Just a Monumental Summer: Girl on the train (2 page)

“The demon possessing my body blushes and is thanking you.” I tipped my head at him, a mock bow. He smiled.

Seriously, I need to touch your hair. Or maybe you could caress mine?

On the aisle, an old man tried to open the door. Neither of us moved. I looked at Alin with a slight smirk on my face. He looked back, nodding in agreement that we wouldn’t open the door. The man gave up and moved along the aisle to next compartment. We both laughed. 

“We are mean.” I was shaking my head, smiling.

“Don’t worry. First class is never busy. He’ll find a seat. I did him a favor. You would have given him a headache,” he replied.

“Ha-ha-ha, very funny.” I pouted. But I liked him teasing me. It made me feel close to him. “So, do you like books, Alin?”

“Of course. I love poetry.”

“Really, a guy who is into poetry.” I tried not to roll my eyes. Instead I squeezed my eyes in a 
no offense, but
 look. 

“Now you’re being sexist.” 

“Mostly, I’ve been called judgmental, selfish, and full of myself. Never sexist.” I said.

Damn, Mona, let him talk.

He continued ignoring my comment. “Poetry is no different than fiction. I like when the words have rhythm and rhyme. It comforts me; it’s like the chaos around me makes sense.” 

“I hate rhymes. They seem forced to me. If I try to read a poem, I get annoyed, and I miss the beauty of it,” I replied, glancing at his guitar.

“Rhythm and rhyme are only tools.” Beauty is all around, even in simple, mechanical, repetitive actions,” he explained

“What do you mean?” I reached up and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear. Alin's eyes followed my hand and continued:

“When you first entered the compartment and you were so nervous. It was a delightful experience to see you.” He shrugged, a careless gesture. “You were struggling, trying to say the right words. How can you not observe that? That’s poetry.”

“Now you make me nervous. Again. You are an observer. I need to control myself…”

He held up one hand. “No! Be yourself. Being a controlled, cold bitch doesn’t attract me. No poetry.” His voice held a hint of something sad, melancholy. 

His words were the words I had wanted to hear. 

Don’t let him see you enjoyed his compliment.

The train jolted to a stop. I jerked forward, my legs touching his. I looked out the window. We were in the middle of nowhere. No sign of a city or a village. Far away a
crop field with long tractors plowing, dust in their wake as they created neat rows of furrowed ground. A breeze wafting above the plants. The threads of yellow wheat were rising timidly skyward. Wave after wave, the golden sea of wheat was undulating into harmonious moves. I reached up then asked Alin to help me – we wrestled the heavy window open so that we could enjoy the scent of freshly plowed earth mixing with the scent of fruit trees, bringing the smell of the countryside into our private cabin.

“Who knows how long we will be stuck in here.” Alin said. “I hate this freaking country!” 

Transportation was awful in Romania. Trains came late and stopped for no reason for hours between destinations.

I stated the obvious: “It seems our ride may take a while.” Looking at Alin, I was glad the ride would take longer than planned. I needed more time. 

More time for what, Mona?

Mona’s Journal

***             
3 July 1989             

The exam day. Traumatizing day. Same day I took the train and met Alin. Happy-day.

I was sitting in the faculty hallway and asking myself why I was there. I wasn’t particularly scared, nor was I excited. I had no expectations at all except that I would fail.

I was the first testing candidate to arrive and sat alone in the huge, cold hallway. I came without expectations, but still I was overwhelmed. Maybe it was the building. The Central University looked impressive with its enormous and pretentious colonnade surrounding the University Marketplace. It was the oldest university in Romania. An institution of higher education with tradition, and a modern university that had gained recognition across the country.

The building had typical European architecture, a combination of Roman frescos along with Classical and Baroque influence; large, vaulted spaces, traced on either side by a series of wide, arcaded passages consisting of rows of arches, while supporting a high, half-dome roof. In the center of the building, impressive atrium and richly decorated columns. The stout columns and thick walls were dramatically embellished with figurative sculptures and stone tracery.

I approached the famous "Hall of Lost Steps,” a hallway embellished with dramatic paintings by acclaimed Romanian painters. I found a bench and sat alone in the huge hallway.

I considered leaving while sitting on the hard wooden bench. I knew taking the exam was a waste of my time and money.

Other testers began filtering into the building, and the place soon became crowded and loud. Every student was the center of attention. They were talking loudly and pretentiously.

I contemplated the people around me. Candidates were surrounded by family members, friends, and neighbors—anyone who could support them. Getting into a university was a huge achievement, and the whole family was ready to face the moment they had spent years working toward. Students started preparing as soon as they entered high school. Some would apply two or even three years in a row to get accepted; the competition was extremely brutal.

Only the best of the best would pass the exam. Parents would invest their whole savings in tutoring. In fact, only the most advanced students would be tutored by renowned teachers.

