André Aciman - Find Me

Why so glum?

I watched her get on at the station in Florence. She slid open the glass door and, once inside the car, looked around, then right away dumped her backpack on the empty seat next to mine. She took off her leather jacket, put down the English-language paperback she was reading, then placed a square white box on the luggage rack and threw herself onto the seat diagonally across from mine in what seemed a restless, ill-tempered huff. She reminded me of someone whod just had a heated argument seconds before boarding and was still stewing over the cutting words either she or someone else had spoken before hanging up. Her dog, which she was trying to keep tucked between her ankles while holding a red leash looped around her fist, seemed no less jittery than she was. Buona, good girl, she finally said, hoping to calm it down, buona, she repeated, as the dog still fidgeted and tried to squirm out of the firm grip. The presence of the dog annoyed me, and instinctively I refused to uncross my legs or budge to make room for it. But she didnt seem to notice either me or my body language. Instead, she immediately rummaged through the backpack, found a slim plastic bag, and took out two tiny bone-shaped treats for the dog, then laid them in her palm and watched the dog lick them off. Brava. With the dog momentarily placated, she half lifted herself to fix her shirt, shifted in her seat once or twice, then slumped into a sort of upset stupor, staring out indifferently at Florence as the train began to pull out of the Santa Maria Novella station. She was still stewing and, perhaps without noticing, shook her head, once, twice, obviously still cussing whomever shed quarreled with before boarding. For a moment she looked so totally forlorn that, while staring at my open book, I caught myself struggling to come up with something to say, if only to help defuse what had all the bearings of a gathering storm about to erupt in our little corner at the very end of the car. Then I thought twice about it. Better to leave her alone and go on with my reading. But when I caught her looking at me, I couldnt help myself: Why so glum? I asked.

Only then did it occur to me how thoroughly inappropriate my question must have sounded to a complete stranger on a train, to say nothing of one who seemed ready to explode at the slightest provocation. All she did was stare at me with a baffled, hostile glint in her eyes that presaged the very words about to cut me down and put me in my place. Mind your own business, old man. Or: Whats it to you, anyway? Or shed make a face and utter a withering rebuke: Jerk!

No, not glum, just thinking, she said.

I was so taken aback by the gentle, almost rueful tone of her reply that I was left more speechless than if she had told me to fuck off.

Maybe thinking makes me look glum.

So yours are happy thoughts?

No, not happy either, she replied.

I smiled but said nothing, already regretting my shallow, patronizing banter.

But maybe glum after all, she added, conceding the point with a subdued laugh.

I apologized for sounding tactless.

No need, she said, already scanning the beginnings of the countryside outside the window. Was she American, I asked. She was. Me too, I said. I could tell from your accent, she added with a smile. I explained that Id been living in Italy for almost thirty years, but couldnt for the life of me undo the accent. When I asked, she replied she had settled in Italy with her parents when she was twelve.

We were both headed for Rome. For work? I asked.

No, not work. Its my father. Hes not well. Then, raising her eyes at me: Might explain the glumness, I suppose.

Is it serious?

I think so.

Im sorry, I said.

She shrugged her shoulders. Life!

Then, changing her tone: And you? Business or pleasure?

I smiled at the mock-formulaic question and explained that I had been invited to give a reading to university students. But I was also meeting my son, who lived in Rome and was picking me up at the station.

Surely a sweet boy.

I could tell she was being facetious. But I liked her breezy, informal manner that skidded from sullen to sprightly and assumed mine did as well. Her tone jibed with her casual clothes: scuffed hiking boots, a pair of jeans, no makeup, and a half-unbuttoned, faded, reddish lumberjack shirt worn over a black T-shirt. And yet, despite the rumpled look, she had green eyes and dark eyebrows. She knows, I thought, she knows. Probably knows why I made that silly comment about her glumness. I was sure strangers were always finding one pretext or another to start a conversation with her. Which explains that irritated dont you even try look she projects wherever she goes.

After her ironic comment about my son, I was not surprised to find our conversation lagging. Time to pick up our respective books. But then she turned to me and asked point-blank: Are you excited about seeing your son? Again, I thought she was ribbing me somehow, but her tone was not flippant. There was something at once alluring and disarming in the way she got personal and cut straight through the hurdles between strangers on a train. I liked it. Perhaps she wanted to know what a man almost twice her age felt before meeting his son. Or perhaps she simply didnt feel like reading. She was waiting for me to answer. So, are you happymaybe? Nervousmaybe?

Not really nervous, or just a bit, perhaps, I said. A parent is always scared of being an imposition, to say nothing of a bore.

You think youre a bore?

I loved that what Id just said had caught her by surprise.

Maybe I am. But then, lets face it, who isnt.

I dont think my father is a bore.

Had I perhaps offended her? Then I take it back, I said.

She looked at me and smiled. Not so fast.

She prods, then drills right through you. In this, she reminded me of my sonshe was slightly older, but had the same ability to call out all my gaffes and cagey little ploys, leaving me scuttled after wed argued and made up.

What kind of person are you when someone gets to know you? I wanted to ask. Are you funny, jovial, playful, or is there a glum, ill-tempered serum coursing in your veins that clouds your features and blots out all the laughter promised by that smile and those green eyes? I wanted to knowbecause I couldnt tell.

I was about to compliment her on her ability to read people so well when her phone rang. Boyfriend, of course! What else. Id grown so used to constant cell phone interruptions, that it was no longer possible for me to meet students over coffee or talk to my colleagues or to my son even without a mobile phone call barging in. Saved by the phone, silenced by the phone, shunted by the phone.

Hi, Pa, she said as soon as it rang. I believed she was picking up the phone right away to prevent the loud chime from disturbing other passengers. But what surprised me was how she yelled into her phone. Its the damned train. It stopped, Ive no idea for how long, but should be no more than two hours. See you soon. The father was asking her something. Of course I did, you old goon, how could I forget. He asked something else. That too. Silence. Me too. Lots and lots.