The Somber Side of a Scientific Mind. Christian Tyoder
adjacent to the main walkway, took out the pocket-size address book from his suitcase, turned to section “N,” then marked it by folding back its right upper corner. Hans’s stomach growled. He missed the two meals and the two snacks in the plane. He was hungry. Leaving his belongings on the seat, he walked to the food stand across the walkway, stared a few seconds at the handwritten menu on the wall, and sat down again at an unoccupied table. Now Hans decided not to waste his time waiting for the plane to resume its flight to Luxemburg. He decided to pay a short visit to his old friend Norbert living in Paris, Quartier Latin, then to take ground transportation all the way to Vaduz. He remembered they exchanged Christmas letters last year.
Suddenly he heard someone just pull the chair behind him. He turned around. To his surprise, he saw the same ponytailed brunette he talked to earlier in the plane. She smiled to him. “Well, here you are again. Are you going to continue your flight to Luxemburg once the weather permits?”
“I don’t know yet, and you?”
“I will continue my route to Luxemburg then return to Reykjavik on the next day.”
“Would you like to have something to eat?”
“No, thank you. I am not hungry.”
“How about a cup of coffee or a glass of juice?”
“A glass of apple juice, if they have it.”
She sat down on a seat next to his. He stood up, went to the counter, then came back with a glass of juice and a cup of coffee for himself while discreetly admiring her beautiful young body wrapped in the tight green uniform.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Where is your home?”
“Reykjavik.”
“How long have you been with Icelandic Air?”
“Almost three years.”
“Have you frequently encountered this type of weather and the flight had to be diverted away from the destination airport?”
“Rarely, fortunately. And what is your final destination?”
“Vaduz, Liechtenstein. Have you been in Liechtenstein?”
“No, but I heard it’s a charming city with so much history.”
Hans was curious about this attractive young lady. He was thinking that perhaps the unexpected circumstance might give him the opportunity to spend some time with her at the airport while waiting for the resumption of the final leg of his plane trip. He suddenly realized once again that he had finished his schooling, his apprenticeship, and ready to be self-sustainable from now on. As a matter of fact, Hans was awarded the PhD degree in economics last year at New York University and had just completed his internship at Chase Manhattan Bank in the Bronx. He thought he was on vacation, so to speak. He had plenty of leisure time to spend anywhere and at any time. He noted that the flight attendant had no rings on her fingers and she was not accompanied by anybody. He felt quite safe for not infringing on somebody else’s property.
With a smiling face, she glanced at him with an inquisitive expression. “I note you don’t have the Germanic accent.”
“I had my college then postgraduate education in the US.”
“The Yankees must have made you very much an American.”
“Have you known about the American continent?”
“No, I was born and raised in the suburb of Reykjavik, then spent my entire childhood and teenage years there until I was eighteen when I had the first chance to get away from an eight-month-a-year snowy and icy landscape. I spent that three-week vacation in Corsica with my British girlfriend. What are you going to do in Vaduz?”
“I am going to rejoin my parents at least for a few weeks. I haven’t decided where I will eventually make my permanent home, possibly in America, in Liechtenstein, or in another German-speaking European country. I want to take a whole year traveling, being still single and free…would you like to spend a few days next month sometime, visiting Liechtenstein? I’ll be happy to show you around.”
“Thank you. But my boyfriend and I have made plans to go on vacation next month in Tuscany.”
Sensing that the chance of getting to know the gorgeous Icelandic lady had completely dissipated, Hans looked at his wristwatch then at the large wall clock. It was almost noon.
The flight attendant grabbed her luggage handle, stood up, then stretched her right arm to shake Hans’s hand. “Thank you for the juice. I am going to take a rest at the airline flight attendants’ club while waiting for a call to resume the flight to Luxembourg. Good luck with your career.”
Hans reciprocated the same while directing with relish his look at the back of the graciously moving beautiful and sexy female body leaving him. It was a real treat as he had been for the last several months tired of having, day in and day out, to frequently look at overweight customers and employees alike at the bank in New York. A couple of minutes later, Hans went to the nearby public telephone booth. He dialed his friend Norbert’s telephone number he read out of his address book. There was no answer.
Outside the heavy snowstorm was raging; at times sheets of snow noisily lashed at the tall glass-paneled walls facing the deserted snow-covered runways. One could barely discern slow-moving heavy snow-removal equipment and parked planes. Hans left the food stand and returned to the seat occupied by his two pieces of luggage. He slumped back into an adjacent vacant one. With his arms stretched out over the backs of the seats and his eyes staring at the ceiling, Hans tried to figure out what else he was going to do during the next twelve months besides travels and visits with friends and relatives. He had decided to do the job search in the fall. He was looking for opportunities to meet well-dressed, beautiful young European ladies, and who knows…it was time to seriously think about a stable career, a family, and children. He rejoiced at these thoughts while passengers were walking up and down the corridor and incessant loudspeaker announcements kept him in a semi-sleeping state.
A few hours passed. Enough rest by now, Hans stood up, went back to the food stand, and ordered a plate of fish and chips. While enjoying the hot food, his eyes fell on an abandoned local newspaper dated December 12, 1968, left on the next table. He quickly glanced through the business section, stood up, discarded his empty paper plate and cup, and then walked to the public phone booth. He placed another call to his friend Norbert, but again there was no answer. By this time the storm had calmed down substantially. After gathering his two pieces of luggage, Hans walked to the custom and immigration checkpoints, showed his passport, and headed for the main airport exit door. Cold and wet snow flakes were still falling, but not heavy enough to deter Hans from walking to the metro entrance less than a block away. He saw a phone booth a couple of buildings down the street. He stopped at the booth and dialed Norbert’s number the third time. But there was still no answer. He descended the subway entrance and approached the agent at the counter to purchase a one-way ticket for Gare de l’Est station. He gave up the hope of seeing Norbert this time. After a few minutes, a train packed with commuters arrived. He managed to squeeze himself in one of the cars just before the automatic door closed. He got off at Gare de l’Est, stepped down three stairs, and here he was in a huge noisy building with railroad SNCF cars lined up in rows. A large board suspended several feet off the floor and electronically powered with frequent changing train departure and arrival schedules was facing him. Hans looked at the “Arrival” column on the left side of the board. He saw the word Buchs on a horizontal line that read, “19:15, Paris–Basel–Zurich–Buchs–Salzburg–Wien.” He directed his eyes to the railhead posted with the sign Paris–Wien. There was no car on the tracks. The big clock’s handles on the far wall indicated 7:21 p.m. Hans mumbled, “Six minutes late,” then let out a deep sigh.
Exasperated, he walked in the direction of the information desk. A man wearing a black uniform and a hat with embroidered letters SNCF was standing behind the counter talking to a middle-age woman facing him. Their pure Paris French accent impressed Hans, who took three steps forward after the woman left the counter with “Merci, monsieur.”