The Garden of the Blossoming Locomotive, that was the name. But everyone just called it The Gardens.
They traveled where low hills swept into large meadows. In Spring, they became covered with every kind of flower: daisies, lilies of the valley, poppies, violets and fleurs-de-lis. The meadows turned into carpets, where the small paths, covered with pink gravel, drew the lines of a thin web.
The trees, in random groups, created cool areas of shade. And in that shade white wood benches had been placed, with curved backs and cast iron feet in the shape of lions’ paws.
What made the gardens different from any other park in the city were the balloons, scattered along the meadows, made of transparent glass of a sky-blue color which in the sun turned azure. They were suspended just above the ground, with their short string underneath, but when somebody got inside, the weight made the balloons lower, enough for them to settle to the ground level.
When someone wanted to leave by train, they would just write on a luminous board which train they wanted to catch. In a few moments the balloon would quietly descend and the passenger would be seated in the train of their choice.
No tickets. No fares. Just the guarantee that this remarkable trip inspired thought, satisfaction and happiness.
The balloons were, in a way, the terminals of the railway station. A station that you might expect to find below or on a different level.
Yes and no.
Because the great network of tracks, of green, red and blue switches, of signals, which you found underneath, was sorrounded by the same meadows and hills, by flowers and trees, and by the same white benches. There even the same pond with swans. And since it soon became evident that seabirds would have been travellers’ pets. Efforts had been made to pull down the enclosure wall, where the cliffs stood nearby the Warehouse. Facing East, it was home to all the objects which no longer had a use were kept. There were obsolete railway cars, out of date signals, old sleepers made of wood, piles of bricks, heaps of stones, rusty switches, and all kinds of tools.
The station below was an exact replica, a reflection of the station on top. More like a palace actually, the subterranian part was a mirror image of what was seen above ground level.
The locomotive was standing there, still, no one knows how long. She herself didn’t know. How many years? Decades, at least.
She lived from memories. Very happy memories, no doubt. Memories of speeding over dizzying bridges and viaducts, that crossed entire valleys in a few seconds. Of tunnels into which she used to shoot at top speed, self-confident, driving the wind away with a whistle. High puffs of smoke scattered and did not know where to escape.
Never tired, even when she had to draw the long trains that passed through entire Countries, one after the other. Trains with polished, sparkling coaches, everyone showing off its coat of arms and the train name written in golden letters, as the Livery of d’Orsay Palace. The trains were similar if not part of a gentleman’s manor or estate.
The Blue Train , The Golden Arrow, the Orient Express, The Flying Scotsman - just to name
a few - each one with a name more impressive than the other: how could one remember all of them?
But how could one forget, on the other hand, the engine-driver with his assistant, the fireman, both so soldier-like under their peaked caps of grey, slightly glossy cloth?
And the passengers? Oh , how happy the passengers of those trains were! And the dining cars? Ladies would go there as if going to the theater, smartly dressed, flaunting their jewels.
Where did they all go? , the locomotive wondered, if not the ladies, at least their daughters, or their grandchildren? Where had the crowds in the stations gone, people always well-dressed, perhaps slightly preoccupied, but always in good spirits?
Nowadays, at any station, no one ever saw good-humoured faces, one no longer saw stationmasters with their red cap and the batton in their hands.
All had disapppeared, just like the ladies of the dining cars.
Perhaps today’s trains kept an eye on all those signals, those bright boards, and they knew by themselves the time of departure and which way they had to go. Something that surprised the locomotive even more, on the platforms nobody was saying goodbye, no one was waving his hand until the train started to move.
Maybe now, to leave, or arrive, was no longer important. How could that be?
Before getting on their coach, in the station down below, many passengers paused to admire the locomotive, and were amazed at realizing how imposing and powerful the wheels were, how tall it’s smokestack was. And what of those two humps behind? No one knew what they were for.
When the moon rose over the mountains, and its dim light turned the rails into long silvery strips. This is when the cats, tired of chasing one another on the nearby roofs, got ready to listen to another of the many stories of the locomotive.
