple behind me were in a passionate embrace as I brushed past them. They looked at me as though I had just been fished out of the ditch, and disappeared.
After a long wait, my train glided into Platform 22. Joining the queue, butterflies in my stomach, being shoved from all angles and watched by gun-holstered policemen, we were directed to our coach by blue coated stewards; I clambered up slippery steps, luggage in tow, breathless and spent, and found my cabin.
Delicate giggles came from the cabin next to mine as a young steward knocked on their door, a bottle of vino in his hand. A couple of bumps, flurries of movement, and the opening of the door with exclamations of ‘Allo? U vant us vor sumsing?’ The lady next to me whispered from her vantage point: “Ils sont Swedes!” We had broken the ice.
My neighbour, it transpired, was French, discovered eventually when she halted her verbal diarrhoea in mid-stream and looked discouragingly at me, her brow furrowed into a multitude of wheals.
“I am Patrice, I live in Dunquerque and am on my way to Rome!” The thick, silver cross around her neck gave me the impression she was either a nun or on a religious mission to see the Pope.
The train rumbled out of the station. A round little man with a bulging belly, wearing the blue uniform of the TGV stopped by us and grinned from ear to ear. He introduced himself as “Bernard at your service”, bent over and kissed the backs of our hands.
“You are hungry Madam?” In slow guttural English, the Steward was enquiring on the welfare of my stomach.
I grinned innocently. “I am indeed!”
Patrice backed into her cabin bit by bit, suddenly disappearing like a shadow when the light goes out.
“Then, give me un moment eh!” The smack of wet lips on my cheek made me cringe. A bespectacled man who was five doors down from mine, observed the game, a knowing look on his face. He was English and treated me like somebody who should know better.
“He thinks it will be his lucky night!” he gestured. “You normally have to pay for your food on this train!”
A young blond woman came out of his cabin, smoothed his shirt sleeves with the softness of a cultured whore and pulled him inside. I was on the train to Florence, strangers all around, with Swedish lovers on one side, a nun on the other, and a middle-aged man with a pickup down the corridor. Plus, to my astonishment, I was being hassled by a sex-hungry Italian who was offering me gratuities of some kind.
Bernard came paddling down the corridor, his feet splayed out in duck-walk fashion. .
“Now now, Madam, and where are you going?” I was speechless.
“I have brought you something pleasurable!” He handed me a basket of stale bread and cheese that had seen better days.
“And when I have feenished my work, I will come to you!”
Highly-tuned testosterone on the face of strangers are not pleasant at the best of times. Finding some strength within my shaking frame, I pushed Bernard firmly out of the cabin, forcing the tenuous iron bolt tight shut. The ‘lavatoire’ would have to wait.
I lay on top of the blankets fully clothed listening to the rumble of the train and recalling the long nights when I was on the chemotherapy drip, watching the bubbles travel down the lines and beating them back with my fingers to stop them going into my veins. During those times, I had my crochet to work on until dawn. In this moment, I drew strength on the fact that I was on my way to see my son get married and determination jumped into the boxing ring and won the battle.
Next morning, Patrice was standing at her window bar watching Italy whistling past.
“Bonjour Madam! Ça va?”
I responded “Bien merÇi”. She nodded and returned to her cabin. I ate my croissants in silence.
“You heard the border Police last night?”
“So, that was who it was!”
“Indeed! They asked about the Swedes. Illegal immigration is something not acceptable in Switzerland!”
Bernard drifted back and forth, coffee pot in his hand.
“Do you wish to tell on him? If you do, he will lose his job.” Patrice was a wise woman.
I shook my head and proffered a “Good morning Bernard”. He stood up like a boy finding his first frog.
When we finally arrived at Firenze Station, Bernard helped me onto the platform; he shook my hand, immense gratitude in his eyes. ‘Good luck’ were his final words before merging with the blue suits of his colleagues. I wonder…. Has he learned his lesson? Being a hot-blooded Italian, I very much doubt it!
But that is not my problem!
