The Season of Migration Read Online Free

gentleman across the aisle. It had the feel of someone’s living room, warm and close, and was somehow pleasant despite being packed with people facing forward, many of them nodding off or chatting with the person next to them. From where I sat I could see the peaks of hats over the seats in front of me, round shapes and summits of felt and feathers sticking up over the lines of the chair backs. The winter sun streamed in through the windows; a few people had propped their coats against the glass to keep out the glare, but where the rays streamed in, I could see the cigar smoke rising through the light in slow, twisting waves. I remembered afternoons in the front room at the parsonage, watching specks of dust float up and travel through the angles of the setting sun, trying to trace the lines they made to make shapes and pictures. It was hot on the train, though the window was cold to the touch. I had stripped down to my shirtsleeves.
    I relaxed my eyes and saw the expanse of the country we were passing through. Two figures walked across a long field, one figure taller than the other, both of them in long black coats, tiny houses in the background on either side of them. I imagined that those two figures were the two of us, and then I thought of you treading the floors of the Goupil gallery in Paris, that place where I was no longer wanted. I saw you, your mustache freshly combed, your shoes polished and gleaming, smiling while you shook hands with a woman in a long dark dress, the familiar images surrounding you in gilded frames on the walls. It was a strange feeling, but in that moment I told myself we were both doing what we were meant to do.
    The entry to mining country was marked by black pyramids of earth on the horizon and a layer of thick dark coal smoke that covered the light of the sky. The pyramids were perfectly shaped, clearly man-made, bringing to my mind the image of Egypt as we saw it in picture books as boys, yet even from a distance I could tell that these pyramids were less solid than stone. I turned to the man next to me, who had been silent since we pulled away from Brussels. “Black Egypt,” I said. This was the phrase that came to mind.
    The man turned his watery eyes to me. He was brawny, tough and leathery, wearing a thick coat that could have been made from burlap and which must have been uncomfortably hot.
    He grunted in approval. “Got that right.”
    â€œWhat are the pyramids made of?” I asked him.
    The man looked at me with surprise. “Coal slag,” he said, and then: “I suppose you’ve not been here before.”
    I shook my head. I told him I was to be the new lay preacher in the Wasmes area, feeling a surge of excitement and doubt. I couldn’t believe it, Theo, it seemed so surreal—after a year of failed study for the theological degree in Amsterdam and then sitting through those dreaded, useless evangelical training sessions in that school in Brussels, wondering desperately why I needed to know Greek in order to bring the Gospel to those who needed it most, there I was! At long last, on my way to a new land, equipped with nothing but my two hands and the book in my knapsack. I felt that I was on a path I had chosen, despite the maneuvering Father had to do to get me there; this might sound silly to you, but I was so much happier on that train than I ever had been traveling back to work at Goupil’s.
    The man, though, made a noise like a snort in response to my statement, the sound someone makes when they don’t believe a word you’ve said, or when they want to laugh but don’t want anyone to hear. I looked at him to discover what he meant.
    â€œForgive me,” the man said. “I’ve lived in this place a long, long time.”
    I got off the train in Wasmes and watched it pull away, curve round the track, and disappear. As soon as it was gone, a boy in a dark cap, tall boots, and tweed trousers and jacket stepped out