Both
of their lives had ended, and their memories of one another were
but small threads of distant events. And the small line that balanced
itself over the edge cut the rope that tied them together—separating
them.
Both
of them were dethroned from the paradise that made them live and
die.
And
only at the end of the tunnel, they stand together unrecognizable
to one another.
"I
haven't seen you before." The woman that sold the tickets
to the eleven o' clock train declared. She had asked, for everyday
she saw the same monotony and waited—
An
old woman, of antiquity, asked for space in the line—
A
distant boy—apparently lost—didn't know he would never
see his mother; he played with a small ball, humming a bedtime
song.
He
couldn't distinguish the colors of life and death.
The
clamor of souls was endless. It was an endless line that awaited
a turn at the ticket booth.
But
this man that now stood in front of her, yes, this same man, seemed
familiar.
The
man, upon the declaration, felt an utter feeling of confusion
envelop him.
"I
don't even know where I am, but I know I am dead," he replied,
his face never changing the tone of confusion he wore.
The
woman shook her head in negation, stamped his passport, and gave
him a ticket, ignoring the thematic.
The
accident had been very quick, while he was crossing the avenue,
on the way to his house. In the distance a fiery metal beast approached—a
killer weapon—and its rider a man in a great hurry, maybe
to work, maybe to a date, maybe running from a crime, or maybe
placed there by an unseen force called destiny, no one knows,
for no one was there to help the doomed man when it happened.
The driver of the car, as hurried as he was, found no time to
press the brakes, impacting the old man.
It
had been a quick and painless death, a mad and wild death, an
instant death, the envy of many.
But
before that, some forty years before… there was Alice.
* * *
The
woman wore a golden dress, not a real gold dress, for she was
poor. She was a farmer's daughter and this was her wedding. A
young woman she was, just about twenty, of straight brownish hair
and blue eyes—a deadly, sensual and morbid combination—she
was a princess. Of all the roses and tulips, she was the prettiest,
a mixture of both. She gazed and smelled at a bouquet of flowers
that embarrassed itself with her beauty.
And
the young man named Miguel noticed her husband was away chatting
with the many gentlemen of the party, and being sparkled by the
woman's beauty, he headed towards her. He had no shame of being
a commoner on the house of a rich hacendado, and he had
no shame at all of speaking to his wife, either. For he had something
that had been passed down by his grandfather—he had pride.
With
his gentleman's hat in place, his lent coat very well ironed and
dress pants a bit wrinkled, a smile his only possession. He spoke
to her.
The
young woman raised her eyes from the bouquet and smiled at the
gentleman and he smiled back.
And
as if it were a sudden command, a spiritual order, an invisible
rope tied to his tail, or maybe just the pearly white: the man
stopped in front of her and breathed hard.
"Nice
bouquet, isn't it?" she asked in between smooth lips, pearly
whites and a farmer's daughter's accent.
"Yes,
it is perfect," he replied, "but you far surpass its
perfection." he added with a smile, an educated phrase, and
was replied by a perfect laugh.
"You
are one of those who flatter women," she said, still laughing.
"No…
I am one of those that fall in love."
And
he took her hand.
Under
infinite lights—and away from the hacendado—they
both danced to the tune of a composer unknown to them. Stares
riddling them, stares that said:
"Why
does the wife dance with the farmer?" one asked. "Isn't
she married?" the other wondered. "It looks like the
hacendado isn't worth a dime in bed." One full of
envy insulted: "Who dances Mozart like that?"
The other asked, "Only a farmer's daughter and a servant…
only those that don't know Mozart."
But
never did they care, as Mozart provoked in them a sort
of cryptic forbidden love.
They
danced all night, but sometime the night had to come to an end
and every one had to leave, and the servants had to clean up,
and the hacendado must have his honeymoon.
So
there they were, walking down the old hacienda's train
station—over the cobbled sidewalks and by the lone wooden
seats—just next to the hacendado's house. The life
of the party was over, and they could hear the invitees bidding
farewell. It was late, after all.
So
Miguel took Alice's hand and said:
"This
was a magical night." He looked at her eyes.
"What
is your name?" he asked.
