Wait For Me

They were both in the train station. Both had arrived nearly an hour ahead of time. Neither wanted to sit, nevertheless, because the trip meant several hours with little opportunity to stretch their legs. Both had ordered a beer, because it was extremely hot that day. They discovered the news on the screen that was located three feet above their heads on the wall farthest from the tracks was as boring as the daily paper somebody had left on the bar. When you’re waiting for a train or bus or airplane, almost everything is boring. You just want to get on with your journey. Nothing else really matters. It’s hard to focus on anything until you’re on board, safe in your seat.

Strangers who aren’t interested in the surroundings they’re on the verge of leaving behind are generally not very keen on starting up conversations. Why would they be? The words would be wasted. Why talk banalities with someone you’ll never ever see again? They don’t need to tell each other how hot it is. They aren’t likely to pull out their political beliefs for discussion. (Nobody can get serious about politics in under an hour.) It’s also not very likely the topic of family will come up, because that’s really a bit personal for strangers to have a conversation about spouse, lover, parents, or children.

These two strangers were different. They had both entered the cafeteria at almost the same time, each using a different door. They had both looked around, saw there was nobody else there except for the person behind the counter, and both had decided not to sit at a table, even though all of them in the cafeteria - eight or so - were empty. It was too hot to sit, perhaps.

The two customers were women. One was average height, wore glasses that made her green eyes more attractive, and was holding something in her left hand. Her elbow was resting on the bar and when she shifted position, a smudge of sweat was visible on the metal that otherwise had been wiped clean. It was that hot. She wore a simple shift with a large pocket that looked useful for storing a ticket or book of crossword puzzles when taking a trip. Her well-made sandals had strips of leather that were interlaced in a very unique way. She liked them because people often admired the sandals and the way they were so intricately woven, but even more so because they were so comfortable.

The other woman was just slightly shorter and less slender. She too was dressed for the stifling weather. Her top, which hung to mid-hip and had an asymmetrical neckline, was a blue that could only be defined as the color of the ocean. It matched her eyes, which were not only blue but deep. When she spoke, her voice was a silken current, gentle, melodious. She asked:

“Are you waiting for the train to Portugal?” Her expression, needless to say, was pleasant. Just that: pleasant. It was suggestive of nothing, yet the other woman paused before answering.

“Yes, although it’s not direct. You have to change in Vigo.”

“Yes, of course. But from there you can go nonstop to Porto.” The tone of voice may have indicated just the smallest amount of irritation. The woman with the blue eyes and blue top knew full well that there was no direct train from Santiago to Portugal. Nobody had ever thought to establish that route, which would have been very popular, but for now it didn’t exist. It wasn’t easy to get there.

“My name is Clotho,” said the woman who had irritated her, just a little, but her tone was friendly and she had introduced herself, after all.

“My name is Serena,” was the reply of the woman in blue. “Your name is rather unusual. Is it a nickname?” Now it was the woman with the elegant sandals’ turn to be slightly annoyed. She always got either that question or the one about whether her real name was Clotilde. Neither question was ever welcome.

“No. That is my real name. My complete name, not shortened from anything. My mother chose it.” Clotho could have gone on to explain the origin of her name, but she really didn’t feel like it. It was too hot to go into detail about anything. Besides, if somebody wanted to know about her name, she would spell it for them. Let them go look it up. She considered ordering another beer, but decided one was enough. She’s grab a liter of mineral water before boarding.

“All right, Clotho. Nice to meet you.” They hadn’t met, not really, but they were sharing the same six feet of the bar, so it was kind of like meeting. “My father chose my name because he was so drawn to the ocean.” Clotho wasn’t sure she understood the reasoning of Serena’s father, but was going to try to figure it out. She glanced overhead, at the screen that now showed highlights from a soccer match. She decided not to ask for the explanation of Serena’s name. She wasn’t sure she liked the name, to be honest.

