Compartment Nine

The conductor looked at the two tickets, then at the two passengers, then at the single compartment with its two narrow bunks.

'A booking error,' he said, with a shrug that made it clear it was not his problem. 'The train is full.'

Clémence had been travelling for fourteen hours. The man in the doorway, a lanky Austrian called Matthias with a cello case and a sheepish smile, looked as exhausted as she felt.

'I can sleep in the corridor,' he offered.

'Don't be ridiculous,' she said. 'Take the top bunk.'

The train rattled east through the dark. They sat on the lower bunk with the blind half raised, watching the lights of small French towns slide past and eating the chocolate she had bought at the station. He played her a few bars on the cello, very quietly, the instrument wedged between his knees in the tiny space. It was the most beautiful thing she had heard in years.

Somewhere past Strasbourg, the conversation slowed. The compartment was very small. His knee was against hers.

'Matthias,' she said.

'Yes?'

'The top bunk looks very uncomfortable.'

It was not, in fact, much roomier on the bottom bunk. It was narrow and the train swayed and they kept bumping elbows and laughing into each other's shoulders. They managed.

At dawn, as the train crossed into Germany and the light turned gold over the fields, Matthias played her another piece. She lay listening with the sheet wrapped around her, and thought that some mistakes should never be corrected.