"Alice,"
she said, smiling, her head bowed low. But Miguel being the military
man, Miguel being the well trained servant and Miguel being a
farmer knew how to read facial expressions. Something was wrong.
"I
notice you are sad, what's wrong Alice?" Miguel asked.
And
Alice lowered her head, sporting several tears that ran down her
cheek. Miguel saw this and caressed Alicia's face with a hoe-battered
hand—for he was a farmer and not a rich man—but he was
educated and had his love to offer her.
"Oh,
don't cry… just remember the magic of this night," he
said, comforting, "our lov—"
And
he was interrupted.
"Yes,
it is because of that Miguel… this night has been so special,
and never will it repeat itself again."
There
are no words to describe what happened next. But young Miguel
felt as a knife was raised and then lowered, targeting his heart
and digging deep into it.
"I
am very sorry, sir, but my husband waits." Alice said, letting
go of his hands and bowing courteously, as she had been trained
to do so, as she had been forced to do so.
Like
a golden shooting star, she retired to the house, leaving Miguel
in his silent anguish—a hand extended in thin air—trying
to catch her.
But
no one had gone to space and conquered a star.
"Wait,
Alice! Come with me! We shall leave this place and you shall have
your freedom!" he thought about yelling. He thought about
picking up a pistol and shooting his employer dead, but found
no energy, for his heart had been broken.
And
so Miguel quit his job as a servant for the hacendado and
spent his life roaming as an angry and anguished ghost right until
the last minute of his life… right until the last impact.
And
it was in that exact same moment that the energy we call entropy
acted, just right there in After Life's train station Miguel suddenly
noted a familiar spark in said woman's eye.
"Alice,"
he whispered and Alice recognized him.
"Miguel,"
she replied, blue eyes full of tears upon the vague remembrance
of that man that had ever truly made her happy.
There
was a rebellion of angry, hurried souls, on the line. But both
of them were still in trance.
Alice
hung a sign on her window:
"I'll be back in one thousand years and
stellar trips."
Then
both souls walked After Life's train station—over the cobbled
sidewalks and by the lone seats—the rebellion of souls far
behind.
"It's
been such a long time since I've last seen you," Miguel said,
his hand on Alice's cheek. "I thought that I would never
see your face again," he added, and she smiled.
"You
haven't changed one bit," he said again.
"I
have died, as you did. This," she said and her hand ran over
her to show, "is what we call a reflex of the soul, a reflection
of who we were." She kept on.
"I
died a ninety year old woman with lots and lots of children and
grandchildren by my side. I was so old," she said. She smiled
in remembrance, but Miguel lowered his head in apparent sadness.
"I
never had a family, I never married or had children—"
Miguel lamented but Alice lifted a finger and put it on his lips.
"Don't
lament yourself here, dear. It is never too late to begin. Here
is where the souls stop to buy tickets, like an airport to the
after life. There is no paradise here after, just the train and
then nothing but eternal rest. But here is where fathers and daughters
meet, and grandchildren meet their grandmothers once more, where
pets and small children reunite, and mothers meet their sons,
and lovers meet their love—"
"And
I met you," Miguel interrupted. Alice's face shriveled, and
she cried.
But
the train waited for no one, and so the train arrived at exactly
eleven o' clock, drowning away the incessant droning of the souls
that waited at the ticket booth.
"And
it separates us," Alice said in a sad, bitter tone as she
saw the blue train tickets that Miguel still held in his hand.
"No…
we can still dance one more time," he said. And for the first
time in his life after life, Miguel dared to challenge the forces
that compose our universe… he took the tickets in both hands
and ripped them apart, leaving him on an eternal limbo.
"Perfect,"
he said and looked at Alice, and she shone as bright as ever,
the same smile she had worn forty years ago on that memorable
dance, her face unbreakable. He kissed her.
There
was the distant sound of the train leaving the station. There
was the distant sound of the ravaging and clambering of the angry
souls at the ticket booth, who waited for solace from beyond.
And there was the sun that changed colors—from blue to green
and then red again—and how the abstraction on the air. And
there were the two souls and how that one last Waltz made them
one… and how they shone forever.
