"All my life I had wanted to go on the Orient Express. When I had travelled to France or Spain or Italy, the Orient Express had often been standing at Calais, and I had longed to climb up into it."

Fall 1928
Calais, France
 

 As the station master and the Wagon Lit porters dashed about making last minute preparations for our journey, I leaned back in the plush comfort of my sleeping compartment and let my mind wander.  I thought of my stories, my fairy tales for grown-ups, and of my fictional characters and how easily they came to me, like old friends stopping by for a cup of tea and a nice, long chat.

 At first, writing was something to do like playing the piano or painting a landscape, a way to cope, a diversion from the stress, confusion and loneliness that accompanied the Great War; but later it became my lifeline when I found myself alone with a daughter to raise, a mother to support, a  great country house to look after. And over time I came to realize that writing would be my profession.

 Feeling a bit drowsy, I closed my eyes and drifted back in memory two years to a time I remembered only in fragments. It was 1926, early December and three months past my 35th  birthday.

 At first I thought it was a dream, the kind that recur over and over in one's lifetime, the images fading in and out, the sketchiness of my lost hours and days. But then, of course, it hadn't been a dream.

 My London psychiatrist had called it, an hysterical fugue, a wandering state followed by amnesia, the psychological stress too much to bear, my mind locking away the trauma, my body fleeing the situation, my home, my life, my world as I knew it.

 The whistle shrieked as the train lurched forward waking me from my reverie. People crowded the platform. I was a foreigner here, an ordinary red-headed Englishwoman nearing middle age, dressed in a green skirt and brown jumper. A lady in a floppy, white hat looked my way, and somehow I drew comfort in pretending she had come to see me off.  I smiled at her and, to my surprise, she waved  back.

 As the train gained speed, I felt the power of the magnificent engine pull the cars along the rails through the darkness of the station and out into the morning light, the gold lettering below my coach window reflected in a baker's window:

 Over the years I had come to understand how large a role fate played in my life. Unlike the characters in my mystery novels, there were simply no outlines to follow, no signposts to read along the way, and so given this knowledge, I had no difficulty understanding my present predicament. I was alone, a bit terrified but also excited, travelling aboard the train of my dreams to an ancient part of the world.

 I had been alternately napping then waking most of the morning in tandem with the rocking motion of the cars and the occasional screeching of the brake as the train slowed for a stop. I had just pulled out an intricate piece of embroidery from my bag and had set to work when a knocking at my door disturbed me.

 The conductor poked his head in, announced that the train was full and asked if I would mind sharing my compartment with a gentleman en route to Milan.

 A glance at my railway timetable revealed we would soon be crossing the French border, and from there it was just over two hours to that magnificent city in northern Italy. I told the conductor I would enjoy some company given my long journey to the Middle East, and with that he tipped his hat and stepped back to allow a short, elderly man to enter the coach.

 Once inside, the man nodded quite formally in my direction and immediately began taking off his hat and overcoat and stowing them along with a small briefcase and black leather valise in the rack above his head.
 Before sitting down, he pulled at the knees of his tweed trousers and slowly lowered himself onto the plush velvet upholstery opposite me.  He then withdrew a slim volume from his coat pocket, the words Das Psychoanalytische clearly visible in the title, and holding the book close to his face, he began to read intently.
 An express train moving in the opposite direction raced by, the vibration shaking the coach, its warning signal wailing, coming within inches of a devastating collision. I looked out and saw my reflection in the windows of the neighbouring cars and, as it had been in my youth when glancing at my image in the beveled mirror above my dressing table, it was as if I were seeing a stranger.

 When the train passed, I returned to my sewing. Having to concentrate on the stitching of a complicated pattern had a calming effect, and coupled with the musical jogging of the train, the quick-quick-slow tempo, I began to imagine it all  a rather pleasing yet very fast fox trot, the motion pulling me back to a time having no definite shape or form.

 Each morning I would rise late without any enthusiasm or interest, barely reaching the chair by the large bay window. And there I would sit for hours looking down into the gardens, thinking of Mother, remembering how she had loved the roses, and how I'd looked forward to our afternoon walks, the two of us strolling together, arm in arm, planning meals, discussing my daughter's latest school project and often sharing thoughts on one of my stories.