Then Clotho toyed with the idea of taking out what was in her large pocket. Maybe she felt fidgety because she wasn’t using her hands. Maybe she wanted a way to avoid talking with the other woman, with Serena. Talking? More like chatting. She hated chatting. Serena spoke:

“What’s that in your hand?” The question was a bit rude, because if a person holds something so you can’t see it, it’s obviously because they don’t want you to see it. It was almost as if she were grasping at anything to keep the conversation going, despite the fact that there really hadn’t been much of a conversation. So far.

“It’s a spindle,” Clotho informed her. As she said the words, her right hand was groping in her pocket for the wool or flax that would be transformed into thread during the trip. The perfect activity for several hours on a train. As soon as she said it, however, she regretted providing the information to a stranger. However, she had been the one who’d offered her name, so she was partially guilty of inviting conversation.

“So is spinning a hobby or do you make things to sell?” Serena was thinking about people she knew who made exquisite yarns they then sold to fiber shops. It was nice work. Soothing, even. You made soft threads, maybe in pretty colors, and you got paid for that because people liked making things from them: sweaters, caps, scarves. 

“Let’s just say it’s my life’s work. Call it a vocation, if you like.” The response was evasive. Both of them knew it. Clotho hadn’t called it her passion, but the other woman guessed it might be. 

“I’m a sort of coast guard,” volunteered Serena, realizing immediately that her story rang false. “No, just kidding. I’m a tour guide. I take people to some of the islands off the coast. People are really drawn to places like the Illas Cíes because they have such a fascinating history. Did you know both Strabo and Pliny wrote about them? That they were inhabited around 3500 BCE and there were convents. Now, though, there are only tourists. We - our tours - usually go by ferry from Vigo.” Serena was ready to launch into her guide’s speech, but fell silent when she saw Clotho’s face. There was no expression on it.

It was obvious that Clotho wasn’t impressed or even interested. She thought places like the Cíes Islands did not need tourists destroying them, even if they simply stayed a night or two in a tent for a reasonable fee. She was tempted to say something, or at least to ask if tour companies took pains to ensure there was no negative impact on the environment. People always created so much garbage, even in just twenty-four hours. It was disgusting how little they cared and how they just tossed cans, bottles, and bags onto the grass or in the water. 

Still, Clotho didn’t want to get entangled in a conversation because she knew it would make her mad. No need to aggravate a perfect stranger. Serena probably had nothing to do with policing the grounds of the islands. Besides, it was way too hot to get into an argument, least of all with a total stranger.

“Have you ever considered a different career?” Clotho asked, aware that this question might be seen as a non sequitur, but wanting to push the ethical dimensions of the tourist industry a bit further. She wanted to hear Serena’s guarantee that life on the Cíes was safe, that they were protected. 

Serena chuckled - which also irritated Clotho - and acted as if all tourists were well-behaved. “I mean, they are literally seduced by the islands that have no buildings. I suspect they feel like Gulliver or some other travelers on the high seas. Maybe the ferry only takes forty minutes to transport them, but they feel like ancient sailors. That’s what they tell me, anyway.” The response was a raised eyebrow.

Clotho then felt compelled to point out that spinning, although less bold and adventurous, was an important life skill. A spinner learned hand and eye coordination, learned to regulate thickness and texture. When people purchased the thread or yarn and made winter garments, they were seeking to create warm apparel that would shield them from the cold. People needed textiles, woven from the fibers, to survive. Spinning was a very satisfying occupation. Serena probably didn’t share that opinion. She was talking now.

“Oh, it’s so interesting watching how thrilled our customers are when they arrive on an empty island! Completely empty, nothing but rocks and trees. Yet they are ecstatic. Some of them get down and kiss the ground. Isn’t that crazy? Some say they never want to leave. The nothingness absorbs them completely. It addles their brains.”

Funny old word: addled. It was appropriate, though. Clotho was beginning to squirm, in part from the heat, but also because she was biting her tongue. She was getting the impression that visitors were actually lured to the Cíes because they’d seen or read advertisements promoting them, not because of some innate capacity of the little bits of land to draw people to them. She was getting more and more uncomfortable, but couldn’t put her finger on the reason for it. She had a few photos on her phone of her work and showed them to Serena, whose response was a bit strange:

“How strong are the threads? I mean, are they like cords or ropes? Can you tie something up with them?”

