Twilight Zone

I woke up feeling the tight leather seat underneath. The rocking movements of the train had let me sleep longer than I needed. I looked around. It was an old-style train, built for luxurious travel, boasting an art nouveau interior and spacious compartments lined up in a wide corridor. Plates of shiny mahogany covered the walls, sprinkled here and there with colorful tiles in a peculiar pattern, only to be surpassed in elegance and beauty by the flowers on the compartment doors. It smelled like polished wood and looked like a first-class car.

Outside, streams of flashy colors were flowing as fast as a lightning. A second later, the usual landscape replaced them: gentle undulating hills embraced the train on both sides. As if somebody had adjusted the picture of a tv screen. This gave me a good feeling, but it did not last long.

How the hell did I get here?

A tingling sensation spread in my stomach. I took a deep breath.

Perhaps it was a dream.

It looked real, though — the conductor was already walking around, asking for tickets. I found nothing in my pockets and could not even say when I boarded the train. Had I been drunk? He came closer, and I had to admit fare evasion.

“Everybody who has no ticket goes to car number seven, please, right here ahead of us,” he said, raising his voice as if talking to elderly people or a child.

I am not the only one.

“When is the next stop?” I asked.

The conductor raised his eyebrows as if I had asked him to translate the word “elevator” in Chinese.

“No idea what you are trying to say,” was his indignant reply. My gut feeling got even worse.

I started walking forward when I noticed the landscape again. To the left of the train, early spring was coming: gentle buds and leaves in light green were decorating the trees. To the right, fall was setting the fields on fire with its golden brush.

I must be dreaming after all. No trace of the conductor to ask again. Maybe I should speak to another passenger when I take a seat.

Car number seven was not crowded, but there were still a few people in it. It looked exactly like the other one, so we all travelled first class without a ticket. Or maybe they wrote “Service” with big letters here.

It occurred to me I had found my mobile phone in my pocket when I was looking for a ticket. High time to open it and find some answers — I did not even remember my name. One of many bad signs that day.

When I took it out, some of my fellow travelers looked at it with the type of curiosity as if they had never seen an object like this before. Some of them had old-fashioned clothes or a strange haircut, others looked rather normal according to modern standard. The one opposite me was quite a character. He looked like a sales representative in his fifties. There was something cheap about his looks, but he had a disarming smile. I guess this is what you need as a salesperson most of the time.

I touched the screen, ignoring the uneasy thought that I was not sure when I had bought this mobile, and why. At least I knew what it was for. Remembering plenty of things about reality, I knew nothing about my personal life. Was this stored in different parts of the brain? I investigated the messages, using only texting and one more communication program. People would call me Chris.

Why did I have so few contacts, did I work too much, or not enough?

At least there was no chat with a wife. One would recognize the demanding and practical style of communication between married people after a few years. So, it looked like I was not married. There were chats about appointments, birthday parties and friends, but none of it helped to find out who I was. Those people knew all they needed to know about me, and none of it was a topic of discussion. Emails were no help either. This was obviously a private device, no messages from my work. And hardly anybody wrote a lot of emails privately these days.

Perhaps I should talk to the sales representative. Would have preferred the beautiful woman in the compartment next to us, but I did not want to look quite like a fool in front of her. Many single women around nowadays... Around thirty, a pretty, oval face, the way a Madonna would look like, but with some fervor in it, as if she was a religious fanatic or a prophet. What made it lovable was the ingenious look of a child, as if she was still discovering the world around her and needed help. The type of woman who falls in the hands either of a knight or a villain. And who would adore both.

“Excuse me, Sir. Do you know when the next stop is?” I asked the salesperson.

“Not sure what you mean,” he answered bluntly, still polite.

“I can certainly get out of here, can’t I?” I tried again.

“Yes, you can. Unless you stay in car number seven forever. Just follow the gray mice.”

The gray mice? I don’t see any mice… maybe he is not as normal as I thought after all.

“I understand. Maybe I should look for the conductor again. See you later,” I added, as if to make sure we were still friends.

“Don’t forget, less is more. The little things can be decisive in a crucial situation,” he added as a sign of goodwill.

