A DUTCHMAN IN A BLACK SUIT
A note from Groningen to Den Haag
Sunday, 19 September 05
A Dutchman seating in front of me. His face is bent over his magazine. His foot steps on the seat next to mine. He got on from Groningen and God knows where he will get off. Hopefully in Den Haag, so I could finish this note on him. He wears black suit and black shoes. It looks like he has been from work, making me wonder what he does as today is Sunday. His black suitcase lying on the empty seat next to his and in front of mine. His other bag is put on the train floor opposite my foot and my shoes almost touch it if I am not careful.
A Dutchman in black, I name him. He is not special. He doesn’t even talk to me. It must be his friendly and reddish face that impresses me which triggers me to kill my boredom by writing a note about him. Once he smiles to me when the ticket checker closes down the window which had been opened since Groningen by someone else before me. It is indeed a hot end of the summer time in Holland. He talks in Dutch to us and closes the window improperly. The Dutchman in black smiles to him and then me. My face is blank as I know no Dutch. The Dutchman in black suit even smiles. Seems like he now smiles at me. Maybe because he finds out that apparently, a foreigner sitting in front of him.
He smiles again to me when another person approaches me to close the window properly. As I do not understand any word, the Dutchman stands up and closes it while his mouth is still smiling. When he sits back, he still smiles and stares at me for a second before reading back his magazine
The window screens a beautiful scenery of windmills and cows. Remaining me of a Dutch milk TV commercial back home. Though my face is bent over my communicator mobile phone which I use to type this note, I still can watch his move. I know that sometimes he opens the pages of his magazine to see what else he can read.
The Dutchman looks at his watch. He turns his head to the other window across the aisle of our seats. It seems like he is trying to look for a signage of a name of a station. He puts his magazine into his black suitcase. He is prepared to leave.
It’s Amersfoort. The train stops. He stands up. His both hands grab his black suitcase and his black bag. Again, that red face smiles to me before he walks to the train door. I still can see him in the platform from the window. The Dutchman in black suit gets on the other train in the next platform taking him to his own destination.
My train moves slowly leaving Amersfoort and the shadow of the Dutchman in black. The seat in front of me is empty. My train moves before his, taking me to Den Haag. Now I do not know what else to write.
A Dutchman seating in front of me. His face is bent over his magazine. His foot steps on the seat next to mine. He got on from Groningen and God knows where he will get off. Hopefully in Den Haag, so I could finish this note on him. He wears black suit and black shoes. It looks like he has been from work, making me wonder what he does as today is Sunday. His black suitcase lying on the empty seat next to his and in front of mine. His other bag is put on the train floor opposite my foot and my shoes almost touch it if I am not careful.
A Dutchman in black, I name him. He is not special. He doesn’t even talk to me. It must be his friendly and reddish face that impresses me which triggers me to kill my boredom by writing a note about him. Once he smiles to me when the ticket checker closes down the window which had been opened since Groningen by someone else before me. It is indeed a hot end of the summer time in Holland. He talks in Dutch to us and closes the window improperly. The Dutchman in black smiles to him and then me. My face is blank as I know no Dutch. The Dutchman in black suit even smiles. Seems like he now smiles at me. Maybe because he finds out that apparently, a foreigner sitting in front of him.
He smiles again to me when another person approaches me to close the window properly. As I do not understand any word, the Dutchman stands up and closes it while his mouth is still smiling. When he sits back, he still smiles and stares at me for a second before reading back his magazine
The window screens a beautiful scenery of windmills and cows. Remaining me of a Dutch milk TV commercial back home. Though my face is bent over my communicator mobile phone which I use to type this note, I still can watch his move. I know that sometimes he opens the pages of his magazine to see what else he can read.
The Dutchman looks at his watch. He turns his head to the other window across the aisle of our seats. It seems like he is trying to look for a signage of a name of a station. He puts his magazine into his black suitcase. He is prepared to leave.
It’s Amersfoort. The train stops. He stands up. His both hands grab his black suitcase and his black bag. Again, that red face smiles to me before he walks to the train door. I still can see him in the platform from the window. The Dutchman in black suit gets on the other train in the next platform taking him to his own destination.
My train moves slowly leaving Amersfoort and the shadow of the Dutchman in black. The seat in front of me is empty. My train moves before his, taking me to Den Haag. Now I do not know what else to write.
posted by Handewi Soegiharto at 9:41 PM
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