Just a Monumental Summer: Girl on the train (25 page)

“So, you have to have his girlfriend, that’s what this was all about?” Ema asked.

“I don’t know. It just happened. And after I started to hate her, she chose him. She was happy with him, and I wanted to be happy.”

“Nobody is ever happy, Jony,” I said. “Of all people, you should have known that.” I said it like I knew the secret of the universe.

Later, I went into my room and packed my things. I left my only faithful friend - the journal – on the bed. I heard Jony talking with Ema. I didn’t care anymore. I heard the door; she must have left. He came into my room and tried to hug me.

“I talked with Ema. She won’t tell, she promised me.”

I pushed him away. “And you think it’s ok?”

“Mona, he won’t know.”

I looked at him like he didn’t get it. “But I’ll know, Jony. Every single day.”

“Babe, it’s only sex.”

“Oh yes, your bullshit theories. It’s betrayal! From both of us.”

That was the last time I saw Jony. The last time I spoke with Ema.

I took the first train and went back to my parents.

***

             
10 September 1989

My dear faithful Journal,

              These are my last words to you. I will leave you in good hands. Alin will take care of you. He always loved words and poetry. Children have invisible friends or toys, and I had you — a simple thin copybook, yet so strong to bear my heavy words. You never judged and that’s why I told you everything. Now I will set you free, my dear faithful Journal.

              When my mother got pregnant, she was seventeen. My father drove a motorcycle to a ball in a village next to his, with a bunch of friends, in order to have some fun. My father was eighteen. He didn’t think that night would change his life. My mother was the best-looking girl at the ball. She saw my father and, according to her, “It was love at first sight.” 

              “C’mon, admit it,” my father would say, laughing, when they would tell stories to their friends and relatives. “Admit it. It was the motorcycle. You fell in love with my cool motorcycle, which by the way, wasn’t mine.” 

“Yes, he tricked me into believing it was his motorcycle. I fell in love with him, but the motorcycle, was part of his look. He was the book boy. When I first laid my eyes on him, he looked so cool standing close to it.” My mother would laugh, still embarrassed after so many years.

              “Tell them about the camera, you silly man!”  My mother would ask my father to confess more.

              My father would start to laugh, only at the thought of it.

              My mother takes over, “He had a camera, something rare at that time. And he took a picture with each single student and teacher at the ball. He took their money.”

              “And there was no film inside the camera. Empty. No pictures for them.” My father was almost choking laughing by his own words. He never showed remorse, all these years. And I had a feeling my mother didn’t condemn his actions, either. Judging by their laugh, they were remembering those moments as their only happy moments. Moments when they were young, silly, and in love.

              My father was a good-looking guy. Ten years after they got married, he had surgery and after that, he gained weight. My mother used to say he didn’t follow the doctor’s instructions; he wasn’t allowed to eat normal food, only liquids, the first week after the surgery.

              At the ball that night, there was another boy watching my mother. He was secretly in love with her. He was a shy boy, from a good family. They went to the same school. He was hoping he would get to speak with her the night of the graduation ball and ask her out. But my father happened. That night, she jumped on his motorcycle, and he brought her to his parents. They slept together the same night. Next day, my father woke up and told her he had to bring the motorcycle back to his friend. He left her alone with his parents. His parents gave up on my father, a long time ago. He was a bad student in school. Skipping classes, smoking, bullying other children, always in trouble. My grandparents never liked my mother, and they didn’t hide it. My mother avoided them after that night, and my father was ok with that. It seemed he never liked them, for a reason I was never able to find out.

              When my father came back, he asked my mother to marry him. Nine months later, she gave birth to her first child, my older brother. They never dated. Later I came, and finally they had my younger brother.

              Years after, a new veterinary doctor moved to our town. His name was Tudor. He was married and had a little child. He was the shy boy who was secretly in love with my mother. The boy from the ball. He somehow found my mother, and they start to have an affair. She was forty years old.

              One morning, my mother gathered us in the kitchen, me and my brothers. My father was at sea. She told us about Tudor and about their story. She insisted we’d better know the truth from her. They were in love, and nothing could stop them. It was again love at first sight. I remember I was happy for her. She was never happy. I never talked with my brothers about that. I was never curious what they were thinking.

