- Raul Trejo Villalobos – Interculturality - April 20, 2021
- Postpandemic perspectives - March 13, 2021
- Posthumanism: Romanian scenery 5 - August 26, 2020
The divider between me and danger, between contemplation and confrontation gave in.
The scenery
This story does not take place in my hometown like part 1 and 2. It takes place in a train. A romanian train leaving from the seaside and crossing the entire country. The attribute “romanian” is very important here. A Romanian train is not a German or a French, not even a Hungarian or Polish train. Romanian trains are wonderful, but challenging beasts. They travel at pace speeds and let you enjoy every bit of view you can spot through the dirty windows. When I say at pace speed, I mean exactly that – they go along at the top speed of a donkey carying a heavy load on its back. I love that with a strange devotion.
I am simple man, and as a simple man I normally get dizzy and nauseous in German trains that fly accross the nicely ordered agricultural lands, that incline in curves to compensate for the high speeds. Romanian trains on the other hand understand human nature and do not rush you. Instead, they invite you on a stroll, on a very long, slow and contemplative stroll. They have their disadvantages though. They are old – even the new ones are old. They still have compartments – nowadays there are trains without compartments too, but when this story took place, all trains had compartments. A compartment – for those that do not know – is an enclosed space in a train-wagon that usually accomodates six passangers. A train-wagon has several compartments aligned along a corridor. The corridor was used – back in those days – for walking, stretching ones legs, and smoking – as well as for the occasional drunk/s and their singing. This story isn’t about drunks though.
The charachters
I was returning from the seaside with my cousin, and we were seated in a compartiment as described above. My cousin was existentially confused at the time – more than now anyways – and I was a simple teenager. As such a simple teenager I had no well defined conceptions of the world, just some simple-minded expectations, that never got fullfiled. We were both anxious beings at the time – my cousin more then me due to his existential confusion. We were hoping that we will be able to ride back home in an empty compartment, to not deal with people and small talk. We were hoping to engage in the stroll that trains invite us to take. This did not happen.
The compartiment had six seats, as mentioned. Of the six only two remained unoccupied. I and my cousin took up two seats. The other two were occupied by two existentially non-confused guys, that showed no sign of any kind of anxiety. They were well built and aggressively tattooed. They had tattoos on their fists. It’s important to mention that at the time of this story, tattoos were in no way popular. A tattoo carried big weight back then, especially fist tattoos. At the sight of our new companions we became more anxious, and both existiantially confused. Another characteristic of Romanian trains is important here. They are lawless. There is nobody mainting peace and order. I grew up with stories of train conductors hiding in the lavatory to avoid a heavy beating from non-paying customers. We were on our own and we knew it.
The who-knows-what
We accordingly resorted to conflict strategies. I attempted to assert my authority by means of an angry look and a sort of skeptical, misanthropical distance – God knows why. My cousin on the other hand, decided to be as non-violent as he could – unconsciously I presume. He crossed his legs in the least masculine way possible and started reading poems – to himself thankfully. At this time I became enraged with my cousin. He was showing weakness and his weakness was rubbing on to me by association – at least in my simple mind. My rage was visible and his confusion to my rage was all the more visible. Our companions noticed this and they were looking at us in a weird way. We interpreted this as a sign of aggression. Instinctively we both took refuge to the corridor.
Train corridors are usually no refuge – they are a hotspot for smokers and drinkers that love to engage with others. Nothing is normal about this story though. The corridor was empty. We were delighted. Compartments are separated from the corridor by a sliding glass door and a window on each side of the door.
We were somewhat relieved but still cautious. We were constantly glancing at the companions beyond the glass door. We were convinced they were observing us and planning their attack. After a few minutes of absurd dialogue I decided to lean on one of the windows – the divider between us and them – in order to ignore the menacing views. This proved to be a double sided sword.
The divider
I was feeling at ease looking through the corridor windows at the sights outside , ignoring any fictitious danger and letting myself be absorbed by the passing of time. The flipside soon followed.
The trains are old and so are their windows. The divider between me and danger, between contemplation and confrontation gave in. The entire window I was leaning against fell down. It fell down hitting the two proud owners of aggressive fist tattoos on their heads. It fell down in silence and suspension of all beliefs this world can sustain. It fell down as a void absorbing all hope with it. A temporal lacuna followed. For a brief second there was no time, just a timeless train, strolling along the Romanian plains, no change, no future, no hope, no past, no action.
The annulled moment soon gave way to passing seconds and with them to rushing adrenaline and confused actions. I entered the compartiment with a weird mix of excuses and swearing:
“I am so so sorry … these damned trains … are you ok … nobody ever fucking fixes them ….”
One of the two, holding his head with one of his hands, mumbled friendly.
“Yes, don’t worry. Are you ok?” he started smiling.
I obviously ignored his friendly gestures and was feeding of my adrenaline and panic – perfect nutrients for enthropic acts and gusts of fury. I pick up the window – it wasn’t broken. It fell down in one piece. The windows – manufactured in my hometown – were double paned and therefore heavy. The poor guy must have felt the blow of my demise quite strongly. I took the window and tried to fit it back in its frame. This made me act in a less rational way than before. At this point I was also afraid that I was going to have to pay for the dammage I caused involuntarily.
The upper part of the window did fit back together. The lower part however refused. I started pounding on the window with my fist hoping I can restore the divider between me and the fictitious danger. My cousin was looking at me in despair and laughter. The two men tattoed on their fists suddenly experienced existential confusion and I was caught up in my own hopeless attempts to restore what has fallen. The divider never did fit back into its frame and the conductor later told me that it was always broken.