people’s tickets; every attempt to stop himself had been in vain, so they should please be lenient with him.
When the two had entered the dark hollow of their train car, he obligingly shut the door behind them with a terrific bang. And soon the red track manager’s cap swam quickly past through the air outside their window, and the green signaling disc was raised, at the exact angle of a military salute, a warning sign to the train that it should now leave the station immediately, right away, kindly clear off!
The waiters in the dining car were so quick in their white uniforms! And how skillfully the full bowls of soup hopped ringing and spraying through the swaying airspace of the traveling restaurant; without even spilling a drop, the wine glasses rang out a music box melody of welcome, and already the white-capped beer steins were fizzing from window to window, while, outside, chased by the whistling of the locomotive, the evening landscape retreated farther and farther until it had disappeared entirely, or else just collapsed from exhaustion in the middle of a tunnel they were passing through, or else gotten itself stuck intentionally on the inside of the hill they were passing under, in order to spend the night comfortably in the protection of an abandoned tunnel attendant’s house?
The attention of the people in the dining car was then drawn to a young man in a completely crumpled and soiled black uniform: he went through the dining car, joined the presumed chef at the bar, and began a long conversation with him; judging by the relaxed gestures they were exchanging, it seemed to be a very private, official discussion—there was something both pronouncedly businesslike and intimately private about their exchange.
Who’s that, one heard individual people ask excitedly, and what’s he looking for there, and hopefully he won’t stay all too long; he’s some filthy, lanky, ill-mannered thug, an escaped chimney-sweep-boor’s apprentice . . .
Yes, yes, that description isn’t all that far off the mark, because it’s definitely the stoker, yes sir, it’s the stoker himself, in person, very definitely—but look, I say, what are you talking about, where did you get such a crazy idea, don’t you know that our locomotives haven’t used coal now for decades, they don’t run on steam anymore, those days are gone, once and for all . . .
Where was she going, Burgmüller asked his new girlfriend, he had a burning interest to hear the exact name of her destination.
She was going THITHER, she answered.
THITHER, he responded, oh, THITHER? That’s a pity; does it have to be THITHER, of all places?
Why? Did he have something against THITHER? She certainly hoped not. Or might he be planning something against THITHER? A prank perhaps?
No, of course not, he has nothing against THITHER, especially not now that he knows she’s from there, but still, it’s a pity that she has to come from THITHER of all places . . .
But why?
Simply because I’m not going THITHER, unfortunately.
Well, well, and where was he heading, and she couldn’t imagine where else one could go except of course THITHER, nowhere else, that was one of her few but strict principles, always THITHER, nowhere else, probably it was only that he’d never gotten as far or near as THITHER and so wasn’t familiar with the many persuasive advantages offered by THITHER, otherwise he would certainly have learned from her example and gone THITHER, as she did.
He’d be traveling THITHER with her, and was very happy about that, but had to continue on past THITHER.
But to where then? Just tell me where.
HITHER, answered Burgmüller, exactly as far as HITHER.
Oh, HITHER, she said, HITHER, of all places, what a pity, couldn’t he do without HITHER?
So he’s the stoker, the conversation in the dining car continued, but what’s he stoking, if he no longer needs to stoke the locomotive? Presumably the other cars, but first of all, it’s summer and hot, and second, there aren’t any ovens in the compartments, not even a small, inconspicuous oven, hmm, or is he heating the entire train from a single, centrally located furnace? But, but, forget the furnace, Mr. Furnace over there must have furnaces on the brain, but the train doesn’t have a single one, because look, that so-called stoker there has probably never in his life had to deal with any kind of heating system, let alone had to put coal in one to get the necessary practice, just look at him, you can see right away that he wouldn’t know how to stoke coal, that cobblestone-softener, that sidewalk pest, afraid of the edge of the curb, oh yes, that miscreant at large, that drainpipe-hose windjammer wind-tunnel brigadier!
What do you have against HITHER? asked Burgmüller, you’ve probably never even been there, have you? No? Why don’t you come along with me now to HITHER?
THITHER is closer than HITHER, she replied, why don’t you come with me to THITHER first and stay with me THITHER without the long trip to HITHER, why not?
Later, Burgmüller answered, I’ll go THITHER a little later, but first I have urgent business in HITHER. But why couldn’t she go THITHER with him and then continue on to HITHER?
Later, she answered, just a little later she would naturally travel to meet him in HITHER, or they could meet somewhere between HITHER and THITHER.
The tracks that were laid out in front of the train on that dark night stretched ahead of it like an infinite hairclip, and they swung to the rhythm of the wheels bearing down on them like singing sawmills; a trip complaining of its own good fortune, confident mourning odes tossed away behind it into the sunken, unforgotten afternoon above all the wooded hillsides, its destination stretching ahead into the indeterminable dawn of the expected morning; they were full of fear and longing, a longing to be held once again and all at once in the tight embrace of an entirely new, familiarly unfamiliar wanderlust . . .
But if I plead with you, Burgmüller insisted now, to come with me right away to HITHER, if you can and want to, you would do that, wouldn’t you?
She didn’t rightly know, THITHER or HITHER, and whether hither thither HITHER or rather hither THITHER, but people had sent word from THITHER that she was expected and would be picked up, people were waiting for her at the THITHER train station, they would be sad if she didn’t arrive THITHER, sad to have waited in vain.
You could send a letter THITHER, he said.
She said: The letter wouldn’t arrive THITHER in time, he ought to know or suspect that himself.
Telegraph, he replied.
Even a telegram, she responded, containing the regretful, polite request that they postpone their expectation, would no longer reach the people THITHER who, as she had been assured, had already been awaiting her for the longest time at the train station.
The travelers in the dining car then spoke of a historic problem: A long time ago, when steam-driven locomotives were discontinued, everything indicated that all the stokers would be let go; for some time then, they had no firm footing, and had stood, sat, or lain on the streets, which is why they then undertook certain acts of sabotage, for example always sneaking sugar into the tanks of diesel locomotives, necessitating the unexpected, temporary re-implementation of the steam engines, which had been put to sleep in the sheds, only used as replacement machines, until the entire population finally became aware of the stokers’ fate, whereupon many then, out of mistaken pity, joined the stoker party, which organization, as a result, was soon strong enough to force through a plebiscite on the stokers’ future, whether they should lose their jobs or not; and as you can of course vividly imagine,
