EQMM, November 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She stands up brusquely and—the yellow buttons on her purple dress jiggling with every movement—she gets right in his face and snatches his eyeglasses from his nose.

  "No,” she says.

  As if his very soul has been stolen from him, the conductor blinks helplessly and chews on his lower lip.

  "Give those back,” he says hoarsely, and grabs for them, but Cora holds them high above her head and out of his reach. “Give me my glasses!"

  Cora laughs at him, her sweetest laugh, little stars twinkling in her eyes.

  Mama, mama, the bear is loose, I think. A strange and delectable excitement courses through me. I feel like something irreversible has been set in motion, and none of us will ever be the same again.

  "You'll get your glasses back when you rip up that ticket,” says Cora. “Not till then."

  He stares at her, confused by the sudden shift in power. He holds tightly to the leather pouch around his waist with one hand and to his cap with the other, as if to reassure himself of his position.

  "Don't be ridiculous,” he says sternly.

  "Fine, then.” With a deep sigh, Cora hands the glasses to Trix, who is sitting in the corner by the window. As if they've talked it over at length and agreed how to play out the scene, Trix does exactly what Cora must want her to do: She opens the window and thrusts the eyeglasses outside into the misty air, her graceful posture emphasizing the soft curve of her waist and hip. With her lovely smile, she looks just like the women in the ads, leaning seductively against the hood of a Mercedes to lure businessmen into buying it.

  "Don't!” cries the conductor, panicked. “Give them back!"

  "I've told you what we're willing to trade for them,” Cora says calmly, as if she's refusing to haggle with a merchant at the market.

  Cornered, he looks around the compartment furiously and then fearfully at the window, where the expensive lenses precisely suited to the weakness of his eyes are in danger of being dropped and shattered.

  "I'm going to report you at the next station,” he cries.

  "Hear that, girls? He's going to report us!"

  With an ease as if she's merely lifting it from a hat stand, Cora plucks the cap from his head and sets it jauntily atop her own dyed black hair. She turns her head and laughs at us over her shoulder. Without his cap, the conductor seems weak, fragile, his silken blond curls at the nape of his neck.

  "You know you have beautiful blue eyes?” asks Cora.

  He swallows with difficulty, as if he's got a plum pit stuck in his throat, and grabs clumsily for his cap, but Cora is faster than he is and hands it off to Lien. “Don't you think he has beautiful blue eyes?” One by one, we line up beside her and gaze at him with the same fanatical admiration we would give to a James Dean film, which makes him even more nervous. He obviously can't stand the hysteria of women who would swarm past the security guards and bodyguards onto the stage to touch an Elvis Presley; he feels solidarity not with Elvis but with the rent-a-cops, the men in the caps and uniforms.

  "Now give me your little pouch,” says Cora. He stares at her, astounded. No one has ever dared talk to him like this. Speechless, he shakes his head.

  "Come on,” says Cora. “Otherwise, you know what'll happen to your glasses."

  With supple movements of her wrist, Trix sways the spectacles back and forth in the mist.

  Something has erupted in Cora, a power that is stronger than any possible opposition, like a river in monsoon season swelling beyond its banks and ripping trees out of the ground and washing them out to sea.

  "Let's go, sonny, give mamma your toy."

  Beaten, he unhooks the pouch from around his waist. Without even glancing at it, Cora passes it over to Lien, who stashes it in the corner behind her worn shopping bag, her knitting needles sticking up like the antennas on a portable radio.

  "So,” says Cora, “have you changed your mind?"

  They face each other expectantly, Cora a full head taller than he is. How did she get so tall, I think, and so strong?

  At that moment, it seems that a peace treaty is in the offing, as if his next words will be: “You're right, what am I so worried about? It doesn't make any difference to me. Let's just forget the whole thing."

  But suddenly he shoves Cora out of his way and lunges towards Trix, falling onto her with his full weight. His attention is riveted to his eyeglasses—his hands scrabble for them, and it's a wonder that Trix doesn't drop them out of pure shock.