Perhaps I should speak to the woman next, she must be smarter than that. When I left my compartment, the landscape to the right changed, if only a little. Leaves turned red, dried, or fell out. Fall was advancing in a time-lapse. To the left, the spring landscape had changed, too. Trees were in full bloom, summer flowers replacing the bright tulip carpet I had seen before.

I spoke to the young woman right away when I entered her compartment:

“Madam, did you see that? It happened very quickly... Oh I’m sorry, my name is Chris.”

“No, I didn’t. But it must be freezing outside, the first snow has fallen,” she replied softly.

I gasped… this was the last answer I expected. So I turned to the passenger next to her.

“Sir, can you see the fall landscape out there? Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Beautiful, indeed, a lot of crocuses and snowdrops coming out already,” the old man said.

I might be losing my mind.

I spoke to the woman again — who looked as if she was half there and half in her own thoughts. She told me her name was Isabella and continued quietly, as if talking to herself:

“This train is the Twilight zone. Nobody believes me, but I know. The zone between light and darkness, life, and death. It never stops, but new passengers keep coming in — and some are not here anymore. You may return to your previous life, jump to the left or right, or be left behind… You have three options.”

“But you named four?” I wondered. Whatever, none of this made any sense. "How long have you been here?”

She looked sad and confused.

“Not sure. Somehow, I am stuck here. Maybe I am no good for anything… or anyone. Or they can’t decide about me. Maybe I am too passive. Some say, if you are lucky, they may present you with a mirror before you leave — but not everybody gets that (it might be useful, though).

When the mice come, you need to follow them — they show you the way to the compartment you must be in. At first, the mice make me creepy. Why couldn’t they use aunts or something warmer and more industrious, to give you the feeling it all had a reason?”

I did not dare to ask Isabella who “they” were yet; and she did not look like she would know the answer.

“Before they show you the way, try to memorize the landscape. Then you’ll know afterwards whether you have taken the test.”

“The test?” It was not getting better.

“Yes, and whether you are moving in the right direction or not,” she added.

“But the train is moving in one direction only?”

And the discussion certainly in a circle.

I felt the first drops of sweat on my forehead.

“If summer comes and you are in cars One to Six, you are doing well. The more you advance to the front car, the better the chances are that you’ll leave this train. The more you approach the rear part, the worse your prospects are. Again, if someone is not in control of his psyche or rational thinking, he may stay longer in car number seven. Therefore, I am here…”

“Will I ever get out of here?” I asked.

“Not sure about you.”

“Let me try again: does anybody ever get out of here?”

“Yes, in winter — if they are in car Eleven when the lakes freeze. The last call is when snow falls... later, there might be no escape anymore. The car gets disconnected from the rest of the train, which turns to the left, continuing on the endless tracks. Some people call this train Seven Eleven, as it never stops, and the lights are always on. But you should pray not to be in the last car. You’d better leave in summer somewhere at the front."

This place here is where, in case of doubt, your character gets determined and appreciated once again.

I noticed that I was sweating but not feeling any thirst. Nor hunger. My body felt alright. As if they gave me some fluid on a nurturing machine of some sort… Felt no need to sleep, either.

I thought it would be a long and boring ride… until the mice came. They looked industrious, moving back and forth, or in circles. Then, as if following a command, they formed an arrow and started in the direction of the car ahead of us. Remembering Isabella’s advice, I followed them, but also looked left and right to memorize the landscape.

The mice ran into one compartment and disappeared in the corners the moment I reached the door, which stood wide open. Inside, an old lady was sitting at a folding table, in front of a set of chess made of marble. Leaning back, as if contemplating her next move, she raised her eyes to give me a friendly smile. There was a calm and inviting aura around her but I could not tell her age. Her white hair surrounded a face reminding of past beauty, kept alive by warm, hazelnut-color eyes. I stepped in, hoping that this would be a better conversation than the ones before.

“Fancy having a game of chess?” she said. Her voice had a sweet quiver in it. She was fragile but also stern in a way, sitting upright like a gentle old lady from a noble house.

“Sure, why not,” I hoped I could concentrate on something as complex as chess with all the question marks twirling in my head. But Isabella had made it clear that my behavior would enhance my chances of leaving the train.

