Orient Express

The train started with a jolt. It was soon out of the Gare de l’Est and its flickering red and white lights miraculously knew their way among the maze of rails, choosing the pair that headed toward Istanbul -- the final destination. In the waning afternoon one could still see inside the decrepit apartment houses that fringed the route. Repulsed by the shabbiness, the Pullmans gathered momentum. “A-way, a-way from hopeless poverty,” the discretely clattering wheels chanted; “we must leave toil and tribulation behind. Oh, those monotone colors pealing off ramshackle, rain-soaked walls, drying linen on cloth lines -- and so close -- away.” “The cross of daily life is light for us,” the wife of a well-known German industrialist noted sadly. “At least they have sickness insurance in our country as of this year,” her husband replied while thinking about Chancellor Bismarck with gratitude and the timely death of Karl Marx with relief. The luxury train hurdled faster and faster toward the charm of open fields and the serenity of mountains. Inside the wood paneled, carpeted compartments, opulence and intrigue mixed with the passion for travel -- curiosity for antiquities and new people, the excitement of coming face to face with the unimagined. William, down the into the Austrian

the flamboyant and most eligible young earl from London, walked casually corridor, chewing on his walnut-finished pipe. He glanced meaningfully compartment where Lilly sat across from her new, “sixty-something” baron husband.

Her wide grey-green eyes beseeched with shameless melodrama: “Please don’t recognize me! Later!” “Of course,” his eyes responded, “I’m a gentleman, not just a bohemian.” William had few scruples but a sensitive heart. Until he saw Lilly again he was convinced that it was all over. Since their brief affair in Paris 16 months ago, he had become involved with three other women, and much to the detriment of his British stoicism, he was equally drawn to all of them. One was superbly intelligent and witty; the other held him with stirring romanticism, and the third, the youngest, enflamed his senses with unrestrained transports of passion. What to do in such an unbearable situation? Fidelity to oneself -- above all! Escape into adventure! And then just run into HER?! Amidst all this frolicking, William faced an unpromising future. He hated war and was destined for a military career. He searched for love but knew full well that the empire’s interests and not his own inclination would determine when he would marry and whom. Vienna-born Lilly, with a beauty that she blatantly milked to the last drop of its glory, was a former dancer at the Folies Bergère. William’s involvement with her was so utterly impossible that it was free of any social tension. And that’s exactly how he became hooked. Their fast-rolling togetherness without a tomorrow

in the Third Republic’s glimmering Paris marked him for life. Lilly, now in her mid-thirties, craved for dignified middle age and married a fellow Austrian, an aristocrat with access to the Schonbrunn Palace and a member of Franz Joseph’s hunting party. “Will she cold-bloodedly punish me with a ‘no’? Or will she acquiesce to a quick flirt and leave me with my heartache and wounded pride?” wondered William as he walked on and looked into a compartment where three men were conferring. A narrow crack in the drawn curtain allowed a glimpse of their faces. They were rather somber. “Who are these people? They certainly don’t look like happy travelers with their minds on fun.” One of them noticed William, stood up and unceremoniously drew the curtain, so as to eliminate peeping. Without sitting down, the man turned to the other two: “Please, repeat the order gentlemen.” “You want His Excellency the Foreign Minister to be killed through the infliction of fatal stab wounds.” “Correct. Any questions?” There was silence. The apparent leader intoned: “I die for the Kaiser!” “I die for the Kaiser!” the other two mumbled. This undercover cell of the Habsburg Court’s secret service was plotting to assassinate the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s foreign minister Count Tivadar Kalmanfalvy. His crime was considered serious enough to be punished by death. Romania’s German-born King Carol, fearing Russian hegemony, sought protection in Vienna through military alliance. On the advice of the Crown Council, the innermost circle of the ruling family, Kaiser Franz Joseph agreed to protect the Romanian King, but the Hungarian Kalmanfalvy was against it. He tried to stall negotiations and finally, when he saw that the secret protocol would be signed anyway, he made the ill-considered remark that he would leak the deal to the Hungarian press and that could stir up unrest, maybe even another revolution against Austria. An informer turned him in. The two agents were under deep cover. One traveled with a false Argentine passport as Maximilian Sanches Fedora. This Austro-Italian businessman and naturalized Argentine citizen allegedly returned from Buenos Ayres just to take one of the early runs of the already famous Orient Express. The other’s passport was made out to a Dutch-born maritime shipping entrepreneur Mynheer Hans Aristide Rotterdam. The plan was built around a short welcome ceremony on the afternoon of the fourth day at the railroad station in Budapest. Kalmanfalvy, who was in town at the time, was invited to be the guest of honor. The Kaiser’s secret service arranged for Kalmanfalvy to be called to an office at the station after the ceremony where the two operatives, dressed in the uniform of the Hungarian Railroad Company, would wait for him. After accomplishing the deed, they would board the baggage car and change back into their traveling clothes. By the time the dead body was found the train would have left the station.