 For months my notebook lay open upon the desk, a vague outline of a jewel theft and murder aboard the Blue Train. Oh, how I grew to hate that novel, the story so sluggish, the characters a mixture of what I had written before. Yet somehow I'd gotten through it and had managed to pull a few surprises out of my hat by the denouement, but it was a very routine affair and definitely not one of my best efforts.

 I looked up and suddenly realized my travelling companion was observing me closely. I had the oddest sensation. It felt as though his eyes had pierced my inner core, deep down to my most secret thoughts and desires. But then I stopped myself. It was mad to read too much into a look. Perhaps he had seen my photograph on the back of one of my books. European sales had increased dramatically over the past year, thanks mainly to the success of that miserable Blue Train. Or maybe, I reminded him of a friend or relative. Yes, that explanation would prove the most likely.

 "Guten Tag!  Wie geht es Ihnen?"

 His deep, raspy  voice startled  me. "I'm sorry. I don't speak German."

 "You are English?"

 "Yes, I am."

 "Needlework, I think, is not good for women," he told me, while taking off his wire-rimmed spectacles and rubbing his eyes.

 "I beg your pardon,” and what's wrong with embroidery I wanted to ask, but instead I averted my eyes and went back to my work not wishing to be rude in return.

 As if reading my mind, he smiled and pointed to the colorful fabric in my lap adding, "It provides too much time for the daydreams, often with disastrous consequences."

 "I disagree with you.  Sewing is an art form as well as a craft." Like painting or playing the piano, I considered it one of the true marks of a well- bred woman.

  "It's a beautiful pattern that, the flowers running in circles.  What do you call them in English?"

 "We call them, daisies. Surely you have them in your country?"

 "Ja, naturlich," and then he looked away and turned his attention to the scenery.

 The coach lights briefly came on when the train tunneled through a mountain, and then they dimmed as we returned to daylight and crossed over a trestle spanning a deep, rocky gorge.

 He seemed so delicate and fragile, this white-haired old man, yet at the same time quite remarkable with one hand cupped under his chin, sitting there gazing out the window, his eyeglasses laying open across his knee. What an interesting personality. Perhaps in my next novel . . .

 I was pondering the idea when a host of fictional characters instantly paraded in front of me, all passengers on a train, emerging in my consciousness as if through a cloudy veil.

 I saw a beautiful Hungarian countess, a Swedish medical missionary, and a very disagreeable German businessman. No, I was being too influenced by my fellow traveller. A ruthless American with a sinister past would be a much better murder victim, and I would see to it that everyone  had a motive.

 I set aside the sewing and withdrew a small leather-bound notebook from my bag. Writing quickly, I jotted down as much detail as I could remember before the images faded. I tweaked my Imagination and out popped an English governess, a British colonel returning from a post in India, a Russian princess, and an Italian-American car dealer.

 The train careened around a sharp curve, and as I put down my writing materials and returned to the pattern, I knew the Orient Express would play a major role as well.

 "Now do you see?" he said gesturing with his hand and shaking his head, one eyebrow arching slightly above the other.

 "I'm sorry?"

 "You will say you were working hard at your task, but, in fact . . ," and here he paused a moment with some effort as if he were translating word for word from one language to another, "you  engage in an art form that propels the mind to distant places. Is that not correct?"

 I looked down at the errant daisies, the yellow threads where the greens should be. I was wool-gathering. I would have to restitch that last bit. I felt foolish, but it was time to defend myself.  "I am a writer, you see, and daydreaming is how I make my living."

 "You work not in the real world but in the realm of make believe?"

"Yes, I suppose that's one way to put it."

  "Ja.  I guessed as much," and then he gave his short, gray beard a few quick tugs, and I started to laugh. I couldn't help myself. It felt good to release the tension bottled up so long inside me.

 "It seems, Mrs. Christie, we have very much broken the ice."  He carefully folded his glasses and slipped them into his vest pocket, and with his dark brown eyes twinkling over at me added, "And that, my dear lady, is a great improvement."

 Our famous train transported us across the French border, and as we headed for the northern Italian countryside, everything fell smoothly into place, the bits and pieces like those of a jigsaw puzzle, once a jumble were now instantly recognizable.

 This man knew my identity, and I had finally placed him. He was the famous psychoanalyst, Dr. Sigmund Freud, his face gracing countless magazine covers, his photograph featured in hundreds of newspaper  articles, and despite my current circumstances and the uncertainty of what lay  ahead, I found myself thinking  that, perhaps, he was right. This could be a very great improvement indeed.

