The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles

yellow glow cast by the dim lamps, she held them on her lap and opened one after the other, trying to see what was in them. The only one she could see at all was full of photographs: Cine Pour Tous.
    They had the compartment to themselves. Tunner sat opposite her.
    “You can’t read in this light,” he said.
    “I’m just looking at pictures.”
    “Oh.”
    “You’ll excuse me, won’t you? In a minute I won’t even be able to do this much. I’m a little nervous on trains.”
    “Go right ahead,” he said.
    They had brought a cold supper with them, put up by the hotel. From time to time Tunner eyed the basket speculatively. Finally she looked up and caught him at it. “Tunner! Don’t tell me you’re hungry!” she cried.
    “Only my tapeworm.”
    “You’re revolting.” She lifted the basket, glad to be able to engage in any manual activity. One by one she pulled out the thick sandwiches, separately wrapped in flimsy paper napkins.
    “I told them not to give us any of that lousy Spanish ham. It’s raw, and you can really get worms from it. I’m sure some of these are made of it, though. I think I can smell it. They always think you’re talking just to hear the sound of your voice.”
    “I’ll eat the ham if there is any,” said Tunner. “It’s good stuff, if I remember.”
    “Oh, it tastes all right.” She brought out a package of hard-boiled eggs, wrapped with some very oily black olives. The train shrieked and plunged into a tunnel. Kit hastily put the eggs into the basket and looked apprehensively at the window. She could see the outline of her face reflected in the glass, pitilessly illumined by the feeble glare from overhead. The stench of coal smoke increased each second; she could feel it constricting her lungs.
    “Phew!” Tunner choked.
    She sat still, waiting. If the accident were going to come, it would probably be either in a tunnel or on a trestle. “If I could only be sure it would happen tonight,” she thought. “I could relax. But the uncertainty. You never know, so you always wait.”
    Presently they emerged, breathed again. Outside, over the miles of indistinct rocky land, the mountains loomed, jet-black. Above their sharp crests what little light was left in the sky came from between heavy threatening clouds.
    “How about those eggs?”
    “Oh!” She handed him the whole package.
    “I don’t want ’em all!”
    “You must eat them,” she said, making a great effort to be present, to take part in the little life going on inside the creaking wooden walls of the car. “I only want some fruit. And a sandwich.”
    But she found the bread hard and dry; she had difficulty chewing it. Tunner was busy leaning over, dragging out one of his valises from under the seat. She slipped the uneaten sandwich into the space between her seat and the window.
    He sat up, his face triumphant, holding a large dark bottle; he fished in his pocket a moment, and brought out a corkscrew.
    “What is it?”
    “You guess,” he said grinning.
    “Not—champagne!”
    “The first time.”
    In her nervousness she reached out and clasped his head in her two hands, kissing him noisily on the forehead.
    “You darling!” she cried. “You’re marvelous!”
    He tugged at the cork; there was a pop. A haggard woman in black passed along the corridor and stared in at them. Holding the bottle in his hand, Tunner rose and drew the shades. Kit watched him, thinking: “He’s very different from Port. Port would never have done this.”
    And as he poured it out into the plastic traveling cups, she continued to debate with herself. “But it means nothing except that he spent the money. It’s something bought, that’s all. Still, being willing to spend the money. . . . And having thought of it, more than anything.”
    They touched cups in a toast. There was no familiar clink-only a dead paper-like sound. “Here’s to Africa,” said Tunner, suddenly bashful. He had meant to say: “Here’s to