They would arrange themselves sitting in parallel rows, looking up at the locomotive, motionless, in silence.
They listened to the locomotive remembering her racings through far away, primitive Countries. Telling about her journeys in wintertime, through thick woods of fir trees covered with snow, with silver foxes of which, in the dark, you could only make out the phosphorescent eyes, gleaming as gold glasses.
The cats listened to her tales of great stations, where the locomotive used to arrive at nightfall, all station-lights glimmering with a welcoming salute . On the platform some hawkers offered red and yellow parrots, some others coriander seeds placed on large copper dishes. The hawkers’ hips were wrapped in large, colored bandanas, over trousers of black cloth, tightened at the ankles.
The cats listened, lulled by the faint voice of the locomotive. It purred to them and turned into a long, soft caress, which made them drift into dream.
And now, after so many years of service, she had been put aside, abandoned over there as something useless, on a dead-end track, yes, just like that, a dead-end. At best, some day they would close her up in one of those dreadful places. Like a Museum, where people, out of curiosity, go and look at you, read the manufacturing date, and only astonish at how old you are, uneducated as they are.
On that day the chief stationmaster, was inspecting the extension work of the Station towards the East, had gone to the Warehouse where, together with all the other objects , the locomotive was lying. He wanted to decide how to dispose of all those things. The bricks, the scraps, the old trains.
When he arrived in front of the locomotive, he stopped disconcerted, looking at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. What doI do with her? She was really beautiful, all black, with her brass rod and handrails, her large round headlight and, underneath it, the big cow-catcher.
Fantastic, just so, monumental.
The idea came to him all of a sudden.
In a Museum, that was precisely where she belonged, in a Museum. In the city of Dorothea a Trains’ Museum already existed, but there was no locomotive so impressive as this and with such a historical value. Besides, the Train Museum was not far from the station, and a track goes straight to it.
Just as he passed by the locomotive he gave the appropriate orders to his assistant, walking at his side.
That was his mistake.
Marvick’s office, the chief stationmaster, was situated just underneath the network of tracks.
It consisted of a very large room, without any windows. The light, diffused, originated from a high ceiling and from one of the walls.
Just opposite one wall there were big translucent panels of different colors: some fuchsia, some ice-blue, some light green. The panels glided noiselessly, overlapping, splitting. Any corner of the Dorothea Railway System would come into sight. By a simple, automatic control the panels went into motion extremely fast , so that for a few instants one could barely see a rapidly fluctuating succession of colors. In a few moments the selected area would appear, with the complete railroads network, the viaducts and the tunnels. The stations were shiny yellow dots, brighter or dimmer , according to their importance.
Whenever Marvick wanted to know where, in any moment, one of the train’s was, he would just say the train code. The train would immediately appear on the panel as a moving trail of light, almost like a falling star, you might say. And with a stroke of his hand over the tail, the train would come to an immediate stop.
Marvick was a young man, with descriminating eyes and marked features which betrayed a resolute, determined character.
That evening he was in a good mood. First, because he was pleased about the decision he had come to regard in the locomotive and the Museum. He considered a brilliant idea . In addition, while leaving his office he realized that the day had been a gorgeous one, as seldom happened. When the air is crystal clear and one can see the mountains , although they are so far away.
But since he spent all the day shut up in his underground office, why should he care? Oh, on the contrary, it did matter a lot to him.
One should know, that his passion was to stare at the vault of heaven with his long brass telescope - its metal rings full of numbers - that he kept on the terrace. That’s why the day having been clear was important to him, since it would have enabled him to get a better view of the stars that night.
He stared at the firmament and tried to imagine it as a boundless railroad network, where the stars were just railway stations, and he connected them in his mind, through luminous rails that he was the only one to see.
