Lionboy (29 page)

The man was not immediately there. The little corridor with compartments leading off of it was empty. Apart from his own, the doors were closed. First Charlie turned left. The corridor seemed quiet, but then, at its end, Charlie came up against an extremely large man in a very grand uniform, holding a rather long gun, and standing legs apart across the door to the next car, with his back to Charlie. He was as black as Dad, and nearly as big. Given the choice of either tapping this huge, armed man on the small of his back (which was about the highest Charlie would be able to reach) to ask for information, or going the other way, Charlie decided pretty easily that going the other way was a very good idea.

At the other end of the car there was another large man, in the same sort of uniform, but apparently gunless. He stood astride the doorway, like his companion, but he was facing Charlie, so there was no avoiding him. Charlie put a polite smile on his face, and wondered what on earth he was going to say. But he didn’t have to wonder, because as he approached, the guard saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and gestured for Charlie to pass.

Charlie had never seen a railway car like the one he now entered. For a start, it was one big room: no rows of gray plastic seats, no little rooms off a corridor, no luggage racks and aisles. It was just one grand, old-fashioned sitting room, with embossed leather sofas and armchairs, a grandfather clock, a fireplace, a
piano,
oriental carpets, beautifully polished wooden paneling (teak and mahogany, though Charlie didn’t know that, as both these woods came from trees that had long since died out, and their wood was very rarely seen nowadays) and a painted ceiling, and three chandeliers. The bookshelves had little balustrades at the bottoms, to prevent the books from falling off when the train went around curves. Sitting in one of the armchairs, taking his toast and bacon from a tray on a side table and reading a newspaper, was the gentleman, looking very fine in a yellowish tweed suit with big checks, for all the world as if he were at home.

Charlie blinked.

The gentleman looked up. His hair was very black and shiny, and so were his eyes.

“Good morning, my little friend,” he cried, putting down the paper. “How did you sleep? Edward!”

Edward came in. He was pale and extremely polite. The gentleman told him to bring more bacon, toast and milk, and strawberries and cream, and cake. Edward bowed and set off.

He must be a servant, thought Charlie. He had read about servants in books, but he had never seen one, or met anybody who might have one. How terribly old-fashioned! He was fascinated.

“Sit down, my dear boy, and tell me why you locked yourself in my bathroom. I wouldn’t have minded,” said the gentleman kindly, “except that I usually lock myself in there until the train has left, so I was a little discommoded . . . ha ha . . .”

He started to laugh.

“Discommoded,” he said wheezily. “Do you get it? Discommoded. The commode is the WC, discommoded means put out or made uncomfortable, and I was discommoded—banned from the WC, and put out.” He laughed a lot.

“Sorry,” said Charlie. He could see that it was a good joke, but a bit complicated, and he preferred jokes that didn’t have to be explained. No doubt he’d like that one if he were older, and knew about commodes.

“Never mind,” said the gentleman. “So who are you?”

“Charlie,” said Charlie. That was an easy question.

“Last name?” said the gentleman. “Ah, no, perhaps not . . . And going to . . . ?”

“Venice,” he said.

“No ticket?”

“No,” said Charlie, shamefaced. Well, it would be pointless to pretend he did have one. If the man was going to hand him over to the guards, a lie now would make no difference to anything, so he might as well tell the truth.

“Why not?” asked the gentleman. “No money, no time to buy one, on an adventure . . . ?”

“Yes,” said Charlie.

“Wonderful,” said the gentleman. “Well, if it’s not too luxurious for you, please join me in my car until we reach Venice. I’m sure you will have plenty of other discomforts as you go about your business, so perhaps a little comfort now would be acceptable.”

At just that moment Edward brought in a tray of comfort that was so acceptable to Charlie, particularly the toast, the melting butter, and the ruby-red strawberry jam, that it needed no discussion. Though he was most interested in the food, Charlie did notice that the tray was gold, the cutlery was silver, the plates were of porcelain, and the mango juice was in a heavy crystal glass—i.e., the best of everything, in the old-fashioned way. Normally, these things would be in museums.

Something was bothering Charlie. Ah, yes!

“Why do
you
lock yourself in the bathroom?” he asked.

“Ah,” said the gentleman. “Danger of assassins.”

This perked Charlie up. “Are you in danger from assassins?” he asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know. They love blowing things up and shooting people and so on. And I’d rather not.”

Charlie wondered if this man thought assassins always wanted to blow everybody up, or just him. He couldn’t quite work it out, but then Edward came in and said, “Excuse me, Your Majesty,” and suddenly everything looked much clearer, in a fairly complicated sort of way.

“Are you a Majesty?” cried Charlie.

“I am King Boris of Bulgaria,” said the gentleman.

“Crike,” said Charlie. There weren’t many kings left, and he felt rather pleased to meet one.

“Your Majesty,” said Edward again, in a very deferential yet rather stern manner.

“Yes, Edward, what is it?”

“Members of the staff of the railway are expressing an interest in a small boy found last night on the rails, and put aboard the train, but now no longer apparent, Your Majesty,” said Edward suavely.

“Are they?” said the king. “What will they do with him when they find him?”

“Hand him over to the police, Your Majesty, for having misrepresented himself as a bona fide passenger who had lost his family when in fact he is a mere stowaway and a jackanapes, Your Majesty.”

