Free Elementary, My Dear Watkins by Mindy Starns Clark

chair opposite the folded-down bed, wearing beige cotton pajamas and holding a tobacco pipe.
    “Yes?”
    “I’m sorry,” Danny said, smoothing his hair. “I thought I heard you knocking. Did you need something?”
    It took a moment and then understanding crossed Mr. Bashiri’s shiny, dark features. He glanced down at the pipe and then back at Danny.
    “Oh, my young friend, it is I who should be sorry. I was only packing the tobacco. It makes for a better smoke. I completely forgot about the signal.”
    He did it again now for demonstration, tapping the pipe against the metal armrest of the chair. Danny exhaled slowly, glad there was nothing wrong. He couldn’t imagine why the man had been knocking in the middle of the night.
    “I feel so bad. Did I wake you up?”
    “Not really,” Danny replied gamely. “For some reason, I’m kind of wired up tonight anyway.”
    Mr. Bashiri nodded.
    “As am I. Perhaps we could pass some time together. Would you like to come in?”
    Danny hesitated, wondering if he should.
    “I do not bite, you know,” Mr. Bashiri added. “In fact, I am a mere mortal, just like you.”
    Surprised, Danny inhaled sharply. Then he smiled. He supposed he had been a bit intimidated, not to mention a tad obsequious.
    “Please. Fold up the berth and join me.”
    Danny tried to relax, stepping into the room, putting up the bed, and taking a seat opposite the man whose work had appeared in everything from Life magazine decades ago to National Geographic last month. He was a legend, an icon, with a lifelong career of hopping the globe and documenting it in pictures. By Danny’s calculations, Mr. Bashiri had to be almost 80 years old, but it wasn’t obvious by looking at him. His body movements were those of an older man, yes, but his dark features were almost youthful, and his closely shaven hair was deep black without a hint of gray. Only his hands belied his age; they were gnarled and wrinkled and told of years spent out in the sun, exploring and photographing.
    “So tell me why you treat me like I am made of glass. Did Ms. Tatou instruct you to be so helpful and polite? Or is that just the sort of man you are?”
    Mr. Bashiri posed his question and then let it sit there as he continued fooling with his pipe, stuffing in more tobacco and tapping it down some more.
    Danny wasn’t sure how to answer. What could he say? That the man sitting here in his cotton pajamas was Danny’s hero, his professional example?
    “I guess it’s because you are everything I want to be,” Danny said finally, hoping he didn’t sound too stupid. “I’ve been dreaming of success like yours for many years. I never thought I’d be in such close proximity to it.”
    Mr. Bashiri nodded, tucking away his pouch of tobacco and then striking a match and holding it to the pipe, sucking deeply on the stem. Danny had a feeling that pipe smoking wasn’t allowed on the train—but he sure wasn’t going to be the one to stop him.
    “Success comes at a price, you know,” Mr. Bashiri said finally, a puff of smoke swirling from his lips. “I did not just wake up one day and snap my fingers and make it happen. I sacrificed much. I worked hard. I have…” he hesitated, pipe poised in the air, eyes distant. Then he zeroed in on Danny, looking directly at him with eyes black and deep, the irises the same color as the pupils. “…regrets. I have regrets.”
    Danny shook his head enthusiastically.
    “But you’ve accomplished so much! Your career is unrivaled.”
    Mr. Bashiri finally got the pipe to light and a gray haze filled the tiny room. He spoke in vague generalities about the cost of fame, but Danny didn’t need to hear this. It was the standard be-careful-what-you-wish-for-because-you-just-might-get-it speech that wizened old professionals always tried to toss the way of aspiring hopefuls. He’d heard it all before and had a feeling that most of it was bunk anyway.
    “What I am saying,” the man continued, “is