 "Do you read murder mysteries, Dr. Freud?" I asked when we were comfortably seated in the dining car. The waiter had brought me a pot of Earl Grey, the doctor an espresso.

 "Ja. I recently read one while recuperating from surgery."

 This man must be very ill, I thought, and then I understood why the short trip from my compartment to the dining car had seemed for him such a laborious process.

 "I find your novels," he began, "as well as those of Miss Dorothy L. Sayers such light divertissements."

 I took this as a compliment despite the left-handed manner in which it was given.  One must need a break now and then from those dreary medical journals.

 As our train sped along, our conversation zigzagged here and there, barely touching the surface. I spoke of my daughter who was away for the first time at boarding school.  We compared travel itineraries. He was about to deliver a paper to colleagues at the Milan Psychoanalytic Institute. I told him I looked forward to visiting the architectural dig at Ur.  I'd read about these historical findings and was anxious to see for myself an authentic excavation site.

 "You are going much further than Stamboul?"

 "Oh, yes.  I'll only have a few hours there before resuming my journey by train to Damascus, the final leg being a bus trip across the desert to Baghdad."

 "You must be keen on ancient history then."

"Very much," I said. "I plan to visit the Babylonian ruins on my way south to the dig."

  "Ah, Babylon, the world's first great civilization."

 At this point, our discussion became quite lively for we had discovered a common ground, a mutual interest in the ancient world.  I spoke about the pyramid-like towers of this once splendid city, now sadly reduced to hills of rubble, the debris rising above the surrounding flatlands.

 "The towers were temples to the gods," he said, "built over tombs of the great kings.  Many had secret chambers, not unlike those of the human mind and heart.  Do you not agree?"

 "I read somewhere about your interest in antiquities," I said, anxious to steer the conversation away from the personal. After all, pleasant though he was, the doctor was still a stranger to me, and a foreigner as well.

 "Ja, that is correct.  I have a modest collection from the Mediterranean and near East regions."

 "I remember once seeing a photograph of your consulting room in Vienna. Greek and Roman busts, small artifacts displayed in glass cases. I seem to recall a large picture of the Egyptian temple at Abu Simbel. I think it was, hanging on a wall above your infamous couch."

 "You have an excellent memory, the eye for detail, quite essential to someone of your profession, but I think you do not care much for what I call, the psychologie, at least in the orderly universe you present to the reader."

 "I give it little thought actually. People commit murder for very mundane reasons: greed, lust, hatred, loyalty, or out of a sense of duty. Their motives are usually quite ordinary and straightforward. Nothing psychological about it, I'm afraid."

 "Yet when it comes to your own life, I believe you spend much time looking inward.  Introspection is the correct word in English, is it not?"

 I saw him wince, the creases and lines of pain clearly visible around his mouth. He massaged his jaw with the fingers of his right hand as if this might erase his discomfort. "You are ill. Why not take something for it?"

 "I take nothing to dull the mind." He took a sip of his coffee then said, "This is only speculation, but I wonder if you became a writer in order to control your world, to influence what you could not in your own life."

 "What do you mean?"

 "That in your fictional creations, someone commits a crime, then is discovered after many red . . . was is das word?"

 "Herrings," I supplied.

 "Ja, red herrings, and then your criminal is punished. There is a certain kind of symmetry for you are in charge of your characters' destinies."

 In some sense, he was right. My adult fairy tales, as I called them, had always felt safe. They revealed certain truths about human nature.

 "Yet I believe if you look deeply into your stories, examine them closely, you will find yourself there, hidden among all the deceptions.  Pardon me for saying this, but I think "Agatha Christie" may be your greatest mystery."

 I could feel my anger rise. "What good is self-analysis? My husband called it a sign of weakness. He'd tell me to ignore what I couldn't change and simply get on with life."

 "May I call you by your first  name?"

 "Why not, now that—how did you put it—the ice is considerably broken."

 "The best way to alleviate problems and to eliminate their symptoms is to talk about them. It is how we acquire self-knowledge. Do you not agree, Agatha?"

