Читаем Ghost Train to the Eastern Star полностью

ONE OF THE HAPPIER and more helpful delusions of travel is that one is on a quest. At the end of Avurudu, when the auspicious day for work, for travel, arrived, the one determined by the astrologers and soothsayers, I took the train to Kandy, the capital of the former kingdom, at the center of the island, sitting at a high altitude, where in a famous temple a tooth of the Buddha was enshrined in a gold casket. It was a place of pilgrimage.

All the trains I took in Sri Lanka were small and slow, possibly the same rolling stock as those I'd taken long ago, but dirtier. Yet the routes were so dramatic, by the blue sea or the green hills, I hardly noticed the condition of the railway cars or my hard bench. And it was only seventy-five miles to Kandy, the line rising from the coast, passing through the gardens and villages on the slopes, the rice terraces full of still, silvery water and mirroring the sky, the rock temples hacked out of cliffs, the monasteries at the higher elevations. Coconut plantations, vegetable farms, pineapple fields, markets overflowing with blossoms: the way to Kandy was strewn with flowers.

Into the cooler air and taller trees, past Ambepussa Station and Polgahawela Junction, with its Buddhist monastery and temple. In the middle of the steep ascent that began at a place called Rambukkana, it began to rain—the first rain I'd seen since Bokhara, over a month before. The train's windows were open, the rain spattered in, but there weren't many passengers, and there was enough room so that we could move to the drier seats.

An older man with a tightly rolled umbrella and a wide-brimmed hat and a briefcase made room for me on one of the benches.

"You are welcome."

His name was Mr. Kumara. He had been a clerk in the Department of Health and was now retired, living on a pension.

"And I have so many other interests." He had a confident manner, and his hat, his umbrella, and his briefcase gave him a look of authority. His calm smile seemed to invite questions.

"What sort of interests?"

"Palmistry and numerology. I make predictions."

"What was your best prediction?"

"That Franklin Roosevelt would be assassinated," he said, and before I could challenge this, he added, "And that a certain woman would leave her husband—and she did."

He asked me for some of my dates, of numbers related to my life. He took out a pad and did some calculations based on my birth date, covering the page with obscure mathematics and crossings-out until he arrived at a single number, which he circled.

"Your number is two," he said. "You look younger than your age. You will have a good sun line. I can tell you that without looking at your palm." He then made a new page of calculations. "Here are the years that fate has decided for you—the significant years. When you were twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one, and fifty."

I considered these and thought: Africa, Railway Bazaar, disastrous affair, divorce—fateful years. Mr. Kumara was looking at my palm.

"Sun line is there! See, I told you!"

Now, without anything to do except hold on to the stanchions and the straps, the other passengers took an interest and leaned over, as though to double-check the lines on my palm.

"Here is lifeline. You could live to eighty-two or eighty-five," he said, manipulating my thumb flesh. "This is Mount of Jupiter. You are stubborn, self-made man. Determined. Don't bend to anyone. You brook no interference from anyone. You live life by your own self. You are flirtatious, but not good at satisfying your sexual appetite."

This drew murmurs from the other passengers, and I shook my head, trying to cast doubt on this assessment.

"You are a Jupiter, a leader among men," he said, but stated it as a fact—he wasn't impressed. "Your eyesight is bad, yet I see you don't wear glasses."

"I had double cataract surgery."

"What did I say?"

He was speaking to the onlookers.

"You are charitable, but you were cheated by the love of your heart," he said. "People abused your judgment in the past. Not true?"

"All true."

He was on to my left hand now. He said, "Your left hand is more interesting than your right."

"In what way?"

"More irritated," Mr. Kumara said. "You have won the battles with the enemy. In future you do not need to worry about the enemy."

"That sounds good."

"Very much foreign travel in your life," he said.

"Are you saying that because I'm in Sri Lanka?"

"Your living depends on it," he said, twisting my hand, peering at my palm. "You will soon receive unexpected wealth in unexpected ways. And your career is good. Nothing bothers you. But you have bronchial problems and breathing problems."

"That part isn't true."

"They will come," he said confidently. "Before thirty-five you were very upset. Job, marriage, life—very bad."

"That's a fact."

"You will fall in love more than twice."

"Twice more?"

"It seems so." He looked me square in the face and let go of my hand. "You are a judge, a lawyer, a writer. Maybe an ambassador."

"If I were an ambassador, would I be sitting on this train?"