I sprinted through Milan station, speed-read the departures monitor without stopping, and arrived gasping on platform 8 with two minutes to spare. The driver of the FrecciaBianca bullet train was waiting only for the guard’s signal to depart. The guard was standing on the platform beside the open door of the rearmost carriage, fingering her whistle. This short, plump, raven-haired woman was exuding geniality and relaxed informality through her far too big peaked cap and ill-fitting uniform as though it were fancy dress.
I was about to fling myself up the short ladder, but had to step aside for lust’s young dream in satin hot pants descending the steps with feline grace. She asked the guard if there was time for a last cigarette. The guard said something like, ‘Why not?’ or ‘What a marvellous idea!’ Out came a packet of cigarettes and a slim gold lighter; an inaudible spark produced a tall stiletto flame.
Bugger it: I got out my battered tobacco pouch, hastily rolled a fag and touched her for a light. Never before, I suspect, had that unwavering jet of electric blue been used to ignite such a pretty kettle of fish as my bent roll up. I inhaled and nodded thanks. She snapped out the flame and with it my presence. We stood and smoked unhurriedly and looking in opposite directions while the guard observed us calmly and benignly. When we had finished our smokes we bowled the buts under the train and climbed aboard. The platform clock showed that the guard had delayed the departure by two and a half minutes to accommodate her passengers’ drug addiction. Welcome to wonderful Italy.
I rode the train to the end of the line, and walked out on to the forecourt of the art deco station.
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