Tales of Mystery and Truth

by Jeffrey K. Hill

  She pulled her coat tightly around her, as much for warmth as for reassurance.

  In front of her, the barred ticket window was unattended. Beside the window stood a ravaged wooden telephone booth. She crossed the platform, wary of the homeless man now stirring beneath his blanket, and consulted the schedule on the wall. The last train back into the city had left ten minutes earlier.

  A wave of despair came over her. Despite having come eagerly in search of her dream, Grozny Station was bringing her worst fears to fore, and now her one apparent chance for retreat was gone. She looked around not knowing where to go next, or what to do. Her instructions had only been to take the tram to the end of the line. She thought the answer would present itself here.

  Several nonsensical mumbles emerged from the other side of the telephone booth. She feared when the homeless man found her, he would not welcome her in his station. Or, perhaps, he would welcome her with greater affection than she would ever consider returning. She did not want to explore either possibility.

  Then she remembered the book in her hand. She found stuck between two pages the slip of paper on which was scribbled the numbers she had called. Cautiously she approached the telephone booth and stepped inside. She tried gently to slide the doors shut, but they resisted. She applied more pressure; abruptly they jerked shut with a metallic screech and a rattle of glass. With a glance through the thin side windows she saw the homeless man turn his back toward her, as if intent on sleeping through what must have been for him just another disturbance.

  She breathed relieved and turned quickly toward the telephone. Without hesitation she began dialing the numbers. There was no sound. She shook the receiver, then tried for a dial tone, but could get none. The telephone was dead.

  She slammed the receiver back in its cradle as tears welled in her eyes. Suddenly she felt as if she was trapped in the tiny booth, and spun around to find the homeless man sitting up now, smiling and nodding mischievously at her.

  She fought frantically to open the doors of the booth, and darted toward the stairs to the street. Night had settled quickly, and the eerie calm that normally remained after dusk had been swept away by strong winds pushing low dense clouds and pulling thunder behind. The street was nearly as deserted as the station below. The buildings were all old and dirty. Garbage rustled along the walkways. She saw a tiny glow in a doorway across the street. A man took a half step from the shadows, and she thought that perhaps he had been waiting for her. But the signal she had hoped for did not come, and he vanished back into the shadows like a faded vision.

  A block away to her right several people were going to and from a well-lighted shop. Two young men were hurriedly loading a van with large boxes from within the shop. Each time they emerged from the van doors, they glanced up and down the street before proceeding. She guessed, because of the dark, unmarked van, they were employed by the Regime or the black market. In either case, she was certain they were criminals.

  She looked to her left but saw only darkness.

  No cab awaited her. All of the buildings seemed to be places of dubious business, either closed for the day or abandoned. For some reason she had imagined, as she ran up the stairs from the station, she would find herself at the entrance of a glorious cathedral bathed in stained-glass colors where her dream awaited.

  Thunder rumbled overhead. She looked around once again wondering what to do. She began to think she had made the wrong decision in coming this far, in succumbing to romantic hopes. She was foolish to have given up contentment and safety for this. Yet if she chose now not to continue, not to go forward, she would be forced to spend another night alone, but this one without food or shelter or the security of her apartment.

  She heard shouting from down the street and her hopes rekindled. She turned and saw one of the young men beside the van arguing with the other and gesturing toward her. He took a step forward and shouted again in some vulgar dialect she could not understand. The second man restrained the first, and she turned her back to them. She shivered, sensing their hidden danger, and descended back to the station.

  She did not dare to spend the night in the station with the homeless man. She knew she could never rest for fear he might at any moment attack her. But she decided she would implore the kindly conductor to allow her to sleep inside the tram for the night. They could shut the doors against the outside threats, and the mere presence of the conductor would certainly quash any evil designs the homeless man might have on her. She would not see the joyous end for which she had hoped; it was a plan to allow her to survive the night and in the morning return safely to her apartment.

  When she reached the platform the tram was no longer there.

  She looked across at the homeless man, who still remained sitting up and nodding his head at her. She looked away, trying to give no indication of her fear, and hence her vulnerability as prey, yet growing ever more fearful by the moment. At the edge of her vision the homeless man continued to stare at her. She turned and remounted the stairs.

  A steady rain began to fall. Down the street the young men continued to move between the store and the van, now dripping and cursing at one another. She watched as they scrambled into the van. The engine started, and backfired. She flinched, then looked up in time to see the van chugging away over a bridge in the distance. Across the street the man under the awning remained in his place, the faint glow of his cigarette barely lighting the shadows in which his face was hidden.

  In the sky far to her left she saw bursts of light and wondered if it was lightning or exploding shells. The thought she had at some point unknowingly crossed into a portion of the city controlled by the Resistance crippled her. That would explain why the telephone was dead. And it might also mean there would not be another tram. Perhaps this place had been fought over many times by the Regime and the Resistance, until now, when it no longer held value for any one but lurkers and looters.