“Chess is such a wonderful way to let time pass, isn’t it — especially when you have a lot of it?”

“Well, I’m not sure I have a lot of time, but there is no way to tell, since I do not remember how I came here — and when.”

“Oh, you have plenty of time for sure, my dear,” she smiled, “the question is where you want to spend it, and how.”

“Good,” I had enough of meaningful talk for today, “let us start the game. Do you have a clock?”

“No, we don't need a clock, dear; it destroys the pleasure. This is no sports competition. Or would you like to have a clock beside you when you make love? I play chess for the pauses in between, to enjoy the landscape and the conversation if it’s interesting. You did not tell me your name yet.”

“I'm sorry, so many unfamiliar people here. My name is Chris.”

“Hello Chris. I am Frida. Let us begin.”

She was an excellent player but needed her breaks repeatedly. She liked to talk.

“Life is like a game of chess, don’t you think? Each move changes the context and the possibilities. Everybody seems to know that but only a few adapt their decisions to the scenario at hand. Most of us are like a tennis player who goes to the court, wants to play, and win, but has no strategy even for the next two or three strokes — as the professionals do," Frida gave a complacent smile, like a child, as if she knew better.

“Don’t want to be rude, but are you trying to say we should think in detail about each move we ever make? How could we have a viable forecast of all the parameters in this complex world? What if I want a position in the physics department but another applicant is just better than me? Or if I break my leg at a Grand Slam final?”

“All I want to say is that you should know WHY you do something; whether it is your passion or your way of earning a living, whether you like a woman for her looks or her brains or her taste, or whether you just want to have a family and take the first best who says Yes.”

“To me, life is rather like a piece of cloth with a big zipper in the middle, separating the left from the right side. With each decision you make, you pull the zip upwards, and past possibilities close for you. You cannot turn back time and go to the right if you previously decided for the left. Until one day you only have few choices at hand — and the land that you plowed — as well as the harvest, if you did it right. If you are lucky, it is full of passion. If not, you are like a tree which sheds his last leaves and dries away without a trace. No child, no poem, and no song left behind. “

“Did not know you were a poet, Chris. But I guess we mean the same.”

“You don’t happen to know where this train is going to?” I asked casually.

Frida looked at me with big, helpless eyes, as if she did not understand the question.

“Perhaps you should ask the conductor. If you see him—I have not seen him for ages. But I have my guests, so I am fine.”

I left Frida and moved to the front. Another door opened. This compartment was empty and I took a seat.

I made it to car number six, but this was an easy one. Wondering whether the next steps will be more difficult.

Next, a young man asked me to repair his mobile, and I moved to car Five. Then an old man needed me to read from his book, since he had lost his glasses — it was an interesting book and helping him was fun.

“This was not difficult either,” I thought when I took a seat in car number four, “if I progress at the same rate, I will be in the first car soon. But why are there so many passengers still on board?”

When the time came to go to car number three, I was confident that I would stay there. I heard that if I did something very special, like an achievement or a heroic act, I could advance two cars at once. None of my deeds could count as heroic yet, so I was happy with the progress so far.

The new compartment was empty. Looking out of the window, I felt like dangling my feet, as if I was a child waiting for a concert to begin. Suddenly, a breeze of fresh air came from underneath. The bottom of the compartment opened, and I saw an enormous lake in front of me, dazzling with its azure brightness. Sitting on a stone next to it, I was throwing little flat stones into the water, counting how many times they would jump off before they disappeared.

Silence was cut through by a call for help, and I spotted a boy swimming way ahead of me. Why do boys always have to test their strength — is it to prove that they are as brave as a ‘real’ man, whatever that might mean? But then, where would mankind be today if nobody ever took a risk? Isn’t this the reason for youth being out there, despite all the wisdom swept away every day? Does death have a reason, after all?

Whatever. Life was precious, so I jumped into the water to rescue a young guy who did not know what he was doing. Soon I had him on the shore, panting for breath. His straw hair was glittering, mixed up with sand and reflecting the sunshine. He opened his eyes, looked at me, and gave me a funny, mischievous smile. Not even a “thank you” but an expression of pure, innocent joy, having had an adventure which he survived.

