„M Train“ ist stilistisch nicht ganz so gut und thematisch weit weniger interessant als „Just Kids“, aber dennoch lesenswert: Besonders an kalten Herbst- und Winterabenden, im Bett mit einer heißen Tasse Kaffee (oder Tee), wenn man die bei ITV 3 seit Jahren in Endlos-Schleife gezeigten mystery dramas schon alle zwei- oder dreimal gesehen hat.
My room was bright and cozy with a small terrace overlooking the London rooftops. I ordered tea and opened my journal, then immediately closed it. I am not here to work, I told myself, but to watch ITV3 mystery dramas, one after another late into the night. I had done this a few years before in the same hotel while ill; delirious nights dominated by a procession of clinically depressed, bad-tempered, heavy-drinking, opera-loving detective inspectors.
Returning to my room, I bundled up and had tea on the balcony. Then I settled in, giving myself over to the likes of Morse, Lewis, Frost, Wycliffe, and Whitechapel—detective inspectors whose moodiness and obsessive natures mirrored my own. When they had a chop, I ordered same from room service. If they had a drink, I consulted the minibar. I adopted their manner whether entirely engrossed or dispassionately disconnected.
During a break between Detective Frost and Whitechapel, I decided to have a farewell glass of port in the honesty bar adjacent to the library. Standing by the elevator I suddenly felt a presence beside me. We turned at the same moment and stared at one another. I was stunned to find Robbie Coltrane, as if I’d willed him, some days ahead of the Cracker marathon.
—I’ve been waiting for you all week, I said impetuously.
—Here I am, he laughed.
I was so taken aback that I failed to join him in the elevator and promptly returned to my room, which seemed subtly yet utterly transformed, as if I had been drawn into the parallel quarters of a proper tea-drinking genie.
Patti Smith (2015), M Train, New York: Alfred A. Knopf