The stench was unbearable. Cassie closed her eyes and willed her mind elsewhere — back to the rim of the volcano where it had been just him and her, the sun and the wind, and the searing scent of sulfur rising from the cone. But it didn't work; the collective odors of stale human sweat, cigarette smoke and livestock ploughed on through.
On the cracked leather seat next to them, a gentleman in a fez sat with a chicken cage balanced on his knees, another at his feet. He shifted slightly, sending a sour draft of air her way, and Cassie felt a worm of nausea crawl in her stomach.
The weight of her lover's head on her lap was a comfort and an irritant both, pinning her to the here and now. She settled an arm lightly across his chest, rousing him unintentionally from his reverie. Suddenly he was upright pulling her into the crook of his arm, positioning them in front of the chicken man. With the other arm he held the Sony mini-cam at arm's length, pointing back at the three of them.
"March 24, 2004," he said. "Istanbul Express to Budapest. ETA 17:42." She grimaced and wrinkled her nose while he hammed for the camera and panned to the guy behind them.
His name, he had told her ten days ago when they met in Istanbul, was Seven — short for John Hammond VII. She had never known anyone as placid or as electrifying. He could go from repose to a state of pure kinetic energy with no transition at all.
She stuck her tongue out at the Sony and he pretended to chew on her ear before letting the camera drop to his side to pull her closer. She collapsed in a giggling heap on his lap while the guy in the fez looked askance, and then the nausea came back.
"I'm going to find an empty sleeper," she said, bolting to her feet.
When he found her later she had dug a pillow out of her backpack and was stretched out in the sleeper with the privacy shade down. He closed the door and stuffed his sweater under it to prevent its accidental opening, then jollied her up and made love to her with enthusiasm — but not passion. Afterwards he put her head on the pillow and arranged her dark hair around her face just so. The sun had moved lower in the sky, finding its way through cracks in the shade.
He studied her for a moment, then grabbed the camera where it had fallen on the floor under their lounger and aimed it at her face.
"When I was younger and fantasized about making love to a woman, I pictured her hair on the pillow just like this," he said in a low voice from behind the Sony. Whatever he said next she didn't quite catch.
"My name is Cassie," she said with urgency. But now there was a faraway look in his expression; he seemed to be looking through her. If only he could love me, she thought, but there wasn't enough time!
She shut her eyes, closing him out, and didn't open them again until the hum of the camera had ceased and she felt the vacuum of his absence.
After awhile she felt better and found him two cars down, bantering with the conductor and a short jovial man with two small girls. She couldn't decipher the language they were speaking but tried French, and they responded.
The train slowed. The conductor looked at his watch and grabbed a microphone from a holder on the ceiling.
"Tren istasyonu Budapest!" he announced.
Seven shot Cassie a glance then went off to find his bags. She waited, engaging the girls in chit-chat, peering anxiously down the aisle every few seconds. The girls didn't understand her but delighted in the attention. If she was distracted, it was nothing to them.
Finally he returned with his bags to hand over the camera, silent but with ceremony. It had been a gift from her father at graduation in May of last year. She still carried the note card that had come with it: "For the adventure of your life. Bring me the gift of your story when you return." Through all the months traipsing the continent, she had made sure the card was there in her pocket before setting out each morning. The paper had become as supple as suede, its corners worn to soft nubby fibers.
At the window, she easily spotted the tall blonde in the surge of humanity that surrounded the departing passengers. She watched as the woman gathered a small curly-haired child in her arms, lifting him above the crowd like a beacon to guide John Hammond VII to their side. Cassie raised the camera and saw through the viewfinder their giddy embrace, so exclusive of everyone else the crowd seemed to melt away. She saw him toss the child giggling in the air, then set him gently down to take the woman again in his embrace and run his thumb under her chin, upturning her face to his gaze while the child watched patient and happy at their side.
The queasiness Cassie had felt all day rushed into her chest, up her neck, and caught in the hollows behind her jaws. She let the camera drop to her side. Home suddenly seemed impossibly far away. She fingered the soft edge of the note card in her pocket, then put the Sony in its case and slipped it into her backpack. She heaved the pack onto her back and moved with the remaining passengers off the train.
The crowd closed around her on the platform.
E. Denise Brown has lived for the past 25 years in coastal Southern California. From September to May she works as an academic librarian at Palomar College. The rest of the year she swims, writes, and travels. She has published non-fiction articles and books, but fiction is a new endeavor.