As expected, the exam was hard and complex. Words like explain, analyze, write, evaluate, state, describe, and identify were staring at me, humiliating me—proof of my failure. There were no multiple-choice questions to ease my pain, not even a fill-in-the-blank.

I looked around: everyone else writing frenetically. I inhaled deeply, put my pen down, and stood up. Snatching up my bag, I left the room, followed by several perplexed looks. I hurried outside and then stood in the sun with empty mind. The street was bustling with people detached and indifferent to my plight.

I went straight to the rail station and called my mother to tell her I’d failed. The results would not be displayed for a couple of weeks, but I told her I knew I’d failed. Over the phone, I felt her heavy silence crushing my shoulders. She didn’t say anything for a while. I let her be, my heart aching for her disappointment.

After a minute or two, I told her I would take the train straight to Costinesti and stay there for the rest of the summer. She was accustomed to my departures. After saying good-bye to my mother, I bought a ticket and then boarded the train. The rest was history.

It didn’t take long for the train to set in motion again. After a few minutes, Alin stood up and sat next to me. He touched my hand, wrapped his fingers around mine.

Finally.
I liked the strength of his fingers.

We sat for a while, both lapsed into a comfortable silence.
We were still watching out the window as the scenery sped by.
My eye followed into the distance to where a meadow shifted into a beech forest. At the horizon, a mountain loomed; it was difficult to tell where the mountain ended and the cloudy sky began. The meadow and forest disappeared slowly as the train gained momentum. The view was lifting my spirits and creating a sense of freedom as we continued toward our destination.

After a while, Alin broke the silence. “Tell me about yourself, Mona.”

His voice was low, close to my ear. I turned from the window to look at him. I tried to look him in the eyes. Green and brown swirling together, green winning. Or was it more brown and just a hint of green?

“I thought I did. What else do you want to know?” I asked.

“Everything,” he said, and he let my hand go. He stood up and sat across from me. Apparently, stories were told face-to-face.

“I hate my town.  One of the most famous metropolises in the world. You know: New York, Paris, Tokyo, and…Medgidia.” I replied with frail humor. “It’s not a city; it’s an ugly shithole. Or a black hole that will suck you all your life. It’s small, and populated by judgmental people.”

He smiled and offered me an apple. I took a bite and gave it back. He took a bite from the same place I left a hole in it. He offered me it back and I refused. I had a story to tell. The train ride was my chance. I continued:

“My first boyfriend was the best-looking boy in my school, but boring. I used to imagine him kissing my neck and doing naughty things with me.”

He laughed. “Why, I had a feeling he didn’t do them?”

The train gave a lurch, and the guitar shifted, bumping into his arm. He gently set his arm back against the seat while pushing his guitar aside.

A thought struck my mind.
Maybe he sings in a rock band.

“Something was missing. I knew I was not madly in love with him. Besides, I suspected he might be a moron. A good-looking one, though. I wanted to break up with him every day. Then, I would remember all the girls wanted him. So I would give up and continue to stay bored and listen to never-ending fishing stories.”

“Poor guy.” Alin was smiling broadly.

“I don’t think he had any idea what was in my brain. He was proud of being my boyfriend. I was the cool girl everybody wanted to be around. Boys would love my sexy looks, my big boobs, my flirting style. Girls would envy me and wanted to be me.”

“Oh, no doubt about it.” I caught him rolling his eyes at me.

“Hey, I am telling you, I was special.” I reached across the space between us, taking a halfhearted swat at his head. He ducked, throwing up his hands and laughing at me. I gave up and sat back. I continued: “I loved to break the rules and push people around me to do the same. I hated to be normal, and I hated to follow stupid rules. I got in trouble a lot because of that.”

“What trouble? Did you go to jail?” Alin gave me a smug smile.

“No.” I was laughing. “Let me think. You know, in school, we were forced to wear the school uniform. Well -”

“You didn’t,” he interrupted triumphantly.

“Oh yes, I did. I had to. But my uniform was different. I had my sewing machine, and every day I would add new things; make it shorter, longer, add ruffles, lace, bows, pearls, sequins, chains. I would wear scarfs and headbands. Or wear net stockings or crazy, colorful socks. Anything to cover my uniform. They used to call me to the principal’s office. I was a bad example. They called my mother for many reasons. I also never wanted to attend the forced
volunteer
work field.”

“I remember. We had to pick up apples off trees…grapes, all kind of stuff, instead of going to school.” He made a face. “It was revolting. I hated those trips to work at the field. In fact, we would do more damage than helping. Play with the fruits or veggies, throw them at each other.”

“Well, I never went. My grades suffered because of that. And my reputation. I wasn’t a good ‘pioneer’ anymore.” I pulled a mock-sad face. “I guess I was a disappointment to the Pioneer Movement and the Communist Party.”

The Pioneer Movement was the youth organization, under the wing of the Communist Party. The membership came automatically when children entered elementary school and continued until