The Passenger

Short Story

Sometime in Berlin the old man boarded, looking like he’d done this hundreds of times, and took the empty booth as if it had been held vacant for himself. In truth none of the dozen people standing in the crowded carriage had noticed it until he took it, and once he had, they became very aware that it was a train they were on. Many looked through the window to ascertain where they were, and where they were going. Others patted themselves down and checked pocket watches, looking around for whatever baggage they might have brought along.

Having gathered their wits, they resumed idle chatter with the strangers around them, finding themselves immersed in deep conversation they couldn’t remember starting, but they sounded so natural, fluent, and appropriate, that it felt more awkward to stop than to continue. And so the comfortable din between complete strangers harmonized with the chugging of the locomotive far ahead.

At length, some eyes returned to the solitary booth. The man’s back to the brown leather seat was straight and rigid, his face obscured by the day’s newspaper, in which he was quite immersed. He never looked over it or to the left through the window, even as they passed picturesque valleys and mountain ranges. More than once, a group of children rushed down the aisle, bumping close to him in their chase, but he took no note of them.

The next stop neared, and that way a third of the conversations met their natural and convenient end, as the passengers stood and instinctively found their luggage already in their hands. They knew their destination as if it had been momentarily forgotten, and the journey itself was a short holiday. The stop was Paris, at a tiny station which natives couldn’t remember, and visitors couldn’t care about, distracted by the monument it cowered under.

Even the old man finally lent his attention to the window, bored by the current events in print and craning his neck to search for others. But as his eyes scanned around the skeletal underside of the Eiffel Tower, he scoffed and returned to his reading. Other travelers took note of this, and though many had planned to step off the train and take in the rare view, they decided by virtue of his reaction that it wasn’t dignified, that the ten minutes’ stay at the station was better spent in sipping their drinks.

This gave them a chance to see his face, however, which satisfied nobody. His eyes were deep-set and squinting under small round frames, not daring to look anywhere but straight forward. A thin mouth curtained by a thick white moustache disappointed those who imagined an intellectual, romantic mystery aboard with them. Perhaps a writer, or detective, with white hair as wizened as that. Nevertheless, he could not spoil their journey beyond a moment’s anticlimax, and soon the train was on its way, with more vacant seats to host the remainders.

He’d only been aboard an hour and already causing trouble as the sun rose high and warmed the tables in preparation for lunch, which was to be served after the next stop. When Rome was called, again hands moved to don caps, and reach into bags for cameras nestled there, for there were no Romans on board now, only visitors who didn’t think to question how they’d reached the other edge of the continent so quickly. But as they arrived, all eyes turned instinctively to the old man, his back straight and newspaper up, to see if they should condescend to catch a glimpse of the city in the hour they were stopped there.

In the moment of disappointment, and after many caps were again removed in shame, a crinkle of paper drew their attention to the retreating figure who had abandoned his post in the booth and meandered through the open doors. A polite stampede ensued as new friends climbed over discarded bags and coats to get outside. The outing only lasted until someone happened to glance back and see the old man had already returned to his seat inside.

The waiters were awfully confused and in a rush to bring out the meals ahead of schedule. Lunch was over with by the time they departed.

The passenger didn’t seem content with the experience at all, to all society’s dismay. The food was sent back cold and half-eaten, the coffee untouched, and though they stopped at many other historic cities for an hour at a time, he did not shift from his seat, as if the brief attempt in Rome had proven there was nothing out there for him to enjoy.

It was nearing the evening and more than three quarters of the passengers had disappeared at various junctions, having exchanged addresses and promises to keep in touch. The remainder napped and waited to get home, having thoroughly enjoyed themselves despite him, which made their enjoyment all the sweeter, done in spite.

Few among them did not sleep, having committed themselves for the final length of the journey to decipher this man and his displeasure with just about anything, when at last he put away his newspaper, having finished it.

But even this didn’t please him.

As he opened his satchel to put the paper away, his hand found a foreign object inside, and procured a small book he didn’t recognize. He was astounded as he inspected the cover, raised his brows enough for the others to see that his eyes were, indeed, blue. It was a romance novel.

Someone must have snuck it in — yes, that was it! Surely he wouldn’t have wasted his money on such a fanciful thing. He scoffed as he flipped to the title page, in case anyone got the wrong idea. After blubbering something about switched luggage, he at last condescended to pass the final hour in reading, if only to criticize it and any earnest readers. The best that could come of this was falling asleep from boredom.

As the sun set over the hills and the hum of the engine and swing of the carriage rocked the rest of the passengers to sleep, he read.

And read, and read, and read, and forgot all about scoffing.

One waiter, so as not to interrupt him, snuck a lit oil lamp onto the table in front of him and pretended to forget it there after securing the overhead luggage, and the passenger slid it closer.

His eyes were wide and scanned from line to line, missing nothing, though indeed he’d ended up reading the same passage of his newspaper ten or twenty times with no interest. Now he inhaled the words, fruitful language and prose he never would have sacrificed more than a minute in indulging. He fought, he swooned, he flirted, through the trials of romance written upon the pages, and at last when he turned the final leaf, there were tears in his eyes.

He sighed and relaxed in his seat, gazing longingly through the window at the waning moon, as dark trees passed by. And in the shadowy carriage he dreamt away the last minutes of the journey.

It had been a great day for all, and all were soon to be home again in their own beds.