Note from the train operator
In a parallel universe, she would have jumped off Charon’s train and spilled her blood on the rail tracks of Styx.
He, in that same world, will only feel a slight thud as the train comes to a halt at Vito Cruz Station. He’ll gasp at the sight of her protruding bones and the blood that smears the platform.
For her, life ended as soon as she embraced the cold steel alloy.
For him, her death will resuscitate him from his literary grave, and he’ll have something new to write about—but certainly NOT a train love story. Instead, we’ll probably be reading a crime/thriller/gore type of story right now.
As for me, I’m just thankful that I don’t have to go to jail.
Vito Cruz
The doors opened and a young woman boarded the train. It was as if an angel walked through the gates of heaven! She must be a student, holding all those notebooks in her arms. She almost warped him back to the 40s. She wore an expensive looking polka dotted dress. A knee high skirt matching the color of her top and a brown leather shoulder bag. She must be 21 or 22 but with the fashion taste of her dead grandmother. Overall, she looked like someone who is fully directed in life and never had any trouble or problem that caused her to break out into tears. Her eyes were beautiful and the light makeup brought out the true features of her face. She had nice scar-less legs and her arms were the arms of a Disney princess. Unreal nice arms.
She stood looking from left to right, then fixed her gaze at his direction as if seeing a familiar face. He assumed that she would not sit beside him. She could have sat anywhere, but on the contrary, she took pains in walking the long way to where he was. It was 9 P.M. on a weekend and the train was basically empty so you can probably see how startled he was when she sat beside him.
Why in the world? Why beside him with all the space between them?
To Gil Puyat
Their shoulders jerked against each other as the train moved through the rails. He could feel an extreme physical closeness with her. He thought of moving away a little to leave a space between them for fear that this propinquity between them might be offending her. But the train is almost empty and she chose to sit beside him; if there’s someone to move, it should be her. Now her leg is grazing his as the train jolts, his right shoulder against her left. He turned his head pretending to look at the window therefore leaving a gap between them, but every now and then the jolting of the train helped to recreate the contact between their shoulders. He decided not to budge an inch thinking that he’ll appear presumptuous to her, but if he doesn’t move, she might think that he’s taking pleasure in these light contacts of covered flesh. He remained in his position thinking what he should do. The woman all of a sudden looked inside her bag and her hand seemed to be filing something out. She got an expensive looking fountain pen and what seemed to be a folded page of a newspaper and began writing.
Newspaper?
Gil Puyat
Back in high school, he wrote his first love poems and a weekly serialized love story that he shared with his classmates. He was so good that one day he was asked to come to the Faculty Room (It became too popular it caught the teachers’ attention.)—not to be commended for his literary pursuits—but to be confronted about the part of the story where the woman slept in the man’s house. He sat in a monoblock chair and was literally surrounded by his teachers. There was real concern in their faces.
Is this true? Did this really occur?
While we praise your…intelligence and…creativity…, we think that someone your age should NOT be writing things like this. We discourage you from continuing this story. It would be really bad if the Chancellor or her minions get a hold of these. Do you understand what we’re saying?
Of course, he did. The moment he walked out of that room, he knew he had a real encounter with the concept of censorship and book burning. It reminded him of a colored picture of Adam and Eve in a pictured Bible for adults—they were standing half naked looking afar and the leaves that happened to be in front of them concealed their sensitive parts entirely. To him, it was hypocrisy and failure to grasp the idea of their banishment—to be ashamed of our sins is one thing, to conceal it is another.
The following week, he released the final part of his story just to send a message to his oppressors. He was only 13 back then.
In his college days, he dreamed of becoming a published writer. It came sooner than expected—at the age of 19, his poetry appeared at Philippines Graphic, at 22 in Manila Times. He was happy for a fulfilled dream but he wanted more. He often imagined himself as a promising prospect in the literary scene. Hallucinated in an illusionary pile of books he authored, he told himself that winning an award would be only a matter of time. Of course, it was all just a figment of his imagination—his arrogant attempt at projecting himself being at par or even greater than the writers he had read. He dared to fly too close the Sun.
He’s 28 now and his feathers of wax melted without any award or published books. He’s jobless and sells books online to make ends meet. Whether or not he’d felt he was destined for book launches and college speeches, all that is now lost in the past can never be done differently.
He felt he was done and the future seemed bleak. Done at 28 (did he even start at all?), stale and unexciting, that’s what he thinks of himself now. But this woman seated beside him, with her youth and beauty could resuscitate him from the literary grave. She was something he could write about. His brain already started to pile the titles for a story:
The Woman in the Train
An LRT Love Story
An Almost Train Love Story
Not a Train Love Story
The Night Train, a woman
While thinking this, he tried peeking at what she was scribbling with her pen. He couldn’t read it, but it was cursive and in small fonts. She seemed to be so absorbed in it that he’s now looking directly but discreetly at her. He noticed the flesh peeking from the inside of the woman’s dress. He immediately turned his look away and he felt guilty for having seeing them. What if she really wanted him to see it? What kind of a woman would want to show her young breasts to a stranger? A whore? Does she look like a whore to you? These thoughts battled inside his head as they arrived at the next station. A couple of people exited the train while he was still in an internal warfare with his libido.
