The morning train to Stazione Leopolda was late.
20 minutes late to be exact, for the time was in fact 6:57 and not 6:37 (which was when the train was scheduled to arrive in Stazione Leopolda); and no matter how frequently, nor how impatiently watches snapped shut to be stuffed into a breast pocket, nor how frequently and impatiently a disagreeable âhmph!â was huffed, the absent train nonetheless stoutly declared âI am late! I am late!â, and would not be hurried.
And perhaps in a most ordinary circumstance this would be just that.
âMost certainly,â one might say, âthis outrageous delay is likely a consequence of some insignificant something or otherâ (although if it had been insignificant, surely that implies little to no consequence?). And indeed many, if not all, of those waiting at the Stazione Leopolda that morning had attributed this lateness to the rather unusual weather that had persisted into the springtime, which they were keen to point out to one another in their disgruntled chatter, not realising they had already done so with their sniffling noses and sore throats.
And perhaps, they surmised, it was precisely this unusual-ness that had been to blame for this unusual delay.
This all seemed very reasonable. But there was an undoubted (or at least, only undoubted after the fact) peculiarity in the fact that this âinsignificant something or otherâ should happen on this morning - April 26th - and not some other morning, nor any other time of the day for that matter. For it was only on this day, on this late April morning, that a certain absurd character should have boarded the morning train to Stazione Leopolda -Â in fact, he might have even missed it entirely had it not been for this peculiar instance of lateness! brought about by that rather mundane and insignificant âsomething or otherâ.
Nonetheless, to most, this too may seem perfectly in the ordinary, for even should he be the most peculiar specimen to have ever embarked on the 6:37 to Florence, it would be hardly a thing unheard of. Why it was only 2 months ago that a Panamanian white-faced Capuchin (a monkey native to the Americas) by the name of Giuseppe had been recaptured following it's escape from captivity; after it had fled the travelling circus it had been a part of, the poor thing had wound up as a passenger on an otherwise very ordinary train to Napoli. Is this fellow someone to top a circus monkey? And in this case you would be absolutely correct; that in comparison to a circus monkey, his happening to have boarded the train to Florence, on this morning specifically, must have undoubtedly been an ordinary occurrence.
Though often it is seemed that when the events of a story - factual or otherwise - are viewed in isolation, all things may be reasoned with to be - within a range - of being âperfectly ordinaryâ (unless it is a story with truly fantastical elements of course). When taken as a whole, however, - much like how one might react at being told to eat an entire melon or learn the full brevity of thermodynamics in one sitting, as opposed to attending lessons or having a sizeable portion for supper - it is suddenly not so. That is to say, had an onlooker seen this man disembark the 11th carriage and step onto the platform, as many had on that morning, they would at most cast a curious glance at him before they themselves passed him to board the quickly departing train, as their minds were busied with matters that invariably were of greater importance than this small, albeit remarkable, stranger.
Had this onlooker known, however, what was to pass as a consequence of this seemingly inconsequential arrival (that is had they known the story in its entirety as is being told to you now), they most certainly would have forgotten about the train, forgotten about their own lateness; and they would have watched him as he passed through the crowd, whispering and talking amongst themselves at the sight of this now suddenly strange man. Some might even have called out to him, or tried to shake his hand, offering sincere condolences, but with voices that were unmistakably questioning in their intonation.Â
But much alike this hypothetical onlooker, his mind was also strangely clouded that day, and it is unlikely he would have noticed any of it. He had been so preoccupied in fact, that he had not once noticed the many looks he received while aboard the long train ride to Florence, so preoccupied he had nearly forgotten his country easel and his paints, along with all of his luggage, all of which only added to the minor spectacle of the man. But if he himself had the slightest inkling as to what his arrival in Florence would cause, he most certainly would have forsaken his business entirely and returned to Sicily, and had this knowledge been commonplace, it was certain all his fellows beside him would have interrogated and pestered him the entire way there.
In any case, the train came and went as usual, and the morning continued quite without any further abnormality.
This was however, not the case for our young painter, who after having arrived in Florence - at the behest of a certain letter he had received not 4 days ago - had caught a cab, and found himself somewhat lost about the streets of San NiccolÃ˛.
They were empty, and exceedingly quiet. He felt the fleeting shapes of one or two cats in his periphery, and maybe was subject, in the distance, to the sounds of the populous highstreet he had just passed through: horses and chatter and rumbling wheels, though it would have been almost inaudible, and you might not have heard it unless one had been straining attentively, which he certainly was not.
This silence was most definitely the norm for these little winding streets, at least, around this time. In the hour from seven in the morning to eight, it could be said that San NiccolÃ˛ was very nearly still; the working men and all of the working women had gone to earn their wages at their respective workplaces, and those that remained at home - all invariably homebodies or young children - would likely remain there for many hours yet, and were none the more invited by the fact it was a friday and the shops and bakeries and things would likely only open much later in the day (some as late at midday).
And for this, he was glad. He was very glad in fact, though in that kind of unfathomable gladness that sometimes comes about, and as is customary in that unfathomable gladness: for reasons he himself was not particularly bothered in conjuring an explanation for. It was possible he had simply tired of being drawn from his introspection by strangers looking for their way out of boredom, or having to muster an answer for his undeniably queer mannerisms in the resulting conversation - though this is merely a guess.
But for another, it may have not been outlandish to imply that he had simply been âglad to be gladâ. Which may at first seem quite that: outlandish, but to contextualise, often when one experiences a deep and utterly enveloping feeling (which to some may never come about), say, sadness or something other, a small thing like a welcome silence or a certain stillness, very nearly nothing! can bring a most pure kind of relief. And upon feeling this pure thing - a thing perhaps forgotten - it beckons it return all over again; that is, being relieved by this newfound relief - âglad to be gladâ.
Having said this, it may then be suitable to ask âwhat could have transpired to have then instilled this âglad of gladnessâ within him, hmm?â and the reason for this is also the same reason for his being in Florence, and quite the same for his being in San NiccolÃ˛, and by proxy, his gladness too! You are right to think this thought, if you had at all, and the answer will soon arrive, no doubt, though not yet; for the scene is not yet completely set.
It was around half past seven, or maybe quarter to eight, when the first domino, as it were, would reveal themselves; and it came in the form of a disgruntled and considerably larger man, who came tumbling into our painter from, seemingly, thin air (although it was very possible that our dazed painter was simply not paying attention) and had crashed upon his cloudy trance.
âExcuse me!â the painter cried instinctually, for truly he had not known for certain whether it was man or lamppost he had hit. âExcuse me!â
