Shortly after midnight at the train station of Cluj in Romania. The night train to Targu Mures has been canceled without any information about the underlying reason, let alone a replacement train or even a bus. With my broken Romanian, I fail to obtain any further information because the counter for “international information” only calls itself such because it sells tickets to Budapest and Vienna, not for the linguistic abilities of its staff. Sometimes I understand why in a whole year in Romania, I never heard one positive statement about the state-owned railway CFR.
The next train will leave at 5:30, so it’s not worth the hassle to look for a room for the night. After having gotten bored from walking up and down the large railway station building several times, I step outside onto the platform. It’s cold there, but at least that keeps me from falling asleep.
There is not much going on here at this time of the night. The usual suspects, whom you see loitering at train stations after midnight all around the world.
After a while, the expected happens. One of the prowlers asks me for a cigarette, quite politely though. Unfortunately, I cannot help him with that. He notices my limited Romanian and asks me if I’d rather continue the conversation in English. I affirm, and I am in for a surprise. Because Sebastian, as he introduces himself, speaks a very good and flawless English.
“Where did you learn to speak English so well?” I inquire, expecting a story about a previous job in England or a stint at a university in the US.
“From watching movies. I like action films.” He is full of praise for the Transporter series. I find this hard to believe because his English goes well beyond these stupid movies. Maybe he secretly watches C-SPAN, but has internalized the anti-intellectual mood which briefly flared up in Romania in June 1990 and is therefore too afraid to admit it, for fear of marauding miners.
After I have told a little bit about myself, custom dictates that I ask about his personal life, too. Thus I learn that he is indeed homeless. An accident damaged both his legs, making it hard for him to find work. He receives a small pension, around 50 $ per month. He spent two years in prison after stealing food items from a supermarket. They were worth 10 $. “But if you steal a couple of millions, nothing will happen to you.” This is not only the relativization of a convict, but consensus in corruption-riddled Romania. A few hours ago, I had dinner with a criminal defense attorney, now I am discussing the proportionality of penal law with an ex-prisoner. At least the night will pass quickly like that.
“And where do you sleep?” I ask, half sheepishly, half caringly. I don’t have much experience in small talk with homeless people. He sleeps at the train station. That’s actually not permitted, he explains, “but they make an exception for me because I never cause any problems. I don’t drink alcohol, I am not loud, and I am gone by early morning.” The canceled night train however means that the warm waiting hall is now occupied by travelers and that he won’t get any sleep tonight. During the day, he walks around town, through the parks, and when his brother’s flatmate is not at home, he can sometimes go to that apartment to wash himself.
I readily believe that the station staff tolerate him, for although he does look poor and battered, he doesn’t appear scruffy at all. And he is exceptionally polite. From time to time he asks passers-by for a cigarette, but so unintrusively and with a low voice that some of them don’t even hear him and most others are happy to help.
The ladies working in the station café also know Sebastian. When they step out onto the platform to break for a smoke, they listen to our conversation for a while and then ask him in disbelief: “You speak English?” He smiles shyly, “yes, of course.” “No! You must be pretending. You are fooling us.” The coffee and sandwich sellers cannot believe that the poor man whom they grant shelter, and hopefully a piece of cake, every night is a polyglot. Their mouths are open with awe, so wide that the Orient Express could drive through. One of them decides to ask me: “Is that true? He really speaks English?” “Oh yes, very well, actually,” I remove all doubts with the authority of the stranger. “Incredibil, incredibil” they keep murmuring, throwing a stealthy glance at us from time to time. Once, when the eyes of the more attractive of the two ladies and the homeless man meet, she shakes her head appreciatively and still in disbelief, but smiles at him, as if she wants to ask “what other surprises do you have in store?” and he cannot completely hide his pride anymore.
But I really cannot believe that Jason Statham movies are the source of his English when some birds fly by and he not only knows their names in English, but explains which of them are nocturnal and which are diurnal. I have to ask to learn that these are the technical terms for animals active at night or during the day.
Unfortunately, Sebastian then asks how old I am. This part of the conversation is equally depressing in all such situations. “I am 40,” upon which he predictably responds “You look much younger. Maybe like 30.” I say nothing, for I want to put an end to this subject. He, without being prompted: “I am 29.” Sadly, I cannot return the compliment because marked by poverty, illness, prison, homelessness and possible further blows of fate with which he doesn’t want to bother a stranger at their first meeting, he does indeed look older than 40. These are the moments when I realize how much luck I have had in life.
“Do you want a coffee?” he suddenly asks, adding right away: “I will pay for you.” Moved and filled with indignation, I refuse. Instead, I offer to buy him something to eat. “Oh, that’s not necessary, thank you. I have already eaten today.”
When the train arrives, we bid farewell cordially, each of us thankful for the company provided. “Andreas,” he calls after me as I make my way to the wagon, “watch your bag on the train. There are a lot of thieves.”