One of these rare specimens was some nameless vagabond who, without a penny to his name, had occupied a first-class compartment. When Boron demanded his ticket, the ragamuffin explained that he didn’t need one because he was riding with no specific aim, just for the hell of it, from an innate necessity to move. The conductor not only acknowledged the reason, but also gave the compartment over to his exclusive use and took solicitous care of his guest’s comfort for the entire journey. He even treated him to half of his provisions and lit a pipe with him amidst a friendly chat on the subject of travel as change.

The second similar passenger he met several years ago between Vienna and Trieste. He was an individual named Szygon, apparently a landowner from the Kingdom of Poland. This sympathetic person, besides being certainly rich, had also sat down in a first class compartment. Asked where he was going, he answered that in point of fact he himself didn’t know where he got on, where he was bound for, and why.

‘In that case,’ Boron remarked, ‘perhaps it would be best if you got off at the nearest station.’

‘Eh, no,’ countered the unique passenger, ‘I can’t, upon my word, I can’t. I have to go forward; something is driving me on. Draw up a ticket to wherever it pleases you.’

The answer had charmed him to such a degree that he allowed the man to ride to the last station for free and didn’t bother him any more. This Szygon apparently had the reputation of being a lunatic, but, according to Boron, if he was mad at all, then it was a madness with panache.

Yes, yes—there still existed in this wide world splendid travellers, but what were these rare pearls in an ocean of riff-raff? At times he would return with longing to these two wonderful incidents in his life, caressing his soul with the memory of exceptional moments….

He inclined his head backwards and followed the movements of the blue-grey layers of pipe smoke hanging in the corridor. Above the rhythmic clatter of the rails was drawn out slowly the rapids of hot steam, driven through the pipes. He heard the gurgle of the water in the tank, he felt the warmth of its pressure along the edges of his utensils: the objects were warming up, for the evening was chilly.

The lamps at the top momentarily blinked their lighted eyelashes and died out. But not for long, for in the next moment the zealous regulator automatically injected a new dose of gas that fed the weakening burners. The conductor became aware of a specific, heavy scent, slightly reminiscent of fennel.

The smell was stronger than the pipe smoke, more pungent, and it clouded the senses.

Suddenly it seemed to Boron that he could hear the tread of bare feet along the corridor floor.

‘Thud, thud, thud,’ the naked feet thumped. ‘Thud, thud, thud.’

The conductor already knew what this meant; this was not the first time he had heard these steps in a train. He tilted his head and glanced into the dark car. There, at the end, where the wall broke off and retreated to the first-class compartments, he saw for a second his typically naked back—for a second that back flashed, taut as a bow and drenched in eyelash sweat.

Boron shuddered: The Sloven once again had turned up on a train.

He had noticed him the first time twenty years ago. It had been exactly an hour before the terrible catastrophe between Znicz and the Dukedom of Gaja, in which over forty people perished, not counting a great number of injured. The conductor was thirty-years old then and still strong-nerved. He remembered the details exactly, even the number of the unfortunate train. At the time he was conducting in the last cars and perhaps that is why he survived.