The Toynbee Convector. Ray Bradbury
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shut his eyes and whispered, “Paris? Ah, yes.”
The train wailed. The night passed.
And they arrived in Paris.
And even as they arrived, a boy, no more than six, ran past and froze. He stared at the ghastly passenger and the ghastly passenger shot back a remembrance of antarctic ice floes. The boy gave a cry and fled. The old nurse flung the door wide to peer out.
The boy was gibbering to his father at the far end of the corridor. The father charge along the corridor, crying:
“What goes on here? Who has frightened my—?”
The man stopped. Outside the door he now fixed his gaze on this ghastly passenger on the slowing braking Orient Express. He braked his own tongue. “—my son,” he finished.
The ghastly passenger looked at him quietly with fog-gray eyes.
“I—” The Frenchman drew back, sucking his teeth in disbelief. “Forgive me!” He gasped. “Regrets!”
And turned to run, shove at his son. “Trouble-maker. Get!” Their door slammed.
“Paris!” echoed through the train.
“Hush and hurry!” advised Minerva Halliday as she bustled her ancient friend out onto a platform milling with bad tempers and misplaced luggage.
“I am melting!” cried the ghastly passenger.
“Not where I’m taking you!” She displayed a picnic hamper and flung him forth to the miracle of a single remaining taxicab. And they arrived under a stormy sky at the Père Lachaise cemetery. The great gates were swinging shut. The nurse waved a handful of francs. The gate froze.
Inside, they wandered at peace amongst ten thousand monuments. So much cold marble was there, and so many hidden souls, that the old nurse felt a sudden dizziness, a pain in one wrist, and a swift coldness on the left side of her face. She shook her head, refusing this. And they walked on among the stones.
“Where do we picnic?” he said.
“Anywhere,” she said. “But carefully! For this is a French cemetery! Packed with cynics! Armies of egotists who burned people for their faith one year only to be burned for their faith the next! So, pick. Choose!” They walked. The ghastly passenger nodded. “This first stone. Beneath it: nothing. Death final, not a whisper of time. The second stone: a woman, a secret believer because she loved her husband and hoped to see him again in eternity … a murmur of spirit here, the turning of a heart. Better. Now this third gravestone: a writer of thrillers for a French magazine. But he loved his nights, his fogs, his castles. This stone is a proper temperature, like a good wine. So here we shall sit, dear lady, as you decant the champagne and we wait to go back to the train.”
She offered a glass, happily. “Can you drink?”
“One can try.” He took it. “One can only try.”
The ghastly passenger almost “died” as they left Paris. A group of intellectuals, fresh from seminars about Sartre’s “nausea,” and hot-air ballooning about Simone de Beauvoir, streamed through the corridors, leaving the air behind them boiled and empty.
The pale passenger became paler.
The second step beyond Paris, another invasion! A group of Germans surged aboard, loud in their disbelief of ancestral spirits, doubtful of politics, some even carrying books titled Was God Ever Home?
The Orient ghost sank deeper in his x-ray image bones.
“Oh, dear,” cried Miss Minerva Halliday, and ran to her own compartment to plunge back and toss down a cascade of books.
“Hamlet!” she cried, “his father, yes? A Christmas Carol. Four ghosts! Wuthering Heights. Kathy returns, yes? To haunt the snows? Ah, The Turn of the Screw, and … Rebecca! Then—my favorite! The Monkey’s Paw! Which?”
But the Orient ghost said not a Marley word. His eyes were locked, his mouth sewn with icicles.
“Wait!” she cried.
And opened the first book …
Where Hamlet stood on the castle wall and heard his ghost-of-a-father moan and so she said these words:
“‘Mark me … my hour is almost come … when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames … must render up myself…,’”
And then she read:
“‘I am thy father’s spirit,/Doomed for a certain term to walk the night,
And again:
“‘… If thou didst ever thy dear father love … O, God!… Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder…,
And yet again:
“‘… Murder most foul …’”
And the train ran in the night as she spoke the last words of Hamlet’s father’s ghost:
“‘… Fare thee well at once …’”
“‘… Adieu, adieu! Remember me.’”
And she repeated:
“‘… remember me!’”
And the Orient ghost quivered. She pretended not to notice but seized a further book:
“‘… Marley was dead, to begin with
As the Orient train thundered across a twilight bridge above an unseen stream.
Her hands flew like birds over the books.
“‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Past!’”
Then:
“‘The Phantom Rickshaw glided from the mist and clop-clopped off into the fog—’”
And wasn’t there the faintest echo of a horse’s hooves behind, within the Orient ghost’s mouth?
“‘The beating beating beating, under the floorboards of the Old Man’s Telltale Heart!’” she cried, softly.
And there! like the leap of a frog. The first faint pulse of the Orient ghost’s heart in more than an hour.
The Germans down the corridor fired off a cannon of disbelief.
But she poured the medicine:
“‘The Hound bayed out on the Moor—’”
And the echo of that bay, that most forlorn cry, came from her traveling companion’s soul, wailed from his throat.
As the night grew on and the moon arose and a Woman in White crossed a landscape, as the old nurse said and told, and a bat that became a wolf that became a lizard scaled a wall on the ghastly passenger’s brow.
And at last the train was silent with sleeping, and Miss Minerva Halliday let the last book drop with the thump of a body to the floor.
“Requiescat in pace?” whispered the Orient traveler, eyes shut.
“Yes.” She smiled, nodding. “Requiescat in pace.” And they slept.
And at last they reached the sea.
And there was mist, which became fog, which became scatters of rain, like a proper drench of tears from a seamless sky.
Which made the ghastly passenger open, ungum his mouth, and murmur thanks for the haunted sky and the shore visited by phantoms of tide as the train slid into the shed where the mobbed exchange would be made, a full train becoming a full boat.
The Orient ghost who stood well back, the last figure on a now self-haunted train.
“Wait,” he cried, softly, piteously. “That boat! There’s no place on it to hide!