  She checked the clock on the wall, wishing the light of day was not still so far away. From underground she heard what she thought was the grating and snapping of a tram, and she hurried back down the stairs. With only a cursory glance at the homeless man, she strode toward the edge of the platform. She waited, listening, hearing nothing now, but still craning to see a tram approaching around the bend. Eventually she turned round and saw the homeless man smiling and nodding.

  She headed back toward the screaming wall, staying as close to the edge of the platform as possible, concentrating on the metal rails that, seeming to writhe in the darkness, produced in her grotesque nightmares of infestation, but let her avoid meeting the homeless man’s disconcerting stare. The silence began to frighten her. She could not go back on the street where there was no shelter from the harsh weather. And she did not trust the homeless man, who every moment appeared stronger and more agile than any indigent she had ever seen. She saw no ready means of escape, and though she knew better, her mind became wild with thoughts of imminent freezing or starvation.

  She felt truly at the end of the line.

  When she had just passed the homeless man, a shrill ringing suddenly pierced the silence of the station. She screamed.

  The homeless man laughed and she looked at him, pressing her hands against her racing heart. He continued the inexplicable nodding of his head as he glanced up at the telephone booth against the wall just a few feet from his grate.

  The ringing continued as she and the man stared at one another, neither moving nor speaking.

  “Answer it,” mumbled the homeless man.

  She was sure she had already found the telephone dead. Its sudden inexplicable operation made her even more mistrustful of the homeless man. She looked up and down the empty platform and back at him, wondering what to do, where to run. He nodded his head.

  With as much composure as possible, she returned to the stairs and skipped back to the street. The rain poured down like thick iron bars, pelting the pavement like machine-gun fire that disrupted the rhythm of her heart.
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br />   Below, the ringing continued.

  A wicked wind began slinging the rain into her face. She retreated a few steps until she could just see across the street. A playbill tore from the lamppost in front of her and was thrown to a watery grave. From below the awning she saw the glow of the man’s cigarette arc into the street and then die. For a moment she considered approaching him and asking for help.

  Suddenly she noticed the ringing had ceased.

  “Hey!” came the gravely voice from below.

  She glanced back across the street but could see no sign of anyone. She listened carefully for a moment, but could hear only the heavy rains.

  She dared not move.

  “Are you there?”

  She thought the voice sounded closer. She adjusted her position to be ready for action. Should the homeless man accost her, she decided she would run first across the street and pray the man under the awning was still near to help her.

  “It’s for you,” he shouted. “He wants to talk to you.”

  She remained still but alert, listening, waiting. She moved to the edge of the stairwell to get a better angle on the platform below, but she could not see the homeless man. With great caution she crept down the stairs. Further and further she descended. The homeless man had stopped beckoning her, and she could hear no more movement below. Water now ran quickly down the stairs, past her cold quivering body. When it reached the bottom she could hear it trickling into the drain.

  She came only a few steps from the platform and still could not see the homeless man.

  “What do you want?” she called in a loud, firm voice, hoping to mask her fear.

  The rain streamed urgently around her feet.

  She leaned against the wall and slowly descended the remaining steps. She leaned her head out around the corner. Through the long narrow windows of the telephone booth she could see the receiver swinging to and fro. The blanket lie on the ground below the grate where the homeless man had been, but he was nowhere in sight.

  She stepped out from the stairwell, never looking away from the telephone booth. The homeless man’s unexplained disappearance shifted her fear of him to a more general and gripping fear of the unknown.

  “Talk to him.”

  She froze.

  He was directly behind her. She could feel his breath against her neck. She stood in tense wait for him to assault her. The receiver continued to swing gently back and forth.

  Nothing happened. The homeless man did not speak, nor did he move, but she could sense his presence, feel his threat. She began to fear she need only make the slightest move to send him into action. But when what seemed like an eternity had passed and still nothing had happened, the anxiety of the situation finally overwhelmed her.

  As slowly as she could, making sure to avoid any sudden movement that her would-be attacker might take for flight or, worse, fight, she turned her head. When her face had come right beside his, she stopped. He merely stared at her, nodding his head as before.

  A tear began to flow from her eye, as she mumbled in desperation, “Please don’t hurt me.”

  He laughed.

  She shut her eyes, sobbing, waiting for the worst.

  “Zambullo,” he said.

  On hearing the name her tears stopped and she opened her eyes. She glanced down at the book, clutched so tightly to her breast she was certain the homeless man had not seen it.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  The receiver still swung from its frayed cord.

  She slowly backed away from the homeless man, in the direction of the booth, without turning her eyes from him. She stumbled on his blanket, and then held out her hand to feel her destination. He remained still and smiling.

  When she reached the booth, she stepped around to the front and darted inside, pushing the doors shut behind her. Immediately she grabbed the receiver and turned her back on the homeless man for privacy.

  “Please, help me,” she said.

  “You are in no danger.”

  “I’m afraid,” she said through her tears. “I can’t go on.”

