from The Journals of Gabriel S.

One: The Fox and the Weasel

Nathan Grombach waited for the train, scheduled to arrive at midnight. Missing his earlier connection, he had already been at the station several hours, and now sat inside its coffee shop, a dark, uninviting place, though quiet and empty.

He grabbed a sandwich, chips, and a cup of coffee from the vending machines and sat at the counter. There was no one behind the counter, nor any other railway employees about. A smell of disinfectant wafted from the lavatories.

He’d bought his ticket at a self-service kiosk, the ticket counter also closed. Soon a janitor appeared, wielding a large scrubber-buffer, polishing the floor in wide, careful circles. The noise droning, amplified, set the countertop abuzz.

The station’s clock struck midnight, chimes ringing. Still no train, nor any changes on the departures/arrivals board.

Nathan snapped open his briefcase atop the counter to review his itinerary and notes. Fortunately, he had no appointments or tasks tomorrow, aside from finding temporary accommodations. But he rarely strayed far from the vicinity of the railway station, resigned to make do with the drab rooming houses, bed-and-breakfasts, and other second-rate hotels usually found in such neighborhoods.

He ruminated about tomorrow and the following week. He’d been given a new sales route and new customers. Nathan might have to stay two weeks or longer, cold-calling from a list his employer provided, which meant letting a room with a private phone, an extra expense he could scarcely afford.

And he must call his wife, Dolly, first thing in the morning, reassure her this new route wasn’t a demotion but presented Nathan with new opportunities. He missed his family, especially his children, six-year-old Benjamin and three-year-old Lisa, who he rarely got to see.

Then the loudspeaker announced the train’s imminent arrival, and Nathan, shutting his briefcase and gathering it and his valise, hurried to the platform.

The platform empty, and, boarding the train, few passengers about, nor any porters or conductor. Nathan, with a second-class ticket but no assigned seat, entered the first-class rail-car. If accosted by the conductor, he’d apologize and sit elsewhere. Until then—

Nathan stored his valise and briefcase in the overhead bin, settled in his seat, and closed his eyes. Restless, he couldn’t sleep. He thought about tomorrow, the long list of strangers to cold-call, the inevitable rejections. The shunting between one office and store to another, and dealing with new landlords, new fellow guests.

Then, a tap on his shoulder. Startled, Nathan opened his eyes. 

Not the conductor, but a largish man in a navy blue worsted suit. Gray eyes, trim full beard, gold cuff links and pocket watch catching the light. He carried a large leather portmanteau.

His voice clipped, husky.

“Mind if I join you?” 

Without waiting for a response, the man clasped his ticket to the overhead bin. He did have an assigned seat, Nathan’s.

“I don’t mind your taking mine, I prefer the aisle anyway. And the company.”

He sat down, the portmanteau resting in his ample lap. Nathan glanced at it admiringly. Black monogram leather, magnetic clasp and lock, triple gusset design. The kind offered as a prize or promotion, the man a salesman like himself.

The train pulled away from the station. They introduced themselves, the man’s name Bruno Halzer. Despite its familiar ring, Nathan couldn’t quite place the name. Halzer wasn’t heading to the same city as Nathan, a grim industrial town deep in the hinterlands.

Bruno sighed, shook his head, though not in commiseration.

“You know, I got my start in that town,” Halzer said. “Sometimes I wish I could go back.”

“You’re welcome to change places with me. Can I ask you a question?”

Arms crossed, Halzer settled back in his seat.

“Go ahead.”

“You got on at the same station I did, why didn’t I see you there?”

“An uninteresting question. Let me ask you one.” Halzer paused. “You’re eyeing my briefcase quite covetously. Would you like to exchange mine for yours? We still must proceed to our separate destinations, mind you.”

“My sales leads pertain only to that city, what good are they to you?”

“Rather, the question is what good are they to you?”

Gathering speed, the train rattled from side-to-side. Halzer grinned, as if teasing him. Nathan stared out the window. Despite the dark, he knew this route well, every small town, every patch of scrubland and industrial waste familiar to him.

