They don't know what's coming to them. Studying his notebook, he taps his chin. Could be an advantage, though. If you use it right. He looks down the road toward Warsaw, as if he can see the next century riding the train, trailing a line of smoke, the whistle blowing.
Time is a trickster in Poland.
In Warsaw they have electric lights. On the farms, peasants make their own candles. There, time juggles fire, throwing off sparks that reach far into the past and spin toward the future. But shh, we can't talk, now. The story is about to start.