THE THIRTY-THIRD
Again he was at a train station three quarters of an hour earlier than he needed to be. He got that from his father. Better an hour early than a second late, old Vrána used to say to his sons. But still they were always and everywhere late, that’s how Martin saw it right now. In time for them to understand what it’s all about; too late for them to care. There remained them the irony of latecomers, who would say to themselves, Just don’t s**t yourself!, and then watch as the well-fed buttocks of other men stuffed themselves into trains that they, the Vránas, wouldn’t be taking now.
And thus Martin gazed around the long, so long platform of the tube station in London. The boarding platform of sandy yellow concrete was fitted at the very level of the train doors, which pass