He even thought that by reaching out his hand a trail of light would have come into sight up in the sky, as if it were a train. He never tried to do it though. He never posessed the arrogance of a confident magician to consider himself capable of controling the composition of the heavens. Looking at the sky, in fact, he almost felt bewildered, thinking of himself as a grain of sand, a microscopic speck that, without merit, shared the universe.
And therefore even the remotest thought of influencing, somehow, that celestial order, appeared to him as a blasphemous idea and he felt ashamed to have. He could not understand how such an idea had got into his head.
The engineer got on the footboard of the locomotive, made sure that water and coal had been delivered, that the pressure in the boiler was at the right level. Then he moved the red level ahead and released the brakes.
The locomotive quivered, three big puffs of smoke came out of the funnel. With all the people around, Marvick in front, eagerly awaiting to witness what was about to happen, definitely, a historic event.
But nothing happened. The pressure-gauge needle went back to zero and the locomotive did not move at all. They tried again and again, but all efforts were in vain. At last they gave up.
The problem quickly became obvious. The train was of an era no one any longer knew about. Everything these days is programmed by and maintained through computers and robotics.
It was therefore decided to dismantle the engine, the funnel, the boiler, and even those two mysterious humps, and to check every single component. It was a long, meticulous work, but the very prestige of the Railroads Department was at stake, even though the locomotive was so old.
At long last, with every screw, even the smallest one, thoroughly inspected and screwed back together, the starting process was repeated.
But everyone was disheartened: again it was a total failure.
Marvick didn’t know what to do.
In the evening, to divert his mind from that day’s disappointments, Marvick sat down in his favorite armchair when, all of a sudden, he felt that it was slightly moving, which had never happened before. He did not pay much attention to it except that, later, it occurred again: this time a leg of the table seemed to have gotten shorter. If the leg were touched, even lightly, it started wobbling.
Tic – toc, tic – toc, it went. And the table seemed to quiet down only if one would move it or turn it around.
Marvick had almost forgotten that experience, when, the following day, an office assistant reminded him. In this fellow’s home - he said he knew - as well as in some of his friends’, the same thing had happened, tables, armchairs, even bookcases had started to stir, to make a noise, just so, without any reason.
This eccentric behavior of some furniture, in a short time gained ground and invaded the whole city. Obviously, this caused a sensation and then someone began talking of a virus. Although viruses that could infect furniture were utterly unlikely, even absolutely improbable, people were still in a panic. It rapidly imposed itself among Dorothea’s inhabitants, with the evident scepticism, to say the least, of doctors, biologists, virologists, and the like.
The problem however was that nobody knew a way out.
The governing body of Dorothea consulted carpenters, cabinet-makers, workers in ebony, furniture manufacturers, decorators, woodcarvers, all the people, in short, that, in one way or another, would have something to do with wood or woodworking.
They did not forget, of course, to consult scholars, scientists and professors whose learning was wider than the ocean (by almost .76 times).
They collected, in that way, many explanations, but no solution.
They neglected, however, to apply to the only person who could have helped them, Ibrahim.
It happened by chance, or because of the will of the stars.
Amina, Marvick’s youngest daughter, coming back from her music lesson, paused to read the sign of a shop of which she had no recollection: “The Furniture Clinic”.
She was staring at it, when old Ibrahim appeared, standing in the doorway.
The Furniture Clinic was born with Ibrahim many years ago, and yet few people patronized it although he was, by far, the best in the entire city as far as furniture restoring. The reason why the shop had few customers was that Ibrahim, as years went by,and he had seen many years go by - had turned into a person with a surly and difficult disposition. So much so that he only agreed to talk to those he liked.
To persuade him to work on a piece of furniture was an even tougher job.
In fact, before agreeing to look at it, he wanted to know in detail the furniture problems, who was the owner, where they came from but, most of all, if it was a new or an antique piece. If it was antique it had the best chance that, maybe, he would see to it.
Amina, feeling like she was under observation, felt uneasy, and was on the point of leaving, when Ibrahim’s voice stopped her. “Amina, don’t go away. I know you, you did the right thing to pass by”.