 The noise from the engine subsided as the train began to slow its speed. I was aware of music in the background. Someone was playing a gramophone, a familiar ballad I recognized as one of my husband's favorites, the tenor's voice urging me to remember:

 During the past few years, I often felt as if I were outside my body observing this red-headed woman playing a role in my life.  If we couldn't understand ourselves, how could we ever hope to know others?  I mulled all this over before answering his question.  "Yes, I suppose so.” Sometimes one needs help, professional help friends and relatives can’t provide.

 I picked up the silver teapot and freshened my cup, the lyrics of the song intruding again as I sat there quietly thinking of the man I had once loved, someone I had cared deeply about, had lived with for years and thought I had known. But then one night I discovered he wasn't that person at all.

 The train gathered momentum again, the rocking motion playing counterpoint to the lyrics:

 My hand began to shake. I put down the cup, managed to miss the saucer, and it tipped over staining the fine, white linen tablecloth. "But can we ever hope to understand ourselves completely?" I asked him. "Surely only God can . . ."

 "But should that stop us from searching?"

 I used my napkin to dab at the growing, brown spot that was now covering considerable territory. "I really don't know."

 "Gut!  We are finally making some progress."

 I suddenly felt like one of his patients, and I discovered I didn't like it one bit.  I excused myself, and as I headed for the ladies lounge, the train made an abrupt turn, and I stumbled against the cocktail bar. I put out my hand and was able to stop from falling, but as I did this, I glanced back and it seemed everyone's eyes were upon me.

 I  pushed  open the lounge door, the word "Ladies," etched  on  a brass plate, centered above a logo of twin lions proclaiming the train's royal  lineage. After a few minutes to compose myself, I returned to the dining car. The waiter was clearing our table, and I was disappointed to find that the doctor had gone.

 I walked back to my compartment and found Dr. Freud sitting by the window reading his book, tilting it toward the light.  He looked up and, with what I can only describe as genuine sincerity in his voice, said, "You have been very ill, Agatha.  Would you like to tell me about it?" And then he leaned forward and motioned for me to sit across from him.

 I wasn't sure what to do, but in the end, I did what he told me, and surrounded by the luxury appointments of gleaming wood and polished  brass, the dam suddenly broke and my words rushed out so fast no power in Heaven or on earth could stop them.

 "Some of my memories of those days seem clearer to me than others," I said, "but, still, I wonder if I remember events as they actually occurred or whether I only recall what people have told me."

 "You must say what comes to your mind. Tell me what you think you remember." He reached over and held my hand and reassured by his strong, calming presence, I began my own story:

 "I knew for some time I had neglected my husband and daughter and had paid even less notice to the servants, to the planning of the meals and to the daily routine of running a large country house. My mother had recently passed away, you see, and I was on the verge of a nervous  breakdown. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I'd be writing a cheque to the butcher or  grocer for some household  expense and forget my name."

 "You were in a deep state of melancholia," he told me."You had no interest in the outside world. You had lost someone to whom you were greatly attached and with whom you identified closely."

 "That's exactly how I felt."

 "Ja, I understand.  Please go on."

 "I don't know that I can. "

 He told me to close my eyes.

 I did as he suggested, shutting out everything in the coach, everything but his voice and the hypnotic, clickety-clack sound of the train steadily pushing forward over the steel rails, following its Alpine track.

 "I remember an evening  in  early December. I was upstairs dressing for dinner. We were going abroad the next morning, a family outing, and I'd just finished packing away our things in two small cases."

 I paused here, opened my eyes and saw Dr. Freud shaking his head, so I closed them again.

  "My husband came through the bedroom door saying he hadn't bought the tickets, that we wouldn't be going on holiday.  And at first I thought it a good sign, that he'd decided to spend the time at home with us. I started to tell him I was quite willing to change our plans, that our daughter would be so pleased, but he cut me off in mid-sentence."

 This part was traumatic for me, and I had great difficulty telling it all to a stranger. What was I doing, sitting here verbalizing my most secret thoughts? My characters would never do this. No, they would evaluate the situation in the most practical manner then act accordingly with the help of whatever was at hand:  a gun, a dagger, an undetectable poison, or a blunt instrument.

 "My husband said he had found someone else." I opened my eyes and looked out as we passed a peaceful village by a waterfall then watched the scene disappear around a bend as the train cleared the mountain pass and began to descend into the farm- dotted highlands.

 "He said they were in love, that they meant to be together no matter the cost. Then he abruptly turned away from me and left the room."