              Starting with that morning, Tudor stared to visit us. I loved him. He was everything my father had never been: polite, educated, calm, quiet. He was tall and good looking. Shy and gentle. He had a comfortable life; he would bring us gifts and take care of my mother. My mother was happy. She was blooming. She looked years younger. The feeling around her was addictive. My mother was able to hide her relationship with Tudor. She introduced him to my father, and they became family friends.

              One day, he found out. He hit my mother. Violently I think it was the first time he hit my mother without being drunk. We were all scared. My mother sent us to a neighbor to spend the night. We came back in the morning. My father was not at home. I remember seeing my mother, and I didn’t recognize her. That was the night my mother got old. She stopped seeing Tudor, and she begun wearing a kerchief on her hair—a common accessory for old ladies. Her wrinkle-free face was now paved by ditches. My mother turned into a grandma overnight. It was the last time I heard about Tudor. Soon, my father became sick. Their life continued to go on, as if nothing had happened.

              We are our parents’ children. I was my mother’s daughter. I only knew her life, and I became her. I saw her life and this was all I knew. I am my mother’s daughter, Alin.

They say everything you do in life has a reason. The universe doesn’t give a damn about us. How can things be there for a special purpose when the universe doesn’t know its meaning?

I look back at that summer, and I still try to find the reason why things ended the way they did. Try to make sense of my stupid actions. Why Alin was not enough. Why I was obsessed with winning Ema’s attention.

It all looked like a puzzle to me; like when you have a puzzle, new in the box, but you have idea what the picture is supposed to be.

Individually, the puzzle pieces make no sense – there is no way to know if a piece is showing you a portion of a hand, or sky, or sea. But once you start building the big picture, connecting the pieces together, a complete image emerges – the individual pieces click together and make a picture entirely different than the pieces you examined separately. 

All that summer, it didn’t make any sense – the box of pieces was shaken, scrambled.

I lost Alin. I lost Jony. My heart was broken. I was hurting, and I didn’t have anyone to share the experience with. How can you cope with your pain when you have to keep it secret? How can you move on when there is no one to comfort you?

I rode home on that train feeling like someone had died. The pieces of me were shattered – there was no picture, only jagged puzzle pieces, each one piercing my heart. My despair and depression grew larger as the nights grew longer with the approaching fall. The weather didn’t help; the storms that provided a backdrop for that final, awful day continued, following my train to my family’s home. The skies remained grey – no clouds visible, just a uniform blanket of gloom across the sky, smothering and thick. Although the days were short, paradoxically they felt endless, slow and unbearable. My eyes were red and swollen from crying. I felt so much guilt, shame and regret I couldn’t stand to look in the mirror. I missed the soothing sound of the waves, the smells of the beach; I missed Alin – his ability to calm my demons, his special, addicting smile. The long silly discussions. His guitar. All the razor sharp puzzle pieces that were Alin. Then my thoughts would turn to Jony – his charisma and charm, his groupies around him. I would still feel a pull – a need to get his attention.

My life became routine. My days were boring and empty. Life was fading away, smothered in a cloak of regret that mirrored the endless grey of the sky. I existed between two universes – a purgatory of sorts - I was still breathing, so I couldn’t be dead, but I was too apathetic to be alive. Trapped between two worlds and with no use for either.

After I left, our song was nominated to represent our country at the Eurovision Music Contest — the biggest contest in Europe, a chance for the band to achieve recognition beyond Romania. I watched their appearance on TV. Seeing him made my heart skip a beat. He had a headband over his long hair and looked like a pirate. I smiled, recognizing Geta’s touch in his haircut. Jony had been replaced by a new, young guy. The song— our song — was the best, but it came in second. Another song was selected to represent Romania, but it didn’t even get into semifinals of the wider competition. But our song remained a huge hit. As with everything in Romania at the time, there were rumors that the contest was rigged.

