Free Travelling Light by Tove Jansson Page A

and grabbed hold of the banisters, and stood still a moment, suddenly hot all over. Think, just think – what if I’d really fallen, maybe sprained my ankle or worse? Everything would have been in vain, fatal, irreparable. It would have been unthinkable to get ready and gather myself together to leave a second time. In the taxi I felt so exhilarated I carried on a lively conversation with the driver, commenting on the early spring weather and taking an interest in this and that relating to his profession, but he hardly responded at all. I pulled myself together, because this was exactly what I’d decided to avoid; from now on I was going to be a person who never took any interest in anyone. The problems that might face a taxi driver were nothing to do with me. We reached the boat much too early, he lifted out my bag, I thanked him and gave him too big a tip. He didn’t smile, which upset me a bit, but the man who took my ticket was very friendly.
    My journey had started. It gradually got cold on deck; there was hardly anyone else there and I presumed the other passengers must have made their way to the restaurant . Taking my time, I went to find my cabin. I saw at once that I wasn’t going to be alone; someone had left a coat, pocketbook and umbrella on one of the bunks, and two elegant suitcases were standing in the middle of the floor. Discreetly, I moved them out of the way. Of course I had demanded, or more accurately expressed a desire to have, a cabin to myself; sleeping on my own has become very important to me and on this journey in particular it was absolutely essential for me to, so to speak, savour my new independence entirely undisturbed. I couldn’t possibly go and complain to the purser, who would have merely pointed out that the boat was full, that it was a regrettable misunderstanding, and that if the misunderstanding were to be rectified I would be aware all night as I lay on my solitary bunk that the man who was to have shared my cabin was having to spend the night sleepless on a deckchair.
    I noticed that his toilet articles were of exclusive quality, and I was particularly impressed by his light-blue electric toothbrush and a miniature case with the monogram A.C. on it. I unpacked my own toothbrush and the other things I had considered necessary from my ascetic point of view, laid out my pyjamas on the other bunk and asked myself if I was hungry. The thought of the likely crush in the restaurant put me off, so I decided to skip dinner and have a drink in the bar instead. The bar was pretty empty this early in the evening. I sat down on one of the high stools, propped my feet on the traditional metal railing which runs round every bar on the continent, and lit my pipe.
    “A Black and White, please,” I said to the bartender, accepting the glass with a brief nod and making clear with my attitude that I had no inclination for conversation . I sat and pondered the Idea of Travel; that is to say, the act of travelling unfettered and with no responsibility for what one has left behind and without any opportunity to foresee what may lie ahead and prepare for it. Nothing but an enormous sense of peace.
    It occurred to me to think back over my earlier journeys, every one of them, and I realised to my astonishment that this must be the first time I had ever travelled alone. First came my trips with my mother – Majorca and the Canaries. Majorca again. After mother went away I travelled with Cousin Herman, to Lübeck and Hamburg. He was only interested in museums, though they depressed him; he’d never been able to study painting and he couldn’t get over it. Not a happy trip. Then the Wahlströms, who didn’t know whether to divorce or not and thought it would be easier to travel as a threesome.
    Where did we go…? Oh, yes, of course, Venice. And during the mornings they quarrelled. No, that wasn’t much of a journey. What next? A trip with a party to Leningrad. It was damn cold… And then Aunt Hilda,