I was confident I would move to car number one right away. But it was the second car only. The conductor appeared out of the blue, as if he knew I was resentful. First time I saw him since I arrived here, so I said:

“Good morning, Sir. You must be in a hurry, but I still have a question. Why didn’t I advance more today and move to another car? After all, I saved a man’s life.”

“It’s always the same,” he replied, “everybody loves to be a hero. It’s way more difficult to do the things for which nobody admires you. And even more so, the ones for which nobody is grateful. There are people who do that every day of their life — but have you ever thanked a nursery teacher or a caregiver for being better than the rest, and for doing all those extra little things for half of your salary? Or the firefighter for being brave?”

I didn’t answer. I guessed car Two was better than Seven or Eight or even Eleven, where it gets extremely dangerous, as they say. A day later, I saw the salesperson coming into the same car. Can't believe he made it up here as well. I felt a sort of moral superiority to a salesperson. Why can’t it be a nice person, too? He spoke to me in a cheerful but subdued voice.

“Still in car Two, aren’t you? Should I tell you a secret? I know how to advance here faster, and I also know how to avoid being brought to the rear side of the train — since this is what will happen to you next. They only make you believe it is easy at the beginning, so that you can contribute to the energy level, but then the hard part comes. Like the sweets that kids get on the first day of school, not knowing what to expect in five years.”

“I don’t quite understand what you are saying. I am doing everything right; therefore, I am here.”

“Doing it right won’t be enough soon, you need an insurance,” he said with a meaningful look on his face.

“You are not out of the habit yet. Is that what you were selling in your previous life?” I couldn’t help smiling. Although the word “previous” gave me a shiver.

“No! That is, I don’t know. I only know what you need here. And this is seeds.”

“Seeds?” I raised my brows.

“Seeds to tempt the mice in the right direction.”

“But there must be another power directing the mice, right? I thought they were following somebody’s dressage or had a chip built in or so.”

“Even if there is, they love the seeds. You only need to throw them in the opposite direction if they are heading to the back of the train — they will turn around and lead you to the car in front. But there is a price.”

“And that is?” I knew this was coming.

“You should not behave as expected in the next compartment you are in. Thus, you would earn three portions of seed, equal to three times moving ahead. So, you lose one but get three,” he repeated the math’s.

“Makes two,” I said, still skeptical, “but this sounds like a dubious deal to me. Where do you get the seeds from?”

“I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I simply don't know. They were in my lap one day, and I felt the need to use them and spread them around.”

“OK, perhaps it’s worth trying. There is no guarantee that if I get to the first car I will get out of here, but if difficulties should occur, then this might help.”

The next time, they brought me to a compartment in which a baby was crying, lying on a table between the seats. It had been crying for a while, its eyes were red and sticky. I had no prior experience with childcare, so I was certain I would screw it up, no matter what I did. The smell in the air indicated that the baby badly needed clean diapers, and some were lying on the floor. Probably this was the proper thing to do, but I was reluctant to try. Feeling the seeds in my pocket, I reached the conclusion that it couldn’t be that bad if I backed up this one time. So, I turned around and left the compartment. Even if the tiny, helpless voice was haunting me for a while. It could not be overheard, though, and somebody else would come soon, for sure. The baby seemed real, as was my illusion to have done my best.

The conductor was coming from the end of the corridor in my direction, frowning. Wrinkles of sorrow were streaming on his forehead like shallow creeks.

“You should move to car number eight right away. This is the proper place for you. Try to do better next time. Find your soul and your heart again, you’ll need it.”

“This is not fair. Nobody told me the punishment would be higher than the reward. It was just this one time.”

“Your worst mistakes have a higher impact on your life than everything you did right. It is not by chance that some deplore them until their last day. But there is always a way out.”

“When do I get another chance?”

“Whenever you are ready,” he said quietly.

So now I had to move seven times forwards again and do the right thing. Isabella mentioned that after moving backwards, challenges became harder, as if I had to make up for failing before. It would be more difficult to advance to the front again. I thought of using the seeds next time, but something told me it would not be a good idea after all. Better keep them as an insurance if I really screwed it up.