“I have one stipulation, you can’t sell the briefcase, I’ll know if you do.”

Nathan shrugged, again closed his eyes. The man wasn’t serious, his threat idle, his offer to exchange his portmanteau for Nathan’s briefcase absurd, a tasteless joke. Halzer hadn’t glimpsed the briefcase, yet assumed nonetheless it was of poor quality and the information contained within—sales leads, brochures, sample photographs, adverts—even more inferior.

At the man’s presumption, arrogance, Nathan bridled. He might not boast gold cufflinks and a gold pocket watch or wear an expensive tailored suit, but Dolly took well care of his clothes, mending, ironing, cleaning. Nathan looked as presentable as any man in his station and profession.

Overcome by conflicting emotions—anxiety, anger, love of his family, hope for their betterment—he nonetheless slid into that liminal reality between waking and sleeping. The train clattered on. Lights hummed, flickered. Out the window, tree branches heaved in the wind. Rain pattered the glass. Train stops grew more frequent, and the first-class rail-car grew ever crowded and noisome. Though the night had been cold, heat now thrummed through the vents, and Nathan smelled fresh coffee wafting from the diner’s kitchen. Porters and passengers thronged the aisles while a conductor checked tickets.

Nathan sat up with a start, the conductor approaching. He checked the overhead bin, Halzer’s ticket and seat number still attached. The conductor nodded at Nathan and left.

Halzer gone, though not the portmanteau. Reaching into the overhead bin, Nathan saw his valise but not the briefcase. Then, hearing his destination announced over the loudspeaker, he grabbed the valise and portmanteau and hurried down the crowded aisle toward the exit.

The platform deserted, the risen sun invisible in the fog, the trees barren, leaves layering the steep, sodden ground. Nathan trembled, his overcoat in the valise, Dolly had fretted he needed a larger, warmer coat. The portmanteau much heavier than the valise. Nathan wondered if it contained clothing, not just papers or documents. He set it down, knelt before it. The portmanteau was locked, and where was the key?

He rose, felt his neck crick with the extra weight, pain shooting down both arms. Nathan took the iron stairwell down to the street, a shortcut, he needn’t brave the train station itself, doubtless deserted too, or, worse, crowded with the homeless and indigent and often rougher sorts who preyed upon them and other, less wary travelers. And the portmanteau such an enticing prize, too.

Nathan sighed, regretted the briefcase’s loss. He’d been recommended a different boarding house, but no longer had the address. Still, he thought he could find the boarding house, he’d passed it during his last visit, “The Fox and Weasel,” he thought, or was that a nearby tavern’s name?

Hopefully, they’ll have a fax machine, though Nathan didn’t relish informing his office of the missing briefcase.

Technically, the contents, also the briefcase itself, were company property, but no way might they lay claim to the portmanteau, not that he’d ever inform them of its existence or his possession of it.

Regarding its contents, first he must figure out how to open the case, especially without damaging it.

Nathan reached the bottom of the hill, the street narrow, winding, and steep. A double-decker bus toiled downhill, brakes squealing, leaves scattering in its wake. The driver didn’t stop, apparently not seeing Nathan. It was just as well, he preferred to walk.

No commercial buildings, the houses spread apart, two- and three-stories, formerly Edwardian and Victorian manses now subdivided into apartments, flats, and rooming houses, paint peeling and in ill-repair. Yards weedy and muddy. Pavement broken and narrow. Wrists aching, he set down the valise and portmanteau. He shivered, breath condensing in the air.

He’d already gone several blocks. Nothing looked familiar. He decided to stop at the first boarding house he saw with a vacancy sign in the window.

Rising, he continued walking. Nathan reached a narrow, empty intersection. Across the street, gleaming in the fog, stood a three-story building, a green brick tavern on the first floor and a grey stone residence hotel above it. A sign, faded, splintered, dangled beside the doorway. It read (in English cursive type), “The Fox and Weasel.”

Nathan sighed. Watching for traffic, baggage gripped in his hands, he crossed the street.