Clotho just stared.

“I mean, could you use what you make to keep people from drowning?”

“What?”

“You know, sometimes the waves get really rough and people can get washed overboard if they aren’t tied to the mast.”

Talk about non sequiturs! Clotho’s left foot, resting on the metal rung by the bar, began to move up and down. It was like she was moving a foot pedal on a loom or trying to swim to safety. Serena was completely focused on the sea. Maybe it was because it was so hot and being on a shore with a breeze was all she could think about.

“Well, I have to admit there have definitely been some lives that were saved by holding on to one of my threads, or ropes, or whatever you want to call them. It’s kind of up to me to decide who lives and who dies.”

It was now Serena’s turn to gawk. She had merely been joking, but Clotho seemed utterly serious, as if she thought she had control over people’s lives. It was then that she noticed her companion - or rather, the woman who was still a stranger - had taken something out of the knapsack she was carrying. Instead of the cotton or flax or wool she’d expected to see, it was a scrap pf paper with some random writing on it.

“What’s that?” Again she had asked a question she probably shouldn’t have asked. Her voice was still fluid and pleasant, but she seemed anxious to draw people out and was unaware of how impertinent she sounded. Maybe she was self-centered. Maybe she liked the attention she got when she talked. People did find it hard to ignore her, after all.

Clotho glanced at her watch and saw there were only fifteen minutes left before they needed to move out of the waiting area onto the platform. She hoped the train would arrive on time, because she didn’t like the way she was getting drawn into a rather useless conversation with somebody she didn’t know. She fidgeted some more and thought if Serena by some chance ended up sitting near her, in the same train car, she would have to put cotton in her ears and pretend to doze off.

Serena noticed the slight gesture of impatience, which she understood, but she couldn’t resist saying something more. 

“You know, you and I aren’t really strangers. Or, we might be strangers, since we’ve never actually met before, but I sense we’ve got a lot in common.”

Oh no, thought Clotho. Here it comes. Just when I’m looking forward to ending this conversation. 

“Yes, of course,” continued Serena, oblivious to Clotho’s attempt to provide no response. “We both have a lot to do with making things. You make something that shelters people and keeps them warm. I make trips with people. I take them out onto the water where it can get choppy and dangerous. Some could even die. That’s not my intention, naturally.”

Clotho stared, open-mouthed. Her left hand grasped the spindle more tightly and the fingers of her right hand clamped around the fuzzy bundle in her pocket. She was not going to listen to this woman any longer. Then an image of islands appeared to her and she heard herself whispering Sirenum scopuli. The words were barely audible, but Serena discerned them.

“Yes, but those are covered with sharp rocks. I prefer the Cíes because they are flatter and visitors find it easier to walk around. That way I don’t have to worry about them tripping all the time and getting hurt.”

As if that weren’t your plan, thought Clotho. Letting them come to harm.

The spinner backed away, her hands over her ears. She wasn’t going to look at the blue top, wasn’t going to look into the deep blue eyes, wasn’t going to have this conversation. She had so much to do, so much that needed to be made, and she needed to leave for Portugal. Now.

Serena watched. She knew what Clotho was thinking. She also had no desire to continue discussing threads and water, wool and islands. She too had work to do and was looking forward to doing some of it in Portugal, because Portugal also had islands, lots of them, lovely islands. People wanted to visit them, too. If they never returned, that was not her concern.

The two strangers parted, even if just to head in the same direction - where the train would pass by at any minute. 

They parted, but they knew the threads they had spoken were inevitably connected and that they were inextricably bound to one another. That could happen when you have a chance meeting when waiting for a train and you have too much time on your hands. Neither one could know, though, whether one would be dashed on the rocks and drown or one would toss a lifeline to the other to prevent that.

Life. A single, fragile thread.