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This one was a new luxury mode of transport. It had glass ceilings, so we could watch the snow-dusted and ice-covered winter trees canopy over our heads as we raced north from Switzerland into the former Austro-Hungarian Empire. Every destination had its own box, sort of like different gates in an airport. The Warsaw people were over there, the Tallinn people were over here. Helsinki, I take it, was the final destination. The trees were really magnificent too, a white kaleidoscope, forming, reforming.
I tried to capture the way they shaped and reshaped themselves with my phone camera, but it was just no good. When we all arrived, we went into a concert hall. There was a grand piano at its center, and a slightly elevated stage. Esmeralda was there holding a white Fender electric. She knew the chords to the song. What was she doing here, and why was she playing one of his songs? She was small and taciturn, with her potato brown hair and lovely narrow eyes. She was just wearing her jeans.
Esmeralda played the chords to the song, and then I took a guitar in hand. It was also an electric, one of those oddly shaped Gibson Thunderbirds, but with a sunburst body.
Esmeralda just strummed away. She looked so unimpressed. I wanted to pull a Fletcher Christian. No dice. This was a rehearsal, not a love-making session. Esmeralda yawned and walked over to the piano. I stopped riffing on my Gibson Thunderbird. Two women sit nearby, waiting as well. Over their shoulders I can see that Lavazza instant coffee machine gleaming white in the sun. The last time I took a train here, I got an espresso in a paper cup, but by the end of the day, and after many coffees more, I looked like someone who had been on a nasty amphetamine binge, and so this time, I have decided to forego the morning espresso.
