Ian, whose head was folded against his chest, his arms crossed, looked up. Sitting next to him on the bench was an elderly man, his hair like the blizzard outside. And while a bald spot was beginning to fester on top of his head, he had a wooly beard that must have itched. A yellow smile hacked its way through the overgrown beard and lit up his face.
Ian stared at the man for a moment, trying to place the accent. He then said, “You’re Swedish.”
The man looked taken aback by this. “Yes, I am! How you know?”
“I can hear the symphony in your voice,” Ian said. Then, noticing the man look confused, Ian rephrased himself. He mimed an oscillation with his hand. “Your voice – it’s musical.”
The man understood. “Oh! Thank you, thank you.” He pointed to himself. “Kasper Solberg.” He then pointed to the sleeping woman next to him, her head resting on her shoulder. She had wavy, red hair, like a fire that knew it was about to die. “Elisa – my wife.”
Ian gave a weak smile. He was so exhausted. “Ian Hunter,” he said, patting his chest. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Ian tried to close his eyes again, but Kasper repeated, “What you looking for?”
Ian sighed. “Sleep.”
The Swede gave a loud, blasting laugh. “Sleep? If you want sleep then why you leave home? We live in St. Paul and we hear they find gold in creek. I’ll make a necklace for my Elisa. She never had a necklace. If you don’t know what you looking for, find a necklace.”
“I will keep that in mind – thank you,” Ian said curtly. He tried to close his eyes once more, but Kasper prodded him awake one more time.
“We thought we die poor, but then we read the newspaper. Well, my wife, she reads the newspaper – she knows the, eh, language better. And I think: here is our second chance! Maybe second chance for you is not jewels. Maybe second chance for you something else?”