The Adventures of a Special Correspondent: Chapter 13

Chapter 13

We dined an hour after the train left. In the dining car were several
newcomers, among others two negroes whom Caterna began to speak of as
darkies.

None of these travelers, Popof told me, would cross the Russo-Chinese
frontier, so that they interested me little or not at all.

During dinner, at which all my numbers were present--I have twelve now,
and I do not suppose I shall go beyond that--I noticed that Major
Noltitz continued to keep his eye on his lordship Faruskiar. Had he
begun to suspect him? Was it of any importance in his opinion that this
Mongol seemed to know, without appearing to do so, the three
second-class travelers, who were also Mongols? Was his imagination
working with the same activity as mine, and was he taking seriously
what was only a joke on my part? That I, a man of letters, a chronicler
in search of scenes and incidents, should be pleased to see in his
personage a rival of the famous Ki Tsang, or Ki Tsang himself, could be
understood; but that he, a serious man, doctor in the Russian army,
should abandon himself to such speculations no one would believe. Never
mind now, we shall have something more to say about it by and by.

As for me, I had soon forgotten all about the Mongol for the man in the
case. Tired as I am after that long run through Samarkand, if I get a
chance to visit him to-night I will.

Dinner being over, we all begin to make ourselves comfortable for the
night, with the intention of sleeping till we reach Tachkend.

The distance from Samarkand to Tachkend is three hundred kilometres. The
train will not get in there before seven o'clock in the morning. It will
stop three times at small stations for water and fuel--circumstances
favorable to the success of my project. I add that the night is dark,
the sky overcast, no moon, no stars. It threatens rain; the wind is
freshening. It is no time for walking on platforms, and nobody walks
there. It is important to choose the moment when Popof is sound asleep.

It is not necessary for the interview to be a long one. That the
gallant fellow should be reassured--that is the essential point--and he
will be, as soon as I have made his acquaintance. A little information
concerning him, concerning Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, whence he comes,
why he is going to Pekin, why he chose such a mode of transport, his
provisions for the journey, how he gets into the case, his age, his
trade, his birthplace, what he has done in the past, what he hopes to
do in the future, etc., etc., and I have done all that a conscientious
reporter can do. That is what I want to know; that is what I will ask
him. It is not so very much.

And in the first place let us wait until the car is asleep. That will
not be long, for my companions are more or less fatigued by the hours
they have spent in Samarkand. The beds were ready immediately after
dinner. A few of the passengers tried a smoke on the platform, but the
gust drove them in very quickly. They have all taken up their places
under the curtained lamps, and toward half-past ten the respiration of
some and the snoring of others are blended with the continued grinding
of the train on the steel rails.

I remained outside last of all, and Popof exchanged a few words with me.

"We shall not be disturbed to-night," he said to me, "and I would
advise you to make the most of it. To-morrow night we shall be running
through the defiles of the Pamir, and we shall not travel so quietly, I
am afraid."

"Thanks, Popof, I will take your advice, and sleep like a marmot."

Popof wished me good night and went into his cabin.

I saw no use in going back into the car, and remained on the platform.
It was impossible to see anything either to the left or right of the
line. The oasis of Samarkand had already been passed, and the rails
were now laid across a long horizontal plain. Many hours would elapse
before the train reached the Syr Daria, over which the line passes by a
bridge like that over the Amou-Daria, but of less importance.

It was about half-past eleven when I decided to open the door of the
van, which I shut behind me.

I knew that the young Roumanian was not always shut up in his box, and
the fancy might just have taken him to stretch his limbs by walking
from one end to the other of the van.

The darkness is complete. No jet of light filters through the holes of
the case. That seems all the better for me. It is as well that my No.
11 should not be surprised by too sudden an apparition. He is doubtless
asleep. I will give two little knocks on the panel, I will awake him,
and we will explain matters before he can move.

I feel as I go. My hand touches the case; I place my ear against the
panel and I listen.

There is not a stir, not a breath! Is my man not here? Has he got away?
Has he slipped out at one of the stations without my seeing him? Has my
news gone with him? Really, I am most uneasy; I listen attentively.

No! He has not gone. He is in the case. I hear distinctly his regular
and prolonged respiration. He sleeps. He sleeps the sleep of the
innocent, to which he has no right, for he ought to sleep the sleep of
the swindler of the Grand Transasiatic.

I am just going to knock when the locomotive's whistle emits its
strident crow, as we pass through a station. But the train is not going
to stop, I know, and I wait until the whistling has ceased.