  Just for an instant, Cora seems to have been taken out of the game: She stands there, dazed, like a fat woman who's lost her little dog. Oh my, he was just here a second ago!

  But then she throws herself onto Trix's attacker, grabs the collar of his conductor's jacket, and yanks him off her. His eyes bug out and he growls, thirsty for blood. He's like a dog, pulled off his worst enemy in the heat of the battle.

  Trix brushes strands of hair off her face and smoothes her dress. She doesn't seem the least bit disturbed. No, she's like a young girl after making whoopee with her boyfriend, crawling out of the bushes with a flushed face and a sparkle in her eyes.

  Outside the window, a UFO flies by: Lien has thrown the conductor's cap from the compartment like a Frisbee.

  His legs trapped, his arms flailing, the young man tries to free himself. Cora grabs his wrists and forces them behind his back.

  "Get his legs,” she hisses. Trix and Lien each fasten onto a leg and force it down. My heart pounds in my throat. I have no experience of violence. At home, our disagreements are cool and dispassionate—our wars are always civil.

  "Let's take off that cute little jacket,” says Cora. Because each of us ought to have a hand in the taming of the beast, her eyes turn now to me. With trembling hands, I pull on the coarse fabric of the sleeve. It's no easy task, relieving a struggling man of his jacket. If he would just play along, I think, it'd be so much easier. I can tell from Cora's expression that it takes all of her strength to hold him down. He's fighting to escape like a wounded tiger, and his eyes are filled with hate.

  "Now the tie,” says Cora, calm as a surgeon asking a nurse for a scalpel. I bend over him obediently and we gaze straight into each other's eyes. I have his necktie in one hand as if I'm about to strangle him.

  What do I know about people? Nothing. There are a few, like my father, about whom I've been forced to think deeply. But I can see the fear in this man's huge blue irises, darting this way and that like frightened fish in the deep blue sea. I think his fear runs even deeper than his hatred, which itself helps to keep him from drowning. An inappropriate wave of pity washes over me and confuses me. I quickly untie his tie.

  "Well,” asks Cora, in a tone that says she no longer anticipates any response, “what do you say, boy?"

  He says nothing. He just lies there, absolutely still. Is he plotting some unexpected move?

  We watch him, waiting. And then his body tenses, and he swivels his head and spits right in Cora's face.

  Cora smiles, and wipes away the spittle with her purple sleeve. “Shirt,” she says.

  My father has the exact same cufflinks. I fumble them loose. When I have the first sleeve halfway free, the conductor makes a sudden wrenching motion and the fabric rips, like a rabbit ripping its own skin as it struggles to release itself from a hunter's trap. His chest is pale, his chest hair thin and blond.

  I lean back.

  "Pants.” Cora seems impatient. “We'll show him he's just an ordinary little boy, nothing special."

  "Take away a man's uniform,” says Trix, “and there's not much left."

  Uniforms. They're so, so German. Marching around in perfectly synchronized columns, black leather boots stamping the ground, each with one hand angled skyward in a salute, chanting their battle hymns—I've seen it in so many films, read it in so many books, heard it from so many survivors who saw it in the flesh. What are wedoing? I think. It's too late to stop, though—we've unleashed something that is stronger than ourselves.

  As I undo his
belt, I can see Ruud in the dim light of the furniture store, standing by the side of the bed, undoing his belt with self-assured movements, and I'm spread out on the soft bed filled with surprise and disgust at my blind obedience. It puzzles me: why do I keep on doing things I don't want to do?

  It's not easy for Lien and Trix to get his glossy black shoes off him, but they manage. I almost have to rip off a leg to remove his trousers. Just like a boxer waits for his opponent to drop his guard so he can attack, the conductor picks his moment and lets fly with a well-aimed kick. Trix goes sprawling and clutches her face in both hands.

  "You're going to regret this,” he gasps.

  Why her, I think. Why Trix—hasn't she taken enough punishment already? But his bare foot hasn't really done much damage, and she recovers quickly. Without any further interruption, I unpants him.

