disconnect

Winding its way around lush rolling hills, the train rumbled through emerald valleys carpeted in sugar and tobacco crops, and past patches of fog-veiled lowland tropical forests. Quaint, colourful farmhouses dotted the landscape between picturesque plantations, while tiny, thatched huts squatted amongst imposing limestone mogotes. Overhead, not a single cloud marred the cerulean sky.
 
Inside the powerful machine, the first-class passenger compartments were elegant, a fine mix of polished oak panels and shining brass fixtures. I sat across a small table from you, relaxing in the padded velvet seat. The pleasant scenery scrolled by the window—it was opened a crack, and I was relieved to feel the movement of air over my skin.
 
You sat thumbing through a copy of Harper's, spending more time looking at the pictures of outfits than reading the articles. You were quiet, grown distant. You hadn't asked me any further questions about my business on the island, and I worried that I may have offended with my earlier huffiness.
 
I slid the train's window closed. “I'm feeling a little more comfortable now.” I cleared my throat. “Beautiful country. Everything's so green.”
 
“Mhmm.” Turning a page in your magazine, you didn't look up.
 
“Can you believe the luck of getting a cabin in an empty car? No-one to disturb us.”
 
“Hm.”
 
“It'll be good to be away from the big city, even if it is only for a day or two.” I settled back into my seat, making a show of relaxing. “The nightlife I can handle, but I can do with a break from the demonstrations and general bellyaching during the day.” Catching myself before venturing too far down this touchy subject, I corrected my course a touch. “What I mean is, being away from the crowds will do us some good, I think.”
 
You offered only a tight-lipped smile before returning to your magazine.
 
Encouraged, I leant forward on the table. “There are so many people in Havana—it's no wonder they get cranky with one another. It's a little like when you have too many rats together, say in the hold of a ship at sea or some such place. They turn on each other, get downright nasty, fighting to the death, gnawing on themselves, even committing cannibalism.”
 
I instantly regretted the analogy.
 
“You know what?” I stood up and grabbed my straw fedora from the table. “I need to get the blood moving.” I gripped the brass luggage rack, allowing my legs to grow accustomed to the gentle sway of the machine beneath me. “I think I'm going to go for a bit of a stroll. Stretch the ol' legs.”
 
Dropping your magazine, you looked up, eyes wide, red lips parting. “Oh, dear, what a great idea.”
 
“You'll come with me, then?” I rubbed my hands together. “We could walk down to the observation car, maybe see—”
 
“Well, no.” You picked up an issue of Time and opened it to a random page. “But I'd so appreciate it if you'd stop by the lounge car and bring me a tea and one of those gorgeous pastries I've seen some of the other passengers carrying.”
 
“Of course, my dear.”
 
Stepping out into the swaying, red-carpeted hallway, I looked left and right past identical cabin doors to the ends of the car. I couldn't remember which direction the lounge was located. At one end the car, toward the front of the train, a porter in a blue coat sat hunched in a chair beside the gangway door.
 
The porter stood when he saw me and tipped his bright red cap. “May I assist you with something, sir?” His face was young and earnest, with a moustache so faint it was barely worth a mention.
 
I, having acquired my footing, strode toward the porter, ironing my own great broom of a moustache with my clammy fingertips. “Why yes, my good lad, I believe you can. I'm having a little trouble orienting myself—which way to the lounge car?”
 
“Your instincts are sound.” The porter opened the gangway door with a flourish, motioning toward the opening. “You'll find the lounge straight through here, one car over.”
 
“Many thanks,” I said, slipping the boy a folded dollar bill. I’m hunting for a delicious dessert. Possibly the most important dessert of my life.”
 
I stepped past the porter, gripping the doorframe with one hand and the oak door with the other. The gaping maw of the gangway was right before me, decidedly less luxurious than the rest of the train. Hot, dry air hit my face like a desert heat. It was lit by a single buzzing electric light overhead, swaying with the movement of the train. Rattling tin walls. The stench of grease. A single step down led to crudely cut pine boards which covered the train cars’ couplings.
 
How connected were they? How connected could they be? Humans built these machines. Fingernails digging into wood, a throat cleared behind me. The porter. Desserts. I’m sure the connection is fine.
 
I stepped into the maw.