Weeks after the competition, Alin gave an interview and told the reporter that he’d finished another song. It was late at night; I was listening apathetically to the radio, and I recognized our song. By now even I knew the song by heart; although excruciating, I hoped I would hear more about the band. Then I heard Alin’s voice. The reporter asked him who his muse was for the song. Alin hesitated a second, which seemed like an eternity to me. My heart start to pound; I was waiting for him to speak, hoping against hope that he would give me some kind of sign that all was forgiven. If he would forgive me, maybe we had a future – I would wait for him forever, if he gave me a sign.

“I get inspiration from everywhere. Love is all around. Beauty is present in every detail. I am a good observer.”

He paused and cleared his throat. He continued wistfully: “Someone told me once that I am a good observer. I like to see poetry in ordinary things. I try to see beauty and innocence rather than ordinary things.”

The reporter interrupted him, and I got so angry that I started to yell at my empty bedroom:
Moron, let him talk. Why is it so hard to hear a single word? Why is everything against me?

“Your previous song was inspired by someone. A girl you met on the train, and she briefly become your girlfriend,” the reporter said.

“Exactly. Her name was Mona.”

He used the past tense. I was crushed. I slumped back on the bed, defeated.

“Mona was the girl from the train, and I wrote the song for her; it was our song.”

“And the new song is simply inspired by the poetry around you?”

“No. The new song was also inspired by a girl. A girl I thought it was worth losing myself for. I wrote the song with her in mind. By the time the melody was in my mind, I wanted to write the song for her.”

The reporter interrupted again. “So, was it the melody that first came into your mind? Or the lyrics?”

The constant interruptions infuriated me. I flew into a rage, screaming into my pillow and hitting the mattress violently with my fists.
Who the fuck made you a reporter? Don’t you see he’s ready to open up, to share private moments, and you keep asking the wrong questions? Whose ass are you kissing to have this job?

Alin continued: “Yes, it’s the melody. Mostly. That’s the easiest part. The lyrics come together eventually. I like to compose true songs. About my experiences, my life. If I am happy, my fans should share my happiness. Love should be shared because is a rare thing.”

“And if you’re sad, you put your sadness into your songs, as well?”

Captain Obvious.
I was shaking my head in disgust.

“I try to avoid writing sad songs, but they are inevitable,” Alin answered.

“Going back to your latest song. Just to be clear – it is about the same girl?”

My heart skipped a beat. I put my head into my hands and closed my eyes.

“Yes and no,” Alin answered quickly. “Yes, physically she’s the same girl who inspired ‘The Girl from the Train.’”

“And no?” the reporter asked curiously.

I already knew the answer. Again, my agony speared me in the chest – I couldn’t catch my breath, my eyes filled.

“Because the girl I met on the train, the girl I fell in love with, was not the same girl anymore by the time I finished this song.”

“In what way, Alin?”

“The girl from my latest song is someone I don’t know at all. Someone I never really knew. A complete stranger.”

And there it was. His statement. His words addressed to me. Not what I was hoping to hear – that finality. I was hurt and humiliated. Angry with myself. How could I ever have thought that I would be forgiven for what I did? What I was expecting? The pain was soul crushing. My eyes overflowed. I knew I’d lost him that last day at the beach, but part of me, a tiny sliver of my soul had held out hope. I wished he was there in front of me, telling me those words. I needed him to see my tears and feel my pain.

The reporter continued, “Are you telling us that girl broke your heart?”

Alin laughed. “Yes, you could say so.”

“That’s a statement. You’re a famous rock singer.”

Alin cut him off. “I am simply a guy. It’s not a secret anymore. I never considered myself a rock star. I like to hang out with friends, enjoy a beer. My life is pretty boring aside from the concerts and the tours. As a matter of fact, all the attention scares me sometimes. I am a simple guy with a guitar. I think, in our society, we idolize the wrong people. I didn’t invent anything. I don’t contribute to our society much. I am simply blessed that I get to do what I love.”

I remembered Jony talking about Alin. Living in Alin’s shadow. Secretly dreaming of being the star, the voice, not the bassist. Such an irony. Alin never enjoyed being the star Jony always wanted to be.

The reporter tried to change the topic. “Girls out there, here is your chance. Alin insists he is a simple guy. About the girl from the train — do you have a message for her, in case she’s listening?”

