Watson Waterman

A shop assistant lifted me from the display stand of a specialist shop in Calais. Two teenagers, Magalie, aged seventeen, and her brother Manuel, aged fifteen, bought me as a gift for their mother. It was May 2002.

On Mother’s Day, Catherine — my new owner — opened my case.

As a fountain pen, I shall remember forever the emotions that crossed her face.

Admiration.

“Well! I am a WATERMAN, after all. My nib is gold-plated, and I shine with gold from top to bottom.”

Joy.

Her children had chosen something according to her tastes, not theirs.

“Children? But they are nearly grown-up! Humans are very strange creatures.”

But there was worry too.

How much had they spent? Had they remembered to convert euros into francs?

“And no, for the record, I cost eighty euros — five hundred and twenty-five francs!”

“But where did I learn to understand human emotions?”

Brother and sister exchanged a smile, and Manuel said to his mother:

“You take good care of your things, Mum. In twenty years, you’ll still have it.”

And he was right.

I quickly earned a special place in Catherine’s life. I rarely left her side and constantly needed refilling.

There is one expression she used that always made my gold plating shudder:

“You’re going downhill so fast I wouldn’t even ride a bicycle there.”

I admit, I was becoming rather vulgar.

Catherine had returned to her studies. June arrived, bringing the final examinations she needed to complete her diploma. I lost count of the pages I filled — sleepless nights when she would suddenly wake, pull me from my slumber, and hurriedly write down an accounting formula or an idea for her next essay.

Then came her tears. They diluted my ink.

Her father had just died, and she was writing the words for his funeral.

It was the thirtieth of September.

Later, I accompanied her to the office. She would show her claws whenever a colleague tried to use me. Being left-handed, she explained, she held me in a particular way, and a right-handed person might damage my precious nib.

Quite right too — nobody touches my nib.

Of course, she also used a computer keyboard, but it was never truly my rival. I was always the first to know her thoughts, the first to sketch out a letter or prepare a résumé for someone searching for work.

Then came February 2014.

Magalie placed me inside a box beside a pair of ankle boots.

Why this sudden rejection?

The boots and I soon joined an impressive mountain of boxes of every size. A few weeks later we were moved once again. The ground shook, there was noise everywhere… what was happening to us?

Hours later, silence finally returned.

Hands grabbed our cardboard prison. The boots and I hoped to be freed.

Not at all.

Our prison was merely set down somewhere else.

Several months later, the box finally opened. The boots were taken out first. I was thrown from one side of the box to the other until Catherine spotted me.

Her smile made me forget those long months spent among the ladies’ footwear.

I returned to my rightful place upon her desk, this time in another city: Clermont-Ferrand.

But I no longer worked as well as before, and Catherine was disappointed.

Still, I remained in the pencil holder. Our friendship meant far too much for her to throw me away.

Then came June 2021.

Catherine had a revelation. She searched on Google — yes, that machine replacing books and fountain pens alike — and discovered how to repair me.

The solution was wonderfully simple: soak me overnight in water.

The ink clogging my precious nib slowly dissolved away.

My owner was overjoyed.

I returned to her genealogy notebooks. I knew I would never again fill pages the way I once had. Arthritis had stolen much of the flexibility from Catherine’s wrists.

But I did not care.

Each day, I still record her discoveries, her wishes, her plans.

I remain the first.

I am Watson, the WATERMAN fountain pen.

Manuel was right.

I am now nineteen years old.

Old… far too old.

The improvement did not last very long. Now I splutter and dry out. My elegant curves and flowing lines have lost their former grace.

I am finished.

And yet, I was never thrown away like some ordinary pen.

I reign proudly from the pencil holder.

Mr Pencil — yes, I come from the North after all — Mrs Eraser, those pompous Stabilo fellows, and that miserable little Reynolds ballpoint with its tiny number-five tip had all better behave themselves.

Because here, I am still the chief.