I then give a gentle knock on the panel.

There is no reply.

However, the sound of breathing is not so marked as before.

I knock more loudly.

This time it is followed by an involuntary movement of surprise and
fright.

"Open, open!" I say in Russian.

There is no reply.

"Open!" I say again. "It is a friend who speaks. You have nothing to
fear!"

If the panel is not lowered, as I had hoped, there is the crack of a
match being lighted and a feeble light appears in the case.

I look at the prisoner through the holes in the side.

There is a look of alarm on his face; his eyes are haggard. He does not
know whether he is asleep or awake.

"Open, my friend, I say, open and have confidence. I have discovered
your secret. I shall say nothing about it. On the other hand, I may be
of use to you."

The poor man looks more at ease, although he does not move.

"You are a Roumanian, I think," I add, "and I am a Frenchman."

"Frenchman? You are a Frenchman?"

And this reply was given in my own language, with a foreign accent.

One more bond between us.

The panel slips along its groove, and by the light of a little lamp I
can examine my No. 11, to whom I shall be able to give a less
arithmetical designation.

"No one can see us, nor hear us?" he asked in a half-stifled voice.

"No one."

"The guard?"

"Asleep."

My new friend takes my hands, he clasps them. I feel that he seeks a
support. He understands he can depend on me. And he murmurs:

"Do not betray me--do not betray me."

"Betray you, my boy? Did not the French newspapers sympathize with that
little Austrian tailor, with those two Spanish sweethearts, who sent
themselves by train in the way you are doing? Were not subscriptions
opened in their favor? And can you believe that I, a journalist--"

"You are a journalist?"

"Claudius Bombarnac, special correspondent of the _Twentieth Century."_

"A French journal--"

"Yes, I tell you."

"And you are going to Pekin?"

"Through to Pekin."

"Ah! Monsieur Bombarnac, Providence has sent you onto my road."

"No, it was the managers of my journal, and they delegated to me the
powers they hold from Providence, courage and confidence. Anything I
can do for you I will."

"Thanks, thanks."

"What is your name?"

"Kinko."

"Kinko? Excellent name!"

"Excellent?"

"For my articles! You are a Roumanian, are you not?"

"Roumanian of Bucharest."

"But you have lived in France?"

"Four years in Paris, where I was apprentice to an upholsterer in the
Faubourg Saint Antoine."

"And you went back to Bucharest?"

"Yes, to work at my trade there until the day came when it was
impossible for me to resist the desire to leave--"

"To leave? Why?"

"To marry!"

"To marry--Mademoiselle Zinca--"

"Zinca?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, Avenue Cha-Coua, Pekin, China!"

"You know?"

"Certainly. The address is on the box."

"True."

"As to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork--"

"She is a young Roumanian. I knew her in Paris, where she was learning
the trade of a milliner. Oh, charming--"

"I am sure upon it. You need not dwell on that."

"She also returned to Bucharest, until she was invited to take the
management of a dressmaker's at Pekin. We loved, monsieur; she
went--and we were separated for a year. Three weeks ago she wrote to
me. She was getting on over there. If I could go out to her, I would do
well. We should get married without delay. She had saved something. I
would soon earn as much as she had. And here I am on the road--in my
turn--for China."

"In this box?"

"What would you have, Monsieur Bombarnac?" asked Kinko, reddening. "I
had only money enough to buy a packing case, a few provisions, and get
myself sent off by an obliging friend. It costs a thousand francs to go
from Tiflis to Pekin. But as soon as I have gained them, the company
will be repaid, I assure you."

"I believe you, Kinko, I believe you; and on your arrival at Pekin?"

"Zinca has been informed. The box will be taken to Avenue Cha-Coua, and
she--"

"Will pay the carriage?"

"Yes."

"And with pleasure, I will answer for it."

"You may be sure of it, for we love each other so much."

"And besides, Kinko, what would one not do for a sweetheart who
consents to shut himself up in a box for a fortnight, and arrives
labelled 'Glass,' 'Fragile,' 'Beware of damp--'"

"Ah, you are making fun of a poor fellow."

"Not at all; and you may rest assured I will neglect nothing which will
enable you to arrive dry and in one piece at Mademoiselle Zinca
Klork's--in short, in a perfect state of preservation!"

"Again I thank you," said Kinko, pressing my hands. "Believe me, you
will not find me ungrateful."