“The best laid plans,” as the saying goes . . . Among the travelers were a widowed Italian Marquesa and her 22-year old daughter with the face of Botticelli’s Venus. The Goddess had been reluctant to go on this trip but circumstances ran away with her. They lived in Milan where she became the lover of a violinist at La Scala. The man, Camillo, was married and the Goddess suspected she was pregnant. She had to tell her mother. The Marquesa fainted into her favorite armchair, her tears running as profusely as swollen alpine brooks in the springtime. This scene took place just as the Goddess’ admirer, a Swedish art collector and member of the same Karlssons family that owned Scandinavia’s largest iron ore and copper mining empire had arrived for an announced visit. The mother was asked to send him away. The Marquesa walked by her scapegrace offspring with a contemptuous “If your father were alive he would kill you.” “Oh, Bettino, oh Bettino, why did you have to leave us?” she remonstrated as she descended the winding, broad staircase to talk briefly with the balding, bespectacled Swede who was head over heels in love with Simonetta. Upon climbing up the stairs half an hour later she announced that she had accepted Mats Torwald Karlssons’ invitation to travel on the Orient Express. Departure in a few days, there is no time to waste. They would have to travel to Paris first. Looking thin and frail in her black dress, her face marked by ceaseless mourning, the Marquesa sat next to the prodigal daughter in a compartment adjacent to the Swede’s. On pain of being legally disinherited, the Goddess was instructed to be forthcoming with Mats Torwald. On the fourth night -- somewhere in Romania -- she would go on an unchaperoned dinner date with him in the restaurant coach, making sure he had too much to drink. The tryst would take them back to his quarters, which the stewards -- as the routine went -- would have transformed into a bedroom while they dined. At midnight the Marquesa would open the door on them (“Make sure it is not locked”), finding that the flirt got out of hand. She would briefly faint; make a scene, causing commotion, demanding an explanation from Signor Karlssons. The Swede would propose. Premature birth by less than a month is not so unusual. Ruse to catch a husband under extreme circumstances “yes,” murder through abortion: No! Fate cast a sarcastic smile on this best laid plan too. But we are not there yet. The trip has just begun. As dinner time approached on the first night, the passengers mingled in the corridor, exchanging pleasantries, praising accommodations. A Frenchman joked about the chickens he saw being taken on board. “That was the last time I saw tonight’s star on the menu -- chicken à la chasseur -- still alive,” he said, causing waves of laughter as the joke was translated into different languages, eliciting witty responses. The French had their own merriment at the expense of stupid foreigners who did not know how incredibly old this joke was.