To Libertad
She stopped writing, folded the newspaper and put it back inside her bag. Now he could never discover the mystery of whatever she wrote in there. It could be the greatest revelation of our time for all he knew. He felt like snatching her bag and get the newspaper out to uncover whatever confidentiality the newspaper had just possessed.
Suddenly the woman moved closer to him closing the gap that he had created earlier. Not that she intended to really move but she seemed to feign it in along with every jerk of the train. It was now evident and clear that she seemed to be thinking about him at that very moment too for she looked to his direction and swept a glance at him, as if waiting for his move. Come on now! A writer once said that women are complicated creatures, but he thought, so are men. They can’t always decipher the signals that a woman would send them. Mostly, it creates misunderstanding in each other. That’s not what he wanted to happen—to create a scene and spend the rest of the night in a police station for his lewdness. If there’s anything he learned from his past experiences with women, it is that if the message isn’t clear, it must be some sort of trickery. Don’t give a fuck. Literally and metaphorically.
But he decided, somehow, to transmit a message to her. He looked at her, waiting for her to look in his direction and meet his stare. This entire mind game should be decided by how she would respond. If her eyes would show any deep-seated hostility, then every presumption he formulated since she sat beside him were all signs that he needs to see a psychiatrist. If she would return the favor and look back at him, the picture would be painted clearer between them of what they really wanted to happen. The thought of ending up in a motel (he’s thinking of that building near EDSA Station) with her that night made him feel imbecilic and electrified his spirit at the same time. What was he thinking? If she’s easy to get, it’s not worth it. But he thought, a writer needs experience, and this is one of the things he should undergo. He thought of it as a metamorphous process to set his writing prowess kicking again. Again, of course, it’s only in his imagination—much likely an excuse for him to share a bed with this woman.
Libertad
She observed him from the corner of her eye. He is definitely looking at her. If she wanted to make a move, she should do it now. She’s leaving at the next station. She’s leaving the world tonight and maybe he could save her. Make her change her mind. But she thought of how silly she was. How silly they both were. It was evident that they were interested in each other. They send signals. Transmit signs to the sensitive nerves of their shoulders and legs. But neither of them seems to want to pull the trigger. She thought she had done enough to make her intentions known but he seemed to be thinking too much. Men, she thought, they would never know where to lay their hands if you don’t lead them. She took a deep breath as they moved midway to the next station. She wanted to embrace him and tell him to hold her tight, never let go, and attempt to love her. Of course, she would never do that though that night, in the eve of her death, she thought she could offer herself to anyone.
She knows that he’s a writer. At 14 she happened to read his works at Philippines Graphic in their school library and checked him on Facebook to read his works in his Notes. At 17 she even bought copies of the newspaper when he was published. She even happened to see him when she watched Cinemalaya with her friends (she was too shy to approach him) and she never thought of seeing him again until she boarded the train earlier. She thought it was predestined. She bought train tickets to have herself torn to bits by the train. She could have jumped right away when his train arrived but she decided to prolong her march to death and do it at EDSA station. But when the doors of the train opened and she saw him there, she realized it was not Charon’s train she boarded to spread her blood and guts in the rail tracks of Styx but something much more sinister: the possibility of love.
That night, anything could mean something to her. She wanted to strike a conversation with him. She sat next to him no matter how strange it was. She felt ashamed to deliberately offer herself by his side as if saying: here I am. But she might as well try to save herself from her own hands. Selfish. The idea of saving herself by loving this man. This stranger. But all these coincidences have to mean something, would it?
She decided to make her last move. She turned to him and smiled. And looked him deep in the eyes. She wanted to say hi and that she read his works, but she only managed a stammer, tried again, and her words rolled over and over in her mouth for a long time, all she managed was a very loud and overly enthusiastic “Hello!”
Then there was a discomforting, sweet silence.
Edsa Station
She’s turned to him and her eyes were trembling as if pleading. He was utterly surprised when she said Hello! He rummaged through the mental files of beautiful words and romantic literary references of books he had read. He sought help from Barthes to Neruda, but nothing seemed to fit to what he could say to her—it is as if words became powerless—almost useless, and he felt ashamed but he didn’t conceal it. They remained looking at each other for a long time as if looking in a mirror and gasped at the discovery of a new mole that has always been there since birth.
Illusion and fantasy must be taking over his reality. Is she a mirage? She must be one. A mirage in the train headed to the desert of the moon. He only managed to look at her. She could be inspiration for his writing. A break from his yearlong writer’s block. But more than anything, this moment could mean happy days and querulous nights, beautiful memories and suspicions of infidelity but it doesn’t matter. He will aim for the Sun again, this time with her, and if they fail, they will have one another in this burden of existence.
When they went out, she threw the newspaper away which she scribbled on earlier. What were you writing in the newspaper? He asked.
“Nothing!” she blushed and laughed and thought that earlier, she could have been bleeding to death or decapitated and couldn’t have lived to experience this moment. Yes, it no longer matters. Charon and his train can leave for now without mangling her body against the cold steel.
Both of them wanted to say I love you but they know it won’t amount to anything at that moment—maybe the right words would be, I want to know you. Knowing, meaning having knowledge of—to know each other would be the only way to grasp the uniqueness of one another among the billions of people they could possibly end up with. Their image of one another was set from the beginning without saying a word—a mutual exchange between them already took place even before knowing it. She will be his inspiration, him, her hope.