  And that seems to break him. His upper body lies limp in Cora's lap. They could pose for a deposition from the cross, with Cora as the grieving Mary and the conductor as the martyred Christ, except for the light-blue boxers he wears instead of a loincloth.

  If I ever get married, I think, I'm going to buy boxers just like those for my husband.

  Now what? Is there really any doubt? We exchange questioning glances across the conductor's body.

  "Let's finish it,” says Trix. She shakes back her mane of hair from her eyes.

  "Go ahead.” She nods at me.

  I stand beside him. I've never seen anyone brought down so low.

  He looks like we're about to toss him out the window or, worse, as if he'd prefer that fate to the one we have planned for him.

  What is it we want? Is it revenge, to completely debase him? Or do we simply need a new kind of excitement to get us out of our daily rut?

  I can't move. If only I was a mechnical toy with a key in my back, so they could wind me up and I could do what was expected of me. Three pairs of eyes urge me on, one pair begs for leniency. Is this now the touchstone of our friendship? Do I have to prove myself worthy of being “one of the girls"?

  "I'll do it,” says Trix.

  She sits up. Ashamed and relieved, I move out of the way. Let her take over, it's better that way, I can see it in the seductive smile that flickers across her lips.

  In one last burst of anger, he roars, “Stay away from me! Goddammit, leave me alone!"

  Then, reduced to desperation, he assumes a fetal position on the ground. I can feel his leg muscles straining. Trix resolutely grabs his boxers with both hands and pulls them down to his ankles.

  He turns away, his humiliation complete. A shaft of sunlight breaks through the mist and illuminates the compartment, enveloping the conductor's body in a warm glow.

  We are silent, and the rattle of the train's wheels over the rails seems to swell.

  Cora, a peaceful matron, examines his naked body thoughtfully. All thoughts of vengeance seem to have left her. Her hold on his arms loosens, and he hangs against her like the prodigal son returned to his mother's lap.

  Lien strokes his leg absently, scrunching up her nose to reseat her glasses, an unconscious tic we've seen many times before.

  Trix's usually bored expression is gone, replaced by one of lively interest. She blushes with excitement, her nostrils flare, and her eyes gleam. I've never seen her so beautiful. She holds the light-blue boxers in her hand like a religious icon.

  The sun is warm on my back. I feel the tension drain out of me, the way it feels after a heavy storm has passed. I wouldn't mind if the train kept on forever.

  As majestic as an ancient priestess, Trix leans over and kisses his chest. He shivers, the leg in my hand jumps as if it has a mind of its own. Slowly, carefully, Trix's lips trace their way from his chest to his stomach, her long blond hair accompanying their descent. From his belly, she describes an arc along his hip to his thigh, tickling the fine hairs which catch the sunlight.

  No one says a word. It is as if we are witnessing some secret ritual—and, wonder of wonders, his body reacts to her touch and salutes her. As if in a trance, Trix runs her lips along his thigh. A groan escapes him, accompanied by a violent shaking of his chest and shoulders, and the mood that has swept us all away is broken.

  Trix sits up, and her lust gives way to astonishment as she sees him sobbing in Cora's lap, trying to hide his face in the folds of her purple dress. Cora, the all-forgiving and understanding mother, strokes his hair tenderly. Dismayed by the effect of her caresses, Trix plucks nervously at the boxers she still clutches in her hand.

  The train begins to slow.

  I only know what's been happening in our compartment. Of all the yawning and coughing, the silent glances and gossipy exchanges, the irritations and dreams in the rest of the train, I can only guess. In principle, the conductor is the only person aboard who remains completely neutral, as he makes his rounds from car to car.

  Not this conductor, though. This one hasn't finished his rounds. As we approach the station, he regains his awareness of his surroundings. Exhausted, he rises from the floor and, unsteady on his feet, slides open the compartment door.

  "Wait,” says Cora, “your clothes."

  We gather his things together. He doesn't seem to pay any attention. We no longer exist for him. He staggers out into the corridor, Cora tottering along behind him, us in her wake.

  "Get dressed,” she says. “You can't let them see you like this."