The ceremony took place as scheduled in Budapest but there was no murder. Kalmafalvy was tipped off and did not show. The plot turned quite unfortunate for “Mynheer Rotterdam.” The assassins waited far beyond the time their victim was supposed to appear. Finally, they had to run to catch the train. “Senor Sanches Fedora” boarded without difficulty but as “Mynheer” tried to grab the handle at the end of the baggage car, someone tripped him. He had a bad fall and was taken to the police station where he was treated with diminishing politeness as he could not give satisfactory answers to such simple questions as “Where are your papers? Where did you get this uniform? Who the hell are you?” The joint Austro-Hungarian War Ministry’s Budapest office finally got him out of the morass. He was supposed to be His Majesty’s secret agent, engaged in an important counterespionage mission connected with the Orient Express. The rendezvous between the Goddess and her lovesick Swede produced no lesser upset. While alone during her daughter’s dinner date, the Marquesa had a change of heart. “This is totally unfair to Signor Karlssons. It’s criminal. God will not forgive us. I simply cannot go through with it. There may be another solution to hide her pregnancy. Perhaps a long study trip to Greece . . .” After wrestling with stormy and dolorous thoughts for an hour, she proceeded to the restaurant coach, resolved to abort the plan. The couple was no longer there. Suspecting the worst, she went to the Swede’s quarters and shyly opened the door. What she saw was more reminiscent of a latter-day pornographic movie than a pastoral scene hinting at the seduction of the confused virgin. Mortified beyond measure, her mind alternating between plans of suicide and murder, she sobbed, prayed, and cursed everybody -- including herself -- all night long. At dawn the door opened and a broadly smiling Simonetta entered. “Puttana,” flew the bad insult from the Marquesa. “Madre!” “And you have the nerve to laugh.” And indeed her laughter came in floods. “Simonetta, what’s wrong with you?” Finally she regained her voice and said calmly: “I got my period.” From Varna on Bulgaria’s Black Sea coast, a ferryboat took the passengers to the Turkish side. Then back on board of another first class train, the traveling party rolled into Istanbul Station where the famous “Gar bell” greeted their arrival. Many more twists and turns awaited our quaint caboodle after that rainy October

afternoon in 1883. Inspired by the dark temperament of the restless Balkans, Lilly left her husband for William during the trip. Later they settled in Sydney, Australia, and although the royal family never wanted to hear from them again, their wish remained unfulfilled. The world press could never completely forget about them. (Yes, already then!) Upon being warned about the plot on his life, Kalmanfalvy made a beeline for his ancestral castle among the mountains of Transylvania. He remained there, fearing for his life until five years later when he received a letter from the Court. It thanked him for his service to the Empire. The clear implication was that his secret death sentence was no longer in force. Like Napoleon, Franz Joseph liked to forgive his enemies, turning them into thankful subjects while eliciting public admiration. It is not known if Kalmanfalvy ever visited Vienna again although the possibility had never been ruled out. Simonetta and the Swede were getting on fabulously but just as talk about marriage became serious, Camillo reappeared. The old flame won over the new one though not by much. Nonetheless, in this game -- as it is well known -- no matter how thin the margin, winner takes all. Camillo left his wife and moved with Simonetta to the banks of the Neva where he joined the orchestra of the Russian Imperial Ballet. Outraged at her daughter’s behavior, the Marquesa, who in the meantime became very fond of the devastated Mats Torwald, made good on her threat and legally disinherited her. A few months later, Camillo received an offer to join the orchestra of the brand new Metropolitan Opera in New York. They decided to emigrate to America where Camillo could get a quick divorce, allowing them to marry and start a new life. Years later, mother and daughter reconciled but you could not have guessed that from the mutual renunciation that followed the elopement: “May moths limestone! wealth the before she

eat I’d way and

your fur coats, dear Marquesa! May all your diamonds turn to rather live for love in freedom than loiter in empty and colorless you have” -- came the lightning bolts from the Goddess shortly Camillo set out on their journey to the New World.

Well, Station Master Death’s final “Gar bell” long since greeted the voyagers of that old run of the Orient Express. But they come back unexpectedly for occasional visits. They are as weary, impatient, and excited as anybody else around them. Blinking stars, beauty and the royal prince, love against impossible odds, cloak and dagger, unquenchable desire and extraordinary destiny continue to fill the compartments of our imagination. We don’t exactly know why we love to sip sober intoxication from champagne flutes filled with bubbling pastiche as we ride life’s Transcendental Express. It’s a riddle we should not try to solve.