"Ah! friend Kinko, I shall be paid, and more than paid!"

"And how?"

"By relating, as soon as I can do so without danger to you, the
particulars of your journey from Tiflis to Pekin. Think now--what a
heading for a column:

     'A LOVER IN A BOX!
     ZINCA AND KINKO!!
     1,500 LEAGUES THROUGH CENTRAL ASIA IN A
     LUGGAGE VAN!!!'"
The young Roumanian could not help smiling.
"You need not be in too much of a hurry!" he said.
"Never fear! Prudence and discretion, as they say at the matrimonial
agencies."
Then I went to the door of the van to see that we were in no danger of
surprise, and then the conversation was resumed. Naturally, Kinko asked
me how I had discovered his secret. I told him all that had passed on
the steamer during the voyage across the Caspian. His breathing had
betrayed him. The idea that at first I took him for a wild beast seemed
to amuse him. A wild beast! A faithful poodle, rather! Then with a
sneeze he went up the animal scale to human rank.
"But," said he to me, lowering his voice, "two nights ago I thought all
was lost. The van was closed. I had just lighted my little lamp, and
had begun my supper when a knock came against the panel--"
"I did that, Kinko, I did that. And that night we should have become
acquainted if the train had not run into a dromedary."
"It was you! I breathe again!" said Kinko. "In what dreams I have
lived! It was known that some one was hidden in this box. I saw myself
discovered, handed over to the police, taken to prison at Merv or
Bokhara, and my little Zinca waiting for me in vain; and never should I
see her again, unless I resumed the journey on foot. Well, I would have
resumed, yes, I would."
And he said it with such an air of resolution that it was impossible
not to see that the young Roumanian had unusual spirit.
"Brave Kinko!" I answered. "I am awfully sorry to have caused you such
apprehensions. Now you are at ease again, and I fancy your chances have
improved now we have made friends."
I then asked Kinko to show me how he managed in his box.
Nothing could be simpler or better arranged. At the bottom was a seat
on which he sat with the necessary space for him to stretch his legs
when he placed them obliquely; under the seat, shut in by a lid, were a
few provisions, and table utensils reduced to a simple pocket knife and
metal mug; an overcoat and a rug hung from a nail, and the little lamp
he used at nighttime was hooked onto one of the walls.
The sliding panel allowed the prisoner to leave his prison
occasionally. But if the case had been placed among other packages, if
the porters had not deposited it with the precautions due to its
fragility, he would not have been able to work the panel, and would
have had to make a friend somehow before the end of the journey.
Fortunately, there is a special Providence for lovers, and divine
intervention in favor of Kinko and Zinca Klork was manifested in all
its plenitude. He told me that very night he had taken a walk either in
the van or else on the station platform where the train had stopped.
"I know that, Kinko. That was at Bokhara. I saw you!"
"You saw me?"
"Yes, and I thought you were trying to get away. But if I saw you, it
was because I knew of your presence in the van, and I was there
watching you, no one else having an idea of spying on you.
Nevertheless, it was dangerous; do not do it again; let me replenish
your larder when I get an opportunity."
"Thank you, Monsieur Bombarnac, thank you! I do not believe I am in
danger of being discovered, unless at the Chinese frontier--or rather
at Kachgar."
"And why?"
"The custom house is very keen on goods going into China. I am afraid
they will come round the packages, and that my box--"
"In fact, Kinko," I replied, "there are a few difficult hours for you."
"If they find me out?"
"I shall be there, and I will do all I can to prevent anything
unpleasant happening."
"Ah! Monsieur Bombarnac!" exclaimed Kinko, in a burst of gratitude.
"How can I repay you?"
"Very easily, Kinko."
"And in what way?"
"Ask me to your marriage with the lovely Zinca."
"I will! And Zinca will embrace you."
"She will be only doing her duty, friend Kinko, and I shall be only
doing mine in returning two kisses for one."
We exchanged a last grip of the hand; and, really, I think there were
tears in the good fellow's eyes when I left him. He put out his lamp,
he pushed back the panel, then through the case I heard one more
"thanks" and an "_au revoir_."
I came out of the van, I shut the door, I assured myself that Popof was
still asleep. In a few minutes, after a breath or two of the night air,
I go into my place near Major Noltitz.
And before I close my eyes my last thought is that, thanks to the
appearance of the episodic Kinko, the journey of their energetic
"Special" will not be displeasing to my readers.

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