Scapegoats

Enzo fell into a different reality when he left the train in Genoa. He stood alone at 3.30 on a freezing cold January morning, trying vainly not to lose sight of the disappearing red taillights of the train that had brought him from Budapest. His greatcoat hung heavy and lifeless around his shoulders, and his travel-beaten bag lay crumpled at his feet. With the security of the train and the warmth of the passengers fading into the night the only hint of life in the empty station was the ever-fading puff of spent, white breath that repeated itself every five seconds or so in front of Enzo’s face; the only other contribution he made to the awful scene of desolation was an intense, almost palpable sadness that flowed from him, making it seem unlikely that the sun would ever rise again over Genoa. There was no one there to notice or to care.

Until 3.30 that morning Enzo’s mind had been buzzing with near enough non-stop talk that had begun two days before. He didn’t know that people could talk that way, so willingly, so long. He had met Emilio on the platform in Budapest station, and never before in his life had he connected so immediately with anyone. The next two days raced by in a rapid, breathless exchange about football and cars and girls, and there were many great whiskey-drinking stories told. In Vienna they changed trains and pooled their loose change to buy bread and wine in the station to share. A few times they fell quiet, but not often, and when that happened they sat turned sideways looking out with great, sad longing beyond their smudged reflections, out into the icy European night that was so new and inscrutable to both of them. In those quiet moments they smoked and stared and felt secure.

A few times for each of them a memory they recounted in the sanctuary of this new-found place of warmth and safety dragged some anxiety to the surface that had been buried deep in the past, and it was able to declare itself without fear of prying or consequence. This was something new for both of them. The drinking escapades and stories about girls moved in jumps from tales of bravado on to humble confession after the first uncomfortable night on the train. The times Enzo woke up hung over in Police cells were soon retold as admission rather than boast, because he saw himself so clearly in Emilio’s listening, and still the talking continued, energetic, forever unashamed, clear and honest; forever two-way. This was something very new. Failures and resentments were told so freshly. Humiliations and disappointments were admitted to and weaknesses were paraded, all without fear, all for the first time, and around them the glory of Alps and rivers faded as they gave themselves to friendship. Then Genoa.

Emilio was going on to Madrid and eventually back to Buenos Aires; Enzo had to be in Genoa to catch a boat to Algiers. When they noticed the station name boards that read “Genova Principe” gliding past the window there was only time for a quick wish for a happy future. After that there could be nothing more than the lights of the retreating train, the spent, white breath hanging in the freezing air, and the rumpled, half-empty bag lying collapsed in on itself on the deserted platform. The fading rhythm of the train gathered pace and soon disappeared, and the sadness that filled Enzo spilled over onto the platform from the depths of his soul to freeze the moment.

It was too late by then to look for a hotel – not the kind Enzo could afford. He laid himself along a bench in the cold, bare waiting room. The chill of those black early hours took on a harder feel like brittle metal as dawn struggled closer, but as the buzz of the past few days subsided and the temperature outside began to rise, the sense of unbearable loss eased. Enzo thought back over the confidences expressed so bravely on the train as it rushed across the hard, frozen continent. He thought of Emilio, warm and asleep, racing towards home, maybe starting to forget, maybe having already forgotten, racing into the light and carrying with him stories shared by someone he would never see again. Emilio was carrying home to Argentina the failures and weaknesses of a fellow-traveller’s life that had been laid before him on a train, confessions that would never be recounted, that would die with him and dissolve into the soil of an Argentine graveyard.

At last Genoa began to waken. Enzo was stiff and sore but hungry again for life. He strode confidently out of the station doors into the bright morning sunshine and stood on the steps drinking in the faint suggestion of winter warmth, taking delight in the promise held out to him on that chilly, blue, Mediterranean day. He felt clean. The coffee in the air tasted good, and the bread smelt fresh. The waitress in the cafe outside was pretty and had shiny, luxurious, bouncy dark hair: she smiled for everyone. Brightly painted fishing boats strained gently at their moorings in the old harbour. Small, early, pink and yellow flowers sprouted from between some of the stones of the harbour wall, and a forgiven, unburdened Enzo held in sacred trust, deep within his soul, the unrepeatable stories shared by a traveller on a train, stories that would die with him one day, and decompose with him into the dust of the Algerian desert.