(Charlie smiled. Jackanapes reminded him of Julius.)

“Dear oh dear. Well, he’s probably no longer on the train, I’d have thought,” mused the king. “Would’ve disembarked, wouldn’t he? Anyway, where could he hide?”

“Exactly, Your Majesty.”

“Of course if I see him, I’ll inform the authorities. Tell them so, Edward, won’t you?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Good day, Your Majesty.”

The moment Edward had withdrawn, King Boris started to giggle.

“When I was a little boy,” he said, “about your age, I was traveling on this lovely train and my father, King Ferdinand, went to dinner and told me to keep the blinds of the compartment down, but I didn’t. I peeked out. And one of the conductors spanked me. I like cheeking the conductors!” the king said with an air of conspiracy.

Charlie giggled.

“Shall we play backgammon?” said the king, but Charlie didn’t know how, so the king taught him, and then they played for mile after mile after mile, running down to the Alps, through Dole and Lausanne toward Lake Geneva and Simplon, where they would take the long tunnel through the mountains.

Between games King Boris told Charlie about the glory days of the Orient Express, when it was the height of luxury (Charlie thought it seemed the height of luxury now) and all the world’s spies and adventurers and mysterious, beautiful ladies traveled on it, before the Great Wars of the twentieth century.

And King Boris recited the names of places the great train passed through: “From Paris to Dole, Lausanne and Lake Geneva, Brig, Simplon, Milan and Verona, Mestre and Venice, Trieste, Ljubljana, Zagreb, Vinkovki, Belgrade, Nish, Sofia, Plovdiv, Adrianople, Corlu and Istanbul . . .”

The names sounded like poetry. Charlie especially liked Plovdiv.

“I drive it sometimes, you know,” the king said suddenly.

“Really?” said Charlie.

“Yes. They tried to ban me, and in fact I cannot drive now in most places because after I crashed it, they said they would fire anyone who let me. But in Bulgaria, of course, they can’t stop me—they couldn’t have built the Nish to Plovdiv section if we hadn’t allowed them to. Whenever we get to the border now, if they know I’m aboard, they just stop until I come up to the cab. I have my special boiler suit.” He sent Edward to fetch it. It was white, and very well tailored. Charlie admired it. “I wish I could drive you now, but if you’re getting out at Venice we won’t have the chance. What a pity.” Charlie agreed it was a great pity.

There was a pause.

“So tell me about your parents,” said King Boris.

For a moment Charlie couldn’t speak. He had been thinking about them a lot, but he hadn’t really talked about them for a long time.

They were just his parents. He didn’t know what to say.

“They’re scientists,” he said at last. “Dad’s from Ghana and Mum’s English. I went home one day and they weren’t there. They’ve been kidnapped. I’m looking for them.”

 

In the Wellness Unit of the Corporacy Gated Village Community, Aneba and Magdalen were sitting on fake wood chairs, being talked to by the Motivation Management Officer, a smiling woman in a gray suit.

“And after your individual sessions, you’ll be entering the group therapy, where Corporacy colleagues will be sharing with you their experience of the Motivational Adjustment Program, showing how it has helped them to truly achieve and become what they have aspired to achieve and become in their professional and personal lives . . .” the Motivation Management Officer was saying, smilingly.

Magdalen didn’t like her smile. She smiled too much—all the time. It was sick and weird.

“Are you feeling all right, dear?” said a lady in a white coat. This was the Medications Officer. “Have a pill.”

“No, thank you,” said Magdalen politely. “I don’t want your pills and I don’t want to listen to any more of this garbage. Could you just go away, please?”

The Motivation Management Officer smiled some more.

“It takes time,” she said soothingly. “Resistance is part of the process! Soon enough you will find yourself able to embrace your aspirations and be immersed in the loving, unifying aspirations of the Corporacy.”

“Oh, bog off,” said Magdalen.

Aneba stifled a giggle.

The Motivation Management Officer stood up, smiling still. “Embrace your aspirations!” she said, and moved gently, smilingly out of the room. The Medications Officer, shooting Magdalen a dirty look, followed her. As she closed the door behind her, Aneba and Magdalen heard the lock clunk shut.

Aneba started to laugh. Magdalen, after a moment, joined in.

“But it’s not going to help, is it?” she said. “How long are we going to be able to hold out?”

A voice came over the loudspeaker. It was backed by gentle but insistent music, and it was saying, “Come on, friends and colleagues, potential friends and potential colleagues! Unite! Come and be with us, be among us! The rewards and pleasures of united, corporate life are so many. You can’t be expected to get by on your own—who can, in this difficult world? It’s too much to ask. Do yourself a favor! Go with the people who know what’s best. Listen to them, learn from them, and contribute! Become one of us, and build a better world the Corporacy Way!” And on. And on. And on.

Magdalen and Aneba smiled at each other. “Come on then,” he murmured. “What’ll it be today? Verdi? Robbie Williams? Bob Marley?”

“ ‘When the Saints Go Marching In,’ ” said Magdalen. Sticking their fingers in their ears, they started to sing out loud—very loud.

 

“So do you know where they are?” said King Boris. But Charlie suddenly did not want to talk about them. He didn’t know what he should reveal, and what to keep secret. He didn’t want to lie to King Boris, who seemed like a sympathetic man. But he had to be careful. Charlie just frowned.