Bill Lynch: Murmer on the Orient Express

It was two o’clock on a 21st century autumn’s day. After departing from London on the Belmond British Pullman luxury train, followed by the English Channel crossing on the ultra-modern mechanical conveyances of the “Chunnel,” we were in Calais, France.

What now stood before us was an apparition from a distant past – the elegantly restored and grandly appointed Orient Express. Its devotees call it the “King of Trains.”

Each coach a gleaming royal blue and gold jewel, it consisted of kitchen and dining cars, bar cars and sleeping cars, and others whose purposes are shrouded in mystery.

As Dottie and I handed our carry-on luggage to the uniformed porter and crossed the gap onto the narrow steps leading up to our coach, we were engulfed by a cloud belched forth from a steam engine.

“That’s odd,” I thought. “The locomotive is a diesel.”

There was an slight buzzing in our ears for a few seconds, then the cloud cleared and we found ourselves walking through an elegantly-appointed, polished-mahogany paneled parlor, highlighted by cut glass art, tapestry and plush Victorian furniture. Smartly dressed passengers were scattered throughout, some in pairs sipping tea and chatting quietly, while others sat singly reading the Times.

One of the men, a strange looking fellow with black, well-oiled hair and a tightly waxed handlebar mustache, looked up, eyeing me suspiciously.

As Dottie continued to follow our porter toward our cabin, I felt a small hand grasp my left arm. It was attached to the slender bare arm of a beautiful woman with long red hair and deep blue eyes looking pleadingly into mine.

“You must help us, sir. My friend and I are in great danger,” she whispered in a sexy but desperate voice at least an octave below most women’s usual range.

Startled, I stumbled over the chair in front of me and felt her hand fall from my arm. I turned back and she was gone.

“Had she ever really been there?” I wondered.

Behind me, the guy with the slick hair and mustache, mumbled, “It is possible that the impossible could not have happened, yet the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.”

Huh?

I dropped out of character to get my bearings and remind myself that, try as I might, I’m not in the middle of a story by Agatha Christie, Ian Fleming or Alfred Hitchcock. I’m just a passenger on the 21st century version of the Orient Express.

Its roots date back to its first journey from the west to the outposts of the east in 1893. During those early days through the golden age of rail travel in the 1920s, the Orient Express was the world’s most elegant model of gracious travel, living and cuisine – complete with oysters, champagne and boudoirs fit for royalty. It captured the imagination of story-tellers starting as far back as 1927.

The fortunes of the original Orient Express rose and fell, then rose again through two world wars, the Great Depression and other challenges before finally starting a long decline in the 1960s, which led to its final demise in 1977.

Then the last of its elegant sleeping, parlor and dining coaches were auctioned off to collectors.

In 1982, the Venice-Simpson Orient Express was re-established as a private venture with beautifully restored carriages from the 1920s and ’30s.

Today it continues to attract train buffs and nostalgia addicts, prompting us to dress up and pretend we’re in a different century on a mysterious journey with Hercule Poirot, Mary Hermione Debenham, Colonel Arbuthnot, Princess Natalia Dragomiroff and company.

So here we are, tucked into a lovingly-appointed anachronism, dressing for dinner one at a time because our authentically decorated, but tiny, stateroom limits movement.

The wheels quietly rumble below the floor and the carriage sways as we roll toward the Alps.

I wonder if the beautiful Countess Andrenyl, with her long dark hair, captivating eyes, scarlet lips and long lashes, will be at our table.

Of course she will. She’s standing at our tiny little washbasin mirror brushing her hair as I lounge next to her typing the last sentence of this chapter.

“You look positively smashing, my dear.”