The Librarianist

The issue at hand and the focal point of this meeting was the women’s baggage, which was imposing in scope and confusing to consider. The pieces were uniformly fashioned from of a heavy, dark blue canvas, but there was not a single piece of the lot which was not unique in its dimensions. One was as long and narrow as a stretcher; another tall and upright, like a postal box. Some were collapsible, while others were solidly constructed, canvas wrapped over board with leather corners fixed by brass rivets. The collective contents obviously spoke to some specific function, but what this was Bob couldn’t guess.

The porters were older men whose attitudes spoke of the hard truth of any working life. They were listening; they were not smiling. At one point a bag sitting uppermost on the island of luggage leaned, then dropped to the bottom of the pile; when it hit the platform it exploded and now there were wigs, of all things, strewn across the pavement. They were powdered wigs of the Victorian age, tall and white with long, trailing curls, and the women were agitated by this occurrence of spillage. They set the dogs on the ground and hurried to retrieve the wigs, to investigate their every curl and part for smudges, damages. The dogs followed behind, stepping from one paw to the other, the pavement being too cold to suit them.

When the women were satisfied the wigs had not been significantly damaged, they repacked them into the bag and took the dogs back up in their arms, returning to their original positions beside the porters, who had elected to take no action in the wig business, preferring only to observe. The women resumed with their pointings and speakings, the thorough description of their expectations per their luggage. By now the porters looked to be situated at an emotional outpost beyond amusement or disappointment, a sort of desert state, where one might do little else other than count the minutes as they rolled by. The women tipped the porters before stepping down the platform and out of sight; once they were gone the porters each produced a silver whistle, turned back to back, and together blew a sharp, shrill note into the air. Soon two junior porters, only just older than Bob by their looks, hurried up to meet their betters, who pointed to the tower of luggage, then the train, then walked away, in the direction of the canteen attached to the train station. The young porters looked at each other, and the luggage, and back at each other, and began the workaday labor of shifting the bags onto the train.

THE WOMEN AND THEIR DOGS ENTERED THE CABIN AND BOB PUSHED himself into a corner in hopes of achieving a smallness. They did not notice him at once, busy as they were making themselves comfortable, pulling off their leather gloves, loosing their neckerchiefs, removing their hats. Their faces were without any makeup or powder; they were well made, they were vigorous, and they cut a legitimate swath.

As they attended to their settling in, then did the dogs begin an investigation of Bob, approaching him where he sat, the both of them together, shoulder to shoulder as if in harness, to sniff and retreat, to look up and into Bob’s eyes and make their critical deductions. They sensed his passivity or goodness, and, concluding he could never be an enemy, they lay themselves down beside him, each upon the other, to take their rest. The woman nearer to Bob saw by the attentions of the dogs that he was there among them. She gave a hard squint and said, “June.”

“Yes, Ida, what is it?” asked the second woman.

“What is it, yes, that’s what I’d like to know.” The woman named Ida was pointing at Bob with one hand and patting her pockets with the other.

The second woman, June, looked to Bob and said, “Oh my goodness, it’s a boy.”

Ida had located her eyeglasses and donned these. Her squint melted away and she confirmed, “It is a boy. I’d thought for a moment it was a cushion, or a scrap of fabric.” She turned to June and asked, “Well, what is it doing here?”

“Much the same as the rest of us I should think, dear Ida.”

“But why here, when we have reserved, at some unreasonable cost and at a point in our lives where luxury is out of the question, this compartment for our own exclusive use?”

“Why must you ask me questions I cannot know the answer to?”

“It’s that I want to know things,” said Ida.

“We all want to, and we are every one of us disappointed, and we shall die not knowing.” June sighed. “I do wish it had announced itself. I feel rather nude, frankly. I hope we haven’t named any old scandals, or created any new ones.”

Ida looked up, through time, rearward. “No,” she said.

“Well, then, let us accept that we shan’t be alone, as was our hope. In brighter news, however, it does appear the boy is a mute, perhaps deaf into the bargain, and so we can easily pretend to be alone if not actually live out the reality of aloneness.”