Chapter Text
There was an unspoken chill in New York this autumn, and the trees on the roadside bleakly lost their leaves under duress of the wind. For the poor female playwright, only the bakery downstairs could provide some respite, with a brief and almost insubstantial warmth.
Sonetto pushed open the door of the bakery.
It seemed that everyone’s life was difficult. The memory of the economic crisis lingered like an invisible ghost, which in turn made Sonetto's poor childhood all the more bitter; people who grew up in such circumstances could hardly help but fear for the worst, like the twitching of dormant nerves, and the sporadic pulsing of temples.
The freshly baked bread in her arms had cooled rapidly in the cold wind. After all, the playwright herself did not even have the money for new winter clothes to shield her body, let alone afford good food to fill her stomach.
—Just like people's stereotypes of writers in poverty, Sonetto lived in the attic of a dilapidated apartment, wracking her brain every month just to pay the rent, buying the cheapest bread, drinking the cheapest coffee, and writing scripts that had been returned countless times.
The only thing to be thankful for was that the playwright herself was strong-willed, full of inappropriate enthusiasm—like her burning orange hair—and held herself to a set of inexplicable principles. Although she was prone to self-doubt and self-deprecation, she never lost hope in life.
This was enough for her to make a living in New York.
Sonetto returned to the attic. Thanks to the narrowness of the place and surprisingly good insulation, she did not need to prepare heating in advance. As long as she sat at the table wrapped in a blanket, she could start writing for the day.
Frankly speaking, our female playwright was talented. In the Eden of her heart, the fruits of inspiration dotted the branches, muses danced, and gods cast sidelong glances. The only thing that could be blamed for her lack of success, would be the vulgar American bestsellers market.
Sonetto turned over a page of manuscript paper. In order to make a living, she always had to write things she didn't like.
People living in this world always had to make certain sacrifices.
The third largest item in the attic, the grandfather clock, chimed three times—the first two largest items were the narrow single bed and the desk stained dark brown by coffee stains respectively—it came from her grandmother who had raised her. It was meticulously crafted, gorgeous, and full of dust from the last century. Even in the most difficult of times, Sonetto never sold it.
The playwright stopped writing on time, put away the manuscript pages, wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck, and walked out of the apartment. Her destination was the train station three blocks away—the three o'clock afternoon field trip had become a part of her life, like a promise that had to be fulfilled.
The playwright kept herself very neat, and despite her financial situation, she was never sloppy. This could be seen from her firm and clear eyes, and her attentive walking posture. Her face was quite serious, and her small nose was wrinkled, nostrils slightly flared, like some kind of small animal sniffing the air, eager to explore the fresh smell of New York. In this city, nothing happened unexpectedly, everything was fast and light.
Her steps were neither too big nor too small, and her figure was neither swaying nor shaking. She lacked the artificial beauty of an aristocrat, and did not harbor the boldness of a working woman. She was impartial, with a straight back, just like an ideal intellectual, full of respectable demeanor. She greeted acquaintances she met, smiled and nodded slightly, the angle of her mouth and the degree of bowing her head were just right, which was said to be the etiquette of an English gentleman, and could not be despised, despite having no hat to take off.
In short, our playwright was an upright person. The poverty of life did not knock her down, but instead made her all the more brilliant.
Sonetto sat down on a bench in front of the train station.
Since the beginning of autumn, this hobby has become a little difficult to carry out. Sitting alone in the cold wind for two hours would freeze anyone to the bone.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, the train station was as crowded as usual. People from Washington, Pittsburgh, and even Chicago were eager to rush into this booming city, chasing survival, gold and stocks, fame, power, and love. No matter what they were chasing, they believed that New York would bring them the change they sought.
Sonetto quietly looked at people with different faces. The autumn wind blew the corners of pedestrians' clothes. In the finest fibers of clothing, there was coffee bean residue, tea stains, sawdust, coal ash, or molecules of gold and jewelry, cheap or expensive perfume, cotton, linen, or chemical fibers. People are distinguished from details. Sonetto liked guessing their identities, occupations, and stories, observing their expressions, and describing their facial features. The dazzling, massive quantity of information washed over the writer's eyes like a wave. She coined this daily observation as “watching the sea”.
Of course, there were some “acquaintances” among them. Sonetto had seen them many times, and while they had never spoken, it felt as if they had known each other for a very long time. The old man with the hooked nose traveled between Washington and New York, perhaps a government official, with a very good taste in the shirt clip on his tie, and perhaps he had a wife with an elegant temperament; the short, stubby, old-fashioned but capable middle-aged woman came every weekend, hugged the little boy who had been waiting for her for a long time, lifted him high above her head, tossed him up and put him down, although this action was a little difficult for her; the haggard young man, the high-spirited Wall Street gentleman, the rich lady in bright clothes...
This was a small, dramatic world that Sonetto was unwilling to associate with. Every afternoon at three o'clock, the curtains drew and the show began.
Among these people, of whom Sonetto was unilaterally familiar with, there was a special lady. She came at five-thirty every three days, as punctual as some kind of time machine. Her body was tightly wrapped in a dark, but finely textured fabric, her well-shaped calves were straighter than the barrel of a gun, and her slender but powerful waist and abdomen supported her upright body. She wore a top hat and carried a suitcase. She jumped off the train with a swift and light movement, reminiscent of a bird of prey hunting. She would stay for a while, read the newspaper at the nearby newsstand, then leave the station and disappear into an unknown corner of this huge city.
Sonetto guessed that she was a train conductor. This was not like the previous Sherlock Holmes-like deduction. In this guess, Sonetto used some tricks—out of an inexplicable desire to get to know her, mixed with past, seemingly plausible, memories, rather than an inference borne of her habit of peeping—Sonetto couldn't tell what kind of feeling this was, she just wanted to understand this woman.
Maybe everyone has such a moment: a precious moment where they are so curious, and so interested in understanding another human being. After all, humans are prone to violence when they do not understand another, lacking patience, and only pursuing unprincipled approval and recognition. Our playwright, in comparison, still harbored a pure kindness.
The clock struck five, and half an hour later, the train stopped on the track with a clunk as promised. The familiar black swallow jumped off the train quickly, heels tapping rhythmically on the concrete floor.
Sonetto's eyes followed her.
A gust of cold wind blew, and yellow leaves fell gently beside the bench. Winter came more fiercely than expected. The playwright shuddered unbearably, tightened her scarf, and the walking woman she was paying attention to cast a brief glance at her as if inadvertently.
Their eyes met for a moment.