Amina was looking fascinated with this old man she did not know, with a face furrowed with wrinkles and deep-set eyes, that were sparkling like burning embers.
He had long, bony hands, on which big, blue veins stood out like roads on a map.
“Tell your father that Ibrahim, could help him, but I will only help him because of you. Tell him just this”.
He moved the curtain away and disappeared into the darkness of his shop.
Amina stayed there still, motionless, just a few moments. Then, as if waking up after a dream, she started running towards home.
One should know that Ibrahim was also a diviner. He practiced his art religiously and devoutly, with an open mind and heart that allowed him to think beyond convention.
Ibrahim was a very ambitious person, and he was convinced that he possessed this great divinatory talent, a talent that, in time, he had improved and taken to the highest level through long studies. He knew the five Kabala books and the ancient Babylonian texts. From the writings of the Persian Abu Ali Ibn Sina, who lived nine hundred and fifty eight years ago and when the West was known as the Great Avicenna, he had learned the meaning of the emotional color of objects.
By studying in depth the history of Daniel and Nabucodonosor he had succeeded in mastering the art of dreams interpretation.
He felt, and probably was, a great diviner, and he wanted to be aknowledged as such and treated with all due respect.
“Listen to me,”Ibrahim said to Marvick - as you should know, all objects, especially furniture that is no longer young, at times suffer from the want or need of affection.
As a doctor, feeling the patient’s pulse, if he is a good doctor, recognizes the patient’s energy level. In the same way the emotional color of any object reveals whether it is suffering from lack of affection. When we forget to notice it, that piece of furniture tries to call to our attention. That’s why it moves, it gets restless or, as people, inaccurately, say, it wobbles.
Why this is happening in our city only now I don’t know: maybe it’s due to an astral influence which escaped me, or to a star’s whimsical behaviour.”
He kept silent for sometime.
Marvick was staring at him absolutely fascinated.
Since he had received a scientific education, all this sounded absurd. It was all very difficult for him to believe.
The diviner’s voice, who had started talking again, startled him. It sounded unreal, as if coming from far away.
“I know what you are thinking. You doubt the truth of my words. Not only. You and your
fellow-citizens did not take into account what the furniture tried to tell you. In fact, you know, all things surrounding us talk to us. We just don’t listen to them, sometimes only because we don’t know how.
And are you surprised if, suddenly, what previously worked does not work any longer? If a bridge, a scaffolding, all of a sudden fall down? If a tree in a garden withers? And trains, when they get old, who is taking care of them?
Streets, squares, gardens, fountains of this city, for instance, who looks after them? Whoever tried to understand whether they are happy? Or whether, perhaps, they feel that bitter sensation of being regarded just as objects, to become fond of which would be inconceivable? In that case, someday they could leave us, they could go away. Think of it”.
He got to his feet and gave Marvick a wave, but was it a salute or a warning?
Marvick stood up. “I will think of it, you may be sure. And I thank you for the time you gave me. I will deliver my table and armchair, I’m sure that your attention is what they need”.
He realized, however, that he was talking in an empty room.
He got out in the open air, and never as that time he was pleased to look again at the sky, so cloudless and blue.
A few days went by.
Since there was no way to start the locomotive, it was decided to use a modern electric one to haul it to the Museum.
Immersed in the lucid rationality of his office, Marvick thought the diviner’s words over and the whole story appeared to him completely unreal and utterly fantastic.
That evening, however, while he was sitting in his armchair, he felt a sort of anxiety that, little by little, turned into a real perturbation. Tic - toc, tic - toc , the armchair resumed.
And, in the silence of the early night, a similar sound seemed to originate, suddenly, from the houses all around. As a tolling, it echoed in the air, anguished, and the din seemed to pervade the entire city. He could not stand it any longer, he got up and went out to the terrace.
Just then he saw her.
He had no doubt, although she was so far away. It was the locomotive, up there, with her big round headlight illuminating the night . She was departing, speeding along on those luminous rails which Marvick had dreamed of so many times.