Unit 10 Two Strangers Not that I would have cared. No, it is not the reason why I stopped. He gave a faint sigh, like the sigh of one who has a thousand stories to tell but only a moment time left in one’s life, and not enough power to utter a single word clearly enough to be paid attention to — to be respected by the listener.
In fact it was the sound of a piece of metal hitting the asphalt pavement that made me turn around. I had already passed the man, walking hastily — as I always do — in order to reach my destination in time. I had all the time in the world that evening. And I had nowhere to go — I just walked, as I always do, determined to get somewhere in time.
But as I tried to pick my keys from the pocket of my brown leather jacket, a small coin fell on the ground — making that tingling noise, the voice of one’s legal property being torn from one’s hands and given to strangers to trample underfoot. Why would I pick the keys from the pocket here, on the street, kilometres away from any door which the keys could open? It was the sense of security: wishing to be sure that the situation is completely in my control — that there is nothing which could hinder me from doing my will precisely in the way I prefer, precisely at the time I choose. — Like, having lost one’s keys when one wishes to open a door.
Yes, I had heard right: there was a ten cents coin lying on the ground beside a man, a stranger to me, and seemingly a stranger to all the people who passed him on the pavement that afternoon. It was spring then; the first warm and sunny evenings of the year were at hand. The day was all too beautiful to be wasted in talking to a complete stranger — who was not even handsome or beautiful, or good-looking — and listening to the obscure groans he uttered. Why should I care what he was trying to say, what kind of a burden he might have on his heart?
But the coin I did pick from the ground, and put it into the pocket of my fashionable leather jacket. “Fashionable...” that’s what they said in the advertisements of the clothing company. This model was “in” now. Latest design, latest cuts, best colours.
I was better off than the old man, who was sitting on the bench with a newspaper in his hands, murmuring something at me. I guess my income had to be twice better than what he had. And I looked more stylish — younger, healthier, more joyous.
The man grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and drew me closer to himself. It was surprizing — such sudden demand of personal contact, intimacy which two strangers passing each others on the street do not often develop between themselves. I was curious to know what could come out of such an exceptional situation, I... I forgot to draw myself back, to forcefully free myself of the grip of the man and rush away.
The old man whisked his newspaper into my hands and said: “Please read it for me.” I am not so sure what the words exactly were which he uttered from his mouth, but this is what I understood his meaning to be. The man was not blind: he could see both me and all the people who were walking on the street. But perhaps his sight was too weak for reading the small print of a newspaper.
I looked at the front page; it was dated four days ago. Disappointing. To waste a nice day in reading news that were no news any more. Isn’t it like throwing one’s coins away when one could as well buy candies with them? Or sitting beside a stranger when one could as well walk free and lone on the street, hurrying somewhere — and then hurrying from that somewhere into another somewhere, and perhaps sit down in this somewhere, and be lone and free.
“Read the classified advertisements”, said my friend. — The old man whom I scarcely knew at all, but who had courageously and intrusively grabbed my sleeve, demanding me to pay attention to himself.
I opened the requested page, and, so... what then? Should I read aloud all the announcements, all these cats for sale, lost dogs wanted, motor vehicles rented, repaired, washed, and painted?
“Go to the miscellaneous section”, the man pleaded.
Those ads were not so many, only fifteen or twenty. I was pleased to see that the effort of reading them would perhaps not be more than what I was ready to invest my energy in right then. In a monotonous, disinterested voice I recited announcement after announcement: second-hand bicycles, unused electronic devices, lost wedding ring...
“There! Read that one again, oh please”, said the man, filled with excitement.
“Mr. Whoever, the lost wedding ring described in your ad is in my possession. Meet me at railway station next Sunday, at 19 o’clock.”
It was Sunday then. And the time was, at the moment when I looked at my watch and announced it to the man who asked about it, 15:27.
My friend wanted to explain something to me. He leaned forward, getting his face close to my ear, and whispered: “It is the ring of my mistress. She lost it a month ago. Oh! What a sorrowful thing it was, to find out that the ring which you have carried for five decades cannot be found from anywhere. I bought it at Dahlberg’s jewellery shop, I can still remember how the saleswoman was dressed that morning. In pink, that’s what it was, in soft, charming pink... But the shop isn’t there any more. I think they went bankrupt soon after the war. Such a pity, it was a nice little store. And we have our fiftieth anniversary on Sunday.”
It was Sunday then. The man didn’t say more about his wife or the wedding ring, he only brushed his grey hair with a plastic comb. There was a cute mixture of old and new in him — a mixture of the past and the present, years gone by and years currently created before our eyes.
“I think I will go and buy a bunch of roses”, the grey-haired gentleman said. “I’ll ask the saleswoman to choose beautiful ones. What do you think, will she be dressed in light pink? Just like the lady at Dahlberg’s jewellery shop. But my mistress, she wore a dark dress this morning. That’s how you can tell that a woman is getting old... They wear darker clothes. No, I will tell my darling to wear something brighter this evening.”
The man stood up and started to slowly walk toward the direction of the railway station. There was a distinguished air of nobility in him. Something that cannot be purchased with money, or won in a lottery. Was he stylish? Yes — he was not like the laughing youngsters in the advertisements, but there was something else in him, something more admirable, more valuable.
I still held the newspaper in my hand when the old gentleman disappeared behind the corner of one of the houses. I didn’t open or read the paper any more, I only sat in silence on the bench. Time was the only thing that moved, everything else stood still.
I leaned back in the bench and stared into the horizon. I did not want to walk away, hurrying into a direction chosen at random.
