by Vanda Némedy

Once in the early 1950’s (to be exact in 1954) a beautiful red carriage was born in the Zorn factory. It had long white stripes along its sides and wore the letters NRC (for National Railway Company). Its windows were bright and clean. The chairs – as an invention – were not simply of wood, but they had a soft, spongy covering. The metal handholds were glittering in the early morning sunshine.

- She is beautiful! – One of the workers took a deep breath – And she smells like new. I like this smell!

- She? – The others asked amazed.

- Yes. This is our lady. The first carriage we made for our own railway company. How would you call her?

- How do you know that she is a "girl"? – asked one of them.

- Just look at it! She is perfect, beautiful! She can’t be anything else but a girl.

The others stared up and along the carriage. Their eyes were full of proud and their chests with warmth. They shook each other’s hands and then went on standing and staring.

- I’d call her Cairn.

- I’d like Christina much more.

- Why, Cairn is good! – The others said enthusiastically.

- I wish I could travel in it for the first time… - said the one with a green hat.

- You can forget it! – Laughed the other. - As long as it’s new…

- She! – An angry voice interrupted.

- As long as SHE is new only politicians and aristocrats will sit on these seats. They will fill the freshly painted compartments with dirty smoke; pour gin and wine on the floor and cloths.

- Stop it! - said one of them. – If you want to know my opinion, I’m not interested what will happen to her. We should go now. Work will erase such thoughts from your brains.

Later in the factory more of the red carriages were made. They were just as beautiful as the first one. But, Carin was of course the most admired. Children stood amazed for seconds looking at her with round, motionless opened mouths and expressions.

- Look! – screamed one of them! – There is something written on it! Mom! Can you read it? Can you read it?!

- Carine – the adults were wondering. – Who could have wrote that name here. Maybe one of those beggar kids from the slums who are fooling around here every day. The mayor will give it a proper name anyway.

2 hours later the mayor baptized the carriage with a bottle of champagne. – And the name of the carriage which was made in our national Zorn factory – he shouted – Rosemary I. from our beloved Queen.

People were applauding. The group around the mayor got on Carine Rosemary I., who was nominated as the only first class carriage on the train.

Three of the workers stood in the crowd looking at the train as it left from the station. Their faces were full of bittenessr as they saw the champagne painting Carine Rosemary I. darker in a big spot.

15 years later Carine Rosemary I. was rolling towards the same city as she did the first time. Only she was not a first class carriage anymore. She had become a second class carriage, and the train which she belonged to was also not the main route between the two cities. It left the station very early in the morning carrying commuting workers and students. Sometimes she was attached to post-trains to carry those strange people traveling in the late darkness. Who knows where they come from and where they are going, and why at such an impossible time?

In one of the cabins an elderly man lay half-collapsed on the seats. The conductor awakened him to ask for his ticket. He knew the man very well.

- Ticket you are asking for – the man said reeling. – Do you know how long have I been traveling with this train?

- No sir. – said the conductor and smiled.

- For 7 years almost. In this very same carriage. But 7 years ago I traveled to work in another town. Now I travel to remember that time.

- To remember? – asked the conductor. He was patient. He was used to drunken homeless people and knew this one well. And he could not talk to the letters and boxes carried in the other cars anyway. So he listened.

- You know I call this little carriage Lisa. Did you know Lisa?

- No, I didn’t. – The conductor replied, surprised.

- What a pity. Me neither… - the man closed his eyes. – You know… I don’t remember anymore why I named this carriage Lisa. Maybe it is because of the alcohol...

- I thought you are traveling to remember. – said the conductor.

- Yes, I am… But I still can’t… - the man frowned his eyebrows and concentrated. Then slowly his face became smooth and calm. He fell asleep, and the conductor closed the door, shaking his head. Again he couldn’t get closer to the truth of this man.

On a hot summer day in 1988, Carine Rosemary Lisa stood still in a transportation yard in a dirty city-station. Her emptied body was packed full of wooden boxes and crates. Two men were packing the goods, sweating in the warm weather.

- You know I hate this job – said the younger of them.

- Why, you get money for it. – replied the other.

- I hate the smell of this dirty junk. – he pointed to the carriage.

The older man stopped packing. - You know… this junk here saved hundreds of lives in the past war. 2 years ago. You remember when we almost lost the eastern part of the country?

- Yes.

- And look here. – the packer pointed on a pale scratch: Buu.

- Buu? What does that mean?

- I know the one who scratched this word on the carriage two years ago when people were evacuated from an eastern town. A young man, who could not leave with his family, put his son and wife on this carriage. His son was too young to understand what was happening. He thought that the trip with that huge thing would be fun. The father didn’t want to disappoint his son. They together named the carriage Buu, and promised his son that Buu will bring him after them too.

- And what happened?

- Buu kept his promise and brought the father to his family. Actually, it was her last trip as a passenger-car.

We are having 2004 now. Trains are quite modern, equipped with automatic doors, controllable seats, telephones and air conditioning. I’m traveling with these kinds of trains almost every week, as it is needed for my work. So I know the route well.

Before arriving in my town on the shifting yard there stands a lonely carriage next to the rails on a flat area. It is painted red and from its feet 3 beautiful rose-trees are climbing onto it blooming in the summer such beautiful that I have to stare at it every time we pass it.

Once a strange old man sat in front of me wearing a terribly old, worn green hat. As he saw my astonishment he told me the story of the Rose-Carriage – as I called it myself -, Carine Rosemary Lisa Buu, who is now – after being donated to the poor – occupied by some homeless people.

On my way home on the bus I felt that the beautiful Rose-Carriage had become something very special I was now devoted to; however, she will not mean the same for me as for all the others who have ever known her.