How curious.
I pat the empty aisle seat beside me. With a quick nod, he kneels to stow his handmade box below the seat. He cannot unbend his body, so I leap up and wrap an arm around him, easing him back up.
“Thank you. Thank you, dear lady.”
That scent. What is it?
A sense of familiarity on the remembered notes of a melody.
The water is wide, I cannot get o'er,
And neither have I wings to fly;
Give me a boat that can carry two,
And both shall row, my love and I.
I look for something recognizable in his worn face. “Are you on holiday?” I ask with a polite smile, and he works his mouth behind his full mustache, his eyes framed by pleasant wrinkles. “Ahhh, dat would be a nice ting. But no, I go for to work. They need many nice things in their fancy houses by the sea.”
Paint. It’s paint I smell. “Are you an artist?”
“Something of the sort,” he says. “I build the furniture.” He sinks into the seat beside me with a deep sigh and slouches back. “They want me to make them chairs and couches and all the chaise lounges, but I cannot be sitting in them myself. Is funny, oui?” His aged face is warm and inviting. He gives a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Such a mess I am.”
I smile. “No, not a mess.” I point at the stains on his palm. “Just…artistic. Actually I caught the scent of paint when you boarded.” I inhale and a memory tickles again. One my mind cannot quite reach.What is it?
“No, no.” He shakes out his oversized coat and the aroma intensifies. “Is the mineral spirits and turpentine. I use it to finish the furniture. Is the same they use, the artists, to thin the paint.”
Yes. Thin the paint. Of course. The aroma is slightly off-putting, but I find myself wishing he’d sit beside me the entire trip.
He digs through his bag and draws out a slender box made of dark wood, and lays his hand on top. “Is rosewood. I have not enough left over to make whole furniture, so I make box. And this”—he runs his fingertip along the lighter border—“is cherry.”
“It’s lovely.” Simple scrollwork and a single rose grace the front of the box, but the rest is smooth and polished.
He smiles, seeming pleased that I approve of his work. “Is for you, miss. Take it.” He shoves it into my hands.
“Oh no, I cannot pay—”
“Isgift.For your kindness.”
I swallow. I’ve done nothing of great consequence.
“I want you have it. A whole train, and only you are kind.”
I thank him warmly and cradle the box, which seems to gratify him more than payment.
AJ is now awake and he’s staring at me. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.” He raises one eyebrow. “Finding connections already, are you? Someone you once knew?”
I shake my head. “Merely a fellow passenger.”
“Whose language you speak.”
The kaleidoscope shifts and I see clearly.
He hasn’t been speaking with an accent at all—he’s been speaking another language.
And I understood every word.
My past self is a curious mystery whose pages I am turning almost by accident. I smile at him. “Pardon, but where are you from?”