So, I stayed focused the next days. Helped some children of difficult background with their homework, brought elderly people to the doctor, helped a 30-year-old junkie to get clean during the hardest sessions at night, and even put out a fire in a house full of families early in the morning.

While I was attending the cars one by one, on the left side, late spring started spreading its colors and sweet scent allover valleys and hills. Millions of flowers showed their delicate petals to the world. The earth was blooming, and life felt like fresh air made of saturate green. On the right, the fall landscape stayed the same. No signs of winter, so I was safe.

I asked Isabella whether she had ever been at the rear end of the train.

“No, luckily not. Car Eleven stays on the same tracks when the train gets disconnected and turns left at the last junction, to fall into an abyss soon after. What is in there, nobody knows, nobody ever returned. Some say it is filled with fire from hell. Others think an alien civilization is taking your brain apart, as a source of energy. Others believe you are meant to be recycled, since, as an evil person, you need a fresh start. They split your soul in parts, to survive in a piece of savory grass, a bee, a fish, or a bird.”

As time passed by, Isabella and I tried to leave this place together, helping each other whenever we can. I saw she was struggling to do the right thing, so she hardly received any more chances. I talked to her and prepared her mentally for the next trial to come. What she needed was confidence and self-esteem. Even if the appropriate mode of action was obvious, she was used to being reproached for everything she did before. Hence, she often thought that something else was expected of her, and kept doing the wrong thing, always trying to adapt and please.

One day I joined her in a new compartment and helped her to accomplish her task. We found out that there were no consequences — as if we had a team score or a seminar work at college for which everyone got the same grade at the end. Finally, we both reached car number one. There was nowhere else to go. The train ended ahead of us. Nobody had ever seen a locomotive; it was a different type of energy pulling the train.

“So now what?” Isabella said quietly, her body trembling in my arms.

“At least now we won’t be left behind while we are here, I guess.”

“But we can’t stay in this car forever. Eventually it would be full if nobody left here.” I had to admit there was a certain logic in this.

Then it happened. We hardly noticed the beginning since there was no noise or special sound to announce this. The left and the right window at the front turned each into a mirror, or rather a flat screen. We looked at each other and watched hers first, then mine.

Isabella’s screen showed the last days of her life before she came here, and it revived all other memories in her head. As it happened, Isabella had murdered her husband, in self-defense — after he had been violent for quite a while. She had lost her unborn child on one of those occasions and was not eloquent enough to make the jury understand. Crying most of the time, feeling pity for him and remorse, she could not tell a coherent story, and had no money to hire a lawyer either. She was given a deadly injection, and was now hanging between life and death, her body and soul struggling to survive. If she would come back to life after this, she would receive an amnesty. This was the law in the state where she lived.

I still did not know why I was on this train when I looked in the mirror in front of me. Having worked for a big asset manager in the city, each morning I passed by people lying on the street. I could not help all of them, but I wondered why nobody could. There were more people who did well than people who were on the street, so it didn’t fit. There must be enough resources to solve that, I thought. We even send people to the moon. So, since I knew the back-end processes in the financial institute I was working for, including their weaknesses and failing controls, I took one cent per day aside from each account, and transferred it to a third party abroad. From there, I would distribute it to institutions who helped the homeless, and to clinics who accepted the ones who needed a therapy.

Of course, this was theft, and I knew it. But my motives were good. Still, did they excuse what I did? So much happens in the world in the name of a good cause, who could draw the line…

Isabella looked at me. Her eyes were wide open, and their blue was getting deeper, filled with appreciation and love — now I knew again how to tell the difference. Love built up at the time we spent together and feeling right after this new piece of knowledge about me. I did not know whether I deserved self-respect, but I wanted to give her all the warmth she had missed for years. So, we both had something to give. And we had earned a second chance. I asked:

“But what if you are in the first car and you don’t get to see a mirror?”

Nobody knows. Some speak of eternal light seen through the door slit. Probably you don’t need a mirror after all since memories are irrelevant where you go. You would carry positive energy but no baggage, and live on a different level, a shiny star, an ocean of light infusing the self. An eternal bliss. Or something better, a state we cannot imagine at all.

This was not the moment for us, though. I put my arms around Isabella and said, “Let us leave the train. Our second chance is waiting.”