  “There is an automobile waiting for you on the other side of the canal.”

  Her heart constricted. “I can’t,” she said.

  “In twenty minutes it will be gone.”

  She opened her mouth to beg for more information, but heard the click from the other end of the line. She held the telephone against her ear and fought against the tears. She wanted to think her situation through, to weigh her options, but she knew if she waited too long, she would not be left with any.

  She looked at the large clock that seemed to grin on the station wall. Nineteen minutes remained.

  She hung up the telephone and turned swiftly around. She felt immediately relieved to see the homeless man still stood against the wall by the stairs, as if he hadn’t moved. Then, as she stepped out of the booth, she began to wonder if he planned to stop her on the stairs, or even if he had set a trap for her while she had been in the booth.

  A sudden boom of thunder made her jump. The homeless man laughed.

  She looked around cautiously and started toward the stairs. Once again she tried to make her outward appearance mask any fear. She moved calmly and finally with a specific purpose. She hoped she would be able to convince the driver of the automobile to take her home, or at least to a safer place. She would pay him whatever he wanted. But without transportation she would be stuck.

  The homeless man remained absolutely still, watching her. She forced a half-smile for him as she passed, and then began calmly to mount the stairs.

  “Fräulein,” he said.

  She stopped.

  “May I present you with a gift?”

  She turned around slowly. He waved his hand for her to approach.

  From behind his back he drew his other hand and held it forward, presenting to her a brown egg.

  “For a beautiful lady,” he said.

  She looked at him smiling and nodding and suddenly felt guilty for suspecting him of any malice. She realized he was nothing but a crazy lonesome man.

  She shoved the book into her rucksack, then reached out and gently took the egg from his hand. For an instant she thought she might step forward and embrace him. Then the idea was gone, and she turned and ran up the stairs into the freezing rain, the laughter of the homeless man echoing through the station behind her.

  * * *

  Since the revolution, only the Regime, or fugitives from the Regime, possessed private vehicles. One night the city had been invaded by troops who rounded up all the automobiles and herded them away to a destination no one knew. The Ministry of Truth had termed it a “program of city enhancement.”

  She was certain now she was involved in some hoax. She determined to see for herself, so there would never be a doubt, so one day thirty years from now she would not think back with regret on something that might have changed her life forever.

  Within moments she was soaked and shivering. The deserted street stretched long before her as the rains fell in drafts, lashing at her. She kept her face down, cradled the egg against her breast with one hand, and held the rucksack over her head with the other. She didn’t run because the water was beginning to freeze on the walk. She feared slipping and falling, hurting herself and becoming stranded there without any aid. So she walked quickly but carefully.

  When she approached the store where the men had been unloading boxes, she slowed down. The windows were papered blind on the inside, and streaked with grime on the outside. She could only guess what business or service was rendered within. She glanced up and down the street, across at the dark awning, then hurried along.

  Behind her the flashes of light still littered the sky as battle or weather refused to rest for the night. She had heard of it often in talk in Barungrad, and in the evening papers, and she often heard the booms of artillery shatter a silent night, but she had never been this close herself. The reality of the hostilities made her suddenly cross herself. Then, cons
cious of the appearance of a religion she had never before kept, she apologized to God, and then prayed, all in the same heavy breath.

  After a few moments, and what seemed several more inches of rain, the bridge rose before her. It was much larger than it had seemed from Grozny Station. She began to cross, not knowing for certain where she was. A feeling gripped her cold body, a sense the canal was a boundary and she was crossing into another region, crossing some unmarked border of silence.

  The bridge arched slowly above the surrounding land, the two small towers on either side rising to be seen from many miles. When she reached the stone tower, she paused under the overhang to look behind her at the tiny patch of watery light that was Grozny Station. In contrast, ahead of her glared the sodium bulbs of the sleepless Keppler Steelworks. Without regard for weather or time or the smallest most beautiful life, the sprawling industrial complex ceaselessly produced the fuel of world history. The bridges of their fathers had become fodder for the middle-aged adolescents toying with armaments.

  She peered over the side of the rusted steel girders. The water churning below her was the canal, which encircled the city and provided a link to the river Schnau. The color was deeper than she had ever seen, Zeppelin-black. Here, in the center of a soaked night, the canal was a liquid void, a gaping emptiness scarring the land, not bringing it life. Even in the obscene light from the steelworks, she could see nothing. The light did not illuminate the canal; the canal consumed the light. If she jumped, she would sink down and down and never touch the bottom of that watery abyss.

  Her gaze met a spot moving on the surface. She thought it was a sea creature or some animal wading across. She watched as the current brought the object closer. When it passed into the light she saw it was a small woven basket, inside of which wriggled a tiny baby. She leaned further over as the basket floated far below the bridge, and a sensation of delirium overwhelmed her. She leaned away from the edge before falling over and stood still for a moment to regain her sense of balance. Then she rushed to the other side of the bridge and looked down into the black water again, searching for the basket and baby.