X Twenty Years Later

Fortis sat alone in the second-class compartment, shifting in his
seat, seeking a comfortable position. He scratched his nose, checking
his watch for the third time in two minutes. Berlin was still three
hours away. He was worried. He was always worried, always on the run.
If only he knew who was chasing him, maybe he could stop running. That
was too much to hope for today. He would settle for a place to stay in
Berlin, just for a few days. It would not be easy. He knew that from
1971. Berlin was always full. If anything, twenty years on, it would be
worse. Arrive early or be left out. The train was scheduled to arrive
at 11 am. It might be too late. His chest muscles contracted sharply at
that thought.

Fortis fired up a fresh cigar and blew out the match with an air jet
from his nose. He added the match to the pile in front of him and
leaned back, puffing a few smoke rings towards the window. They broke
up before reaching the glass.

A few strenuous drags on his cigar and the compartment quickly refilled
with smoke to the consistency of a Turkish steam bath. He liked it that
way. The smoke helped relax his chest muscles. It was like cauterizing
a wound. Nothing was cured, but at least the bleeding and infection
stopped for a while.

He drank the rest of his soda, dropping the dead matches into the can.
He added the can to the trash receptacle, shoving it down on top of the
paper from his salami sandwich, the empty orange juice carton, and the
empty Bondini cigar packet. As he withdrew his hand, the metal lid
slapped down with an embarrassing clank. He started, shooting a glance
around the compartment. The curtains on the corridor side were still in
place, dancing nervously with the movement of the train, but still in
place. He was alone and safe. Much relieved, Fortis turned back to the
window.

It was a grimy affair, long unwashed, much like the past twenty years.
He noted the fingerprints and smudges where someone had tried to find
the glass under the layers of nicotine and sweat. It will take more
than a moistened forefinger to get to the bottom of this one, he
thought. He closed his eyes and tasted the stinging on his tongue and
gums. The nicotine blowtorch had taken its toll. He wanted to cut back,
even stop, but the stinging dry-mouth had become a mantra. It gave his
life a focal point. His gums only bled during brushing. It was
manageable, had been for twenty years. Tongue cancer is very rare, or
so he'd read.

Fortis looked up, spewing a geyser of smoke to the ceiling. The stream
broke up near the top of the window and roiled around his four bags on
the overhead rack opposite. He smiled ruefully. Baggage. At least a
third by volume was taken up with cigars and pills. It was a long trip,
and cigars were hard to come by at a decent price in that part of the
world. As for the pills, well, Fortis needed the pills for his
depression and anxiety and headaches, and just in case, for allergy
attacks and diarrhea. A corner of one bag was reserved, optimistically,
for condoms. The condoms would never leave the package. He knew that.
They might even have been past their use-by date. It didn't matter.
They were like prayer beads, something you carried around because you
were supposed to carry them around. He thought of the words "security
blanket" and laughed bitterly.

Fortis returned to the window, blowing more smoke to refresh the
screen. "Ah, here you are," he said. He'd known this would happen
sooner or later. Blow enough smoke and they will come.

What he saw in the window was not a pretty picture. There seemed no end
to this mocking parade. The girlfriends who might have been were the
worst, sticking their tongues out at him and making faces. Then came
the angry bosses and lost jobs, the desperate scramble to stay afloat.
Fortis thought of the word "potential" and gagged. It was time for a
fresh cigar. He lit it off the end of the old one. Then another. And
another. And another. He drank soda, mineral water, and juice, anything
to wash out his mouth and keep from gagging. He swallowed an eternity
of bile, followed by more pills. It was awful, but it passed the time.
The more time passes, the less time remains.

The conductor threw open the door to Fortis' compartment, grimaced at
the smoke, and announced: "Berlin in 10 minutes!" He left, slamming the
door shut behind him.

Fortis gathered his belongings in a frenzy, dragging everything down
the corridor to the end of the car. He parked himself in front of the
door, sure to be the first one off. The train stopped on Platform 6,
right on time. The race was on.

Sweating and shaking, Fortis arrived at the room service kiosk, third
in line. Would there be a place left for him? It did not look good. He
wanted to run screaming. He braced himself against his baggage. At last
it was his turn.

"It is very difficult. That other person took the last room. You should
have been here earlier," she said.

"I tried, but I couldn't get here earlier," he said. "Surely there is
something. This is a very big city." Fortis gripped the edge of the
counter to steady himself. His head was spinning. He felt faint, sick
to his stomach.

"Well, let me see. There might be a place for you here," she said,
pointing at a list. "I will call."

Good news! One room left. It was expensive, but not far. He could
walk?.

?.Fortis opened the door to his room. His spirits rose. It was
wonderful, much better than he'd expected, and not really so expensive
after all. He dropped his baggage just inside the door and walked to
the bed. He was numb. He sat on the edge of the bed and cried?and
cried?and cried?and at last?inhaled deeply. It was a start.