The Balkans

“Conductor,” Fiona demanded to know, “what is the meaning of this interruption? I must be in Constantinople as soon as possible! Don’t you know I’m racing around the world?”

“Yes, yes,” said the conductor, wearily, twirling his moustache in a most infuriating way. “You have mentioned it a hundred times. But there is nothing to be done. Anyway, we lingered in Venice for almost a whole weekend.”

“That was Venice! This is just some random spot in the middle of nowhere.”

“I will check with the driver,” said the conductor, and disappeared.

Fiona took the time to examine the scenery. The train had stopped on a forested hillside, somewhere deep in the heart of what she took to be the Balkans, with a splendid view of the peasant cottages and green fields along the side of the river that ran through the valley far below. Were they in the Carpathians? Or perhaps the Dinaric Alps? She hadn’t the foggiest idea. Still, wherever they were, they oughtn’t to be there any longer than they had to be, no matter how lovely the cliffs and pine trees were.

The conductor reappeared in the carriage, looking out of breath. “I am afraid,” he announced, “that there may be a considerable delay.”

“For what possible reason?” snapped Fiona.

“This part of the Balkans is notorious for bandits. A pair of the brutes have occupied the driver’s carriage, and are holding the poor fellow at gunpoint even as we speak.”

“Tell them to stop.”

“I did.”

“And they refused? The savages!”

“They say all passengers must assemble outside the train for Black Bartok’s inspection. I suggest we comply.”

“What cheek! I’ve half a mind to give them a good slap.”

“From what I know of Black Bartok, madame, that would be most unwise. It occurs to me that he may possibly be willing to slap back.”