 "You must tell me everything you remember or think you remember about that night. Trust me. You will feel better afterwards."

 "It is all so hazy.  Time has made one day so much like the next."

 "You must try, Agatha."

 I closed my eyes.  "I recall driving down a dark, country lane.  I was running away, I suppose. People say—and I don't remember any of this—my Morris went off the road and into the tall grass. I must have hit my head hard against the dash or the steering wheel.  I abandoned the car leaving my fur coat and dressing case behind."

 "And then?"

 "There was a grand hotel and a ballroom with a large, crystal chandelier. I remember dancing with a tall, well-dressed gentleman. We did a Charleston, I think, then a tango followed by a waltz. I grew tired and rested my head on his shoulder .  . . the rest is in bits and pieces."

 "Ja, so?"

  "I heard someone call me by a name I vaguely recognized. I looked up and a man grabbed my hand then pulled me across the dance floor and up the staircase to my room.

The next morning I was travelling in a rather fancy limousine with this person who kept saying he was my husband, that we were going home.

And, of course, he was my husband, but not for long.  We divorced shortly afterwards, and he remarried." I stopped here for I had come to the end of what I'd remembered.

 "Do you regret your marriage, Agatha?"

 "As mad as it may seem, no. Not for a moment." My lack of hesitation surprised me.

 "And over time you became yourself again, resumed your writing, and went on with your life."

 "Yes, but there are still such gaps. I often wonder how many of my lost days have truly been accounted for and how many I have managed to piece together, construct from questionable sources?  I wonder if I will ever know what really happened?"

 "Does it matter?"

 "I  . . . I don't know," I said.

  "For now, you must not worry too much. In time you may remember more. Perhaps there is a book or two in what you have told me. It will be good to finally write about it."

 "But I couldn't. Not in my mysteries."

 "No, I think you will not be so obvious. Maybe you will do so under another name."

 "A pseudonym?"

 "Ja, a false name. Writers can do that. It seems a bit deceitful, but it is  . . ."

 "Wonderful therapy?" I suggested.

 "Exactly, once you get into the habit," and then he spoke slowly while patting my hand, "I have a feeling, Agatha, for you the best is yet to come."

 The engine drastically reduced speed, and as I looked out at the changing landscape, I realized we were approaching a major city.

 "I must leave you now," he said when the train came to a full stop at the Milan station.

 I reached up to help him with his bags, and watched him rise slowly, the physical distress evident in his small, deliberate movements. He put on his hat and folded the heavy overcoat over his arm.

 I wanted to thank him, to let him know how grateful I was.   For despite the unpleasantness of reliving the past, I discovered that I actually did feel better. I'd never spoken to anyone about that night except, of course, to the London psychiatrist, but at the time I was far too upset and intimidated to delve too deeply.

 "You are most welcome, my dear," he said as if reading my thoughts. "It was a pleasure to meet you," and then he put his arm around me and gave me a light hug.

 "Please take care," I told him.

 "I envy you," he said with a wistful air. "How I wish I could continue on with you. In my earlier days . . ."
 "Could you?"

 "I am afraid that is not possible, but there is something I want you to remember. Will you do this for me?"

 "Yes, of course."

 "You are not the simple, ordinary woman you show to the world, Agatha. You have great courage," and then he turned away from me and opened the door, but before leaving he looked back, his eyes peering over the top of his spectacles, a warm affection in his smile. "I want you to know I have always preferred your books to those of Miss Sayers. Wiedersehen," and with that he waved goodbye and went out the door and down the corridor.

The train was ahead of schedule when we arrived at the station in Stamboul. I put on my heavy woolen cloak to ward off the early morning chill, and after gathering up a few scattered belongings, I followed the porter off the train to collect my luggage.

 Later by water taxi, I crossed the Bosphorus, the narrow strip of water that separated Europe from Asia. I glanced back and saw that the fog had begun to lift, the sun filtering its rays as if through a fine veil, splashing its amber hues across the minarets and great dome of St. Sofia. The boat pushed on against the current, and I thought of my meeting with Dr. Freud, his words still clear in my mind:

 "I have a feeling, Agatha, for you the best is yet to come," and I knew then I was ready for the next phase in my life, a second spring, so to speak, and armed with what I was sure the good doctor would call, my new self-knowledge, I decided to settle back and enjoy the ride.