He had bought two tickets.
I had been waiting since eight forty on the platform at Roma-Areeiro, propped against the drinks machine, with the fairly stupid idea of getting into the next carriage and following him without being seen. He arrived at nine oh six. Brown suit, shirt buttoned to the collar, sack of unbleached canvas folded under his arm, and he came straight at me the way you walk up to a counter to collect a parcel.
"Second carriage," he said. "Window seat, on the left facing forward. On the bridge, that's the good side."
"You knew I'd come."