The Scientist

Berlin, May 30

There was a friendly scientist on the train from Vienna to Krakow. Or was it from Prague to Berlin? A mop of coarse dark hair ran ragged across his round face, from which he sipped his coffee innocently. He had glasses, and a flattering stare. My attention was framed by his rotating expression, which varied from warm nervousness to thoughtful deliberation. We shared the world from that tiny compartment, eyeful of the landscape racing forward and backward, as we sat opposite each other. Frequently he returned to his work which, as far as I could tell, involved wildly jotting down scribbles on graph paper. He was watching me with care; such a warm stare it made me uneasy. Whenever travelling alone with foreign faces, for any distance in any place, you form and unfold imaginary stories that fill the void of communication. I briefly imagined him as my real father, having left me for adoption years ago to help me escape a brutal Soviet life. Upon realisation that his long and forgotten son was actually here with him, he struggled to keep the smile from stretching across his long, thin lips. He kept glancing back to make sure, with smug furtive looks that hinted a secret known only to him. I should add he was feeling quite pleased with himself for having wasted no time whatsoever in a futile search for his lost son, to finally encounter him as a fully-grown child, travelling confidently without the use of his paternal wisdom. Now he opens his mouth, ready to snap me away from my daydream, unable to use him like every other listless plaything.