  We wrap his pants, socks, shirt, tie, glasses and leather pouch in his jacket, tie the sleeves together, and press the bundle into his arms. He gazes at us blankly, as if he's just been handed an orphaned child in a blanket.

  Thank goodness there's no one else in the corridor. We hustle back into our compartment—this isn't our stop. Our excited bodies huddle close against each other as we press our noses to the window and watch the conductor leave the train.

  Quite a few passengers are waiting on the platform. They step aside for the naked traveler.

  He strides forward through the crowd with the little bundle of clothing held to his chest, staring solemnly before him as if he is carrying his first-born son to the baptismal font.

  Copyright © 2009 by Tessa de Loo

  Translation Copyright © 2009 by Josh Pachter

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: FAMOUS LAST WORDS by Doug Allyn

  This month, between the same covers, we have EQMM's two great multiple Readers Award winners: Clark Howard and Doug Allyn. There are some big differences between them: Clark Howard usually writes of prisoners, ex-cons, and others on the fringes of society; Doug Allyn more often focuses on men and women in a line of work, be it construction, the music business, medicine, or, as in this story, teaching. But they share an uncanny ability to make those characters come alive and to lace their stories with just the right amount of action and adventure.

  Ever wonder what you'd say? If you knew that the next words you spoke would be your very last?

  Would you try to justify your life?

  Would you say I love you? Or say a prayer?

  Could you even assemble a coherent sentence?

  I couldn't. And I had my chance.

  A golden autumn evening, dusk settling on our little college town like a flannel comforter. Linette had picked me up after my last class and we were stopped at a busy intersection, bickering cheerfully about whose turn it was to cook dinner, waiting for the light to change.

  It suddenly dawned on me that the headlights in the rearview mirror were growing larger and brighter. Much too quickly.

  The large truck coming up behind us wasn't slowing down at all. Speeding up, if anything. I expected him to pull around us but he didn't. Just kept coming, straight on. And then it was too late.

  Sweet Jesus! He was going to hit us! And I turned to Linette, wide-eyed, and said ... “What the hell?"

  Famous last words.

  Not very profound. But then, I'm not the one who died.

  As Linette swiveled around to look, the truck slammed into us. Instantly smash
ing our world into a whirling, mind-shredding maelstrom of shrieking metal, exploding airbags, and howling rubber. Blasting my boxy little Toyota hybrid out into the flashing steel river of rush-hour traffic, triggering a horrendous chain-reaction accident. Panicked commuters slamming on their brakes, desperately cranking their wheels, swerving to avoid us.

  And failing. My new Toyota Prius, with its state-of-the-art hybrid engine, rearview parking camera, and electric cup warmers, was banged around like a ping-pong ball, hammered by at least three other cars before being literally smashed in half by a flatbed truck hauling twenty tons of rolled steel.

  Our gas tank ruptured and spewed. And my clever little car exploded like a napalm bomb.

  I hope to God Linette was already dead before the flames reached her.

  But I don't know. And maybe that's best.

  I woke slowly in a world of white. White tiled walls and ceilings. Even my pain felt white. My memory, too. A white blank. Empty as an unwritten page.

  All I could remember were my last words to Linette. “What the hell?"

  "Professor Frazier?"

  I swiveled my head slowly. A woman was standing beside my bed. Tall and lanky, sandy hair cropped short as a boy's. Wearing a black suit and turtleneck. She was holding out an ID folder but I couldn't focus on it.

  "I'm Sergeant Shane Kovacs, Professor,” she said, slipping the badge back inside her jacket. “Do you know where you are?"

  "Hospital.” I coughed, dry-mouthed. “University?"

  She nodded, scanning my face like a form she had to fill out. “Can you tell me what happened?"

  "Somebody ... rear-ended us. A truck, I think."

  "What kind of a truck was it?"

  "Never saw it clearly. Only the headlights. Not a car or a pickup truck. The lights were too high. That's ... really all I know."

  "What about before the accident? Did you have trouble with anyone? Cut somebody off, blow your horn, flip ‘em the finger? Anything at all?"

  I stared at her, trying to make the words compute. “Road rage, you mean? No, there was nothing like that."