My heart was still hoping. I couldn’t help it. He just called me a stranger, but I was still hoping. I held my breath, leaned toward the radio, yearning.

“Hmm. I never thought about that. I wrote my song, and that should be enough.”

“Can you tell us what the song is about?” The reporter was insistent.

“You will have to listen it.” I could swear he smiled.

“What is the title of the song?”

“I have something in mind.”

“So, the song is about to be released next week and you don’t have a title?”

“I do. But I may change it. Someone told me once something about routine and about love. Those words have never left my mind since. When I heard them, I said to myself that I should write a song about that. But it’s not definitive. I promise, you will be the first to get to air my new song.”

I switched off the radio. That night, I knew I had to let him go. I knew I’d reached my deadline. Since then, I avoided listening to his music and interviews or reading about him and his band.

I went back to my routine. Some days, his words from interview would cut my heart into pieces. I would analyze them, and I would twist and turn them trying to grasp new dimensions and new meanings. Finally, I realized what it was in his voice that caused me to know it was over. It was his tone. He was calm; he found peace with it. Saying I was a stranger meant he didn’t care anymore. I was like a wall or a chair. You don’t have feelings for a wall. Indifference is not even the absence of love. It’s the last place you’ll find love. Indifference is something that can’t be undone.

Then, I understood that I needed to hate myself to feel better. What I always did best. Familiar and safe.

One day, Alexandru called me. I had a feeling of the past few months that my mother was still in touch with him. He told me I have to pick up my things I left in the employee housing at the beach. He was worried. But not about us. He confirmed my suspicions and told me something is going happen soon ‘very soon’ and the system would fall.

That morning, I decided to go back to Costinesti.

The train station made me sick to my stomach. The old, decayed place was dirty and depressing. The platform was almost deserted. In the distance, through the dusty air, I saw some stray dogs were looking for food in the trash containers. It smelled of rotting food, body odor and despair – the odor of poverty. I hated that place. Miserable people sat apathetically, reminding me of my failures.

The ride was long and lonely. I did my best to not think about previous train rides from happier times. The train seemed deserted; no other person was visible from where I was sitting. I was the only passenger who got off at the resort stop; I was even afraid the train wouldn’t stop. The season had ended; we call it the dead season.

When I arrived, there was nobody to meet me.The so-called station was surreal, empty and dark; a little spooky. I looked around, and I saw no taxi or bus. I waited a couple of minutes and I sighed. “Great! Just great!”

It was two kilometers to the resort, and I had no choice but to walk. The wind was blowing, it was cold, and the fine grit blew constantly into my eyes causing me to squint. “Really?” I was shouting at the wind, while trying to make my way through the blowing dust. I could taste the grit. There were scattered clouds scuttling across the sky, driven by the wind. At least it wasn’t raining.

I walked for a while, and then I remembered Dana. I knew she lived close to the station, and lived there full time. I stopped to get my bearings. A couple of houses were at the end of the road, small in the distance; at least it was a destination of sorts. I kept walking, and after half an hour, I was there.

“Thank God!” I recognized Dana’s house. I heard some dogs barking. That made me smile. Her beloved dogs.

I approached the house and looked for a doorbell. The dogs were barking louder and louder. Suddenly a door opened, and an older lady asked me, “Where did you come from, my poor child? From the train station?’

I was about to answer when Dana appeared beside her at the door. She seemed taller. “Mona, I can’t believe it. Mom, it’s Mona, Alin’s girlfriend.”

I was just about to cry – exhausted, gritty and defeated. She yelled at the dogs to stop barking and helped me inside. Her mother looked at me and murmured, “Poor child, the wind, the dust, not good for your eyes. Those wretched people, they promised they would build us a new street, put tar and so, but they only talk and steal.” They ushered me into a bright and cheerful kitchen, fussing over me and insisting I have a seat for tea.

Dana was happy to see me – always cheerful and sweet. She told me about her new place at university with a roommate. She was living in Bucharest, studying, and was just back for a visit. “You got lucky you found me here. I don’t come home every weekend.”

“She has to come home for weekends, my poor girl. There’s nothing for her to do in the city among strangers. This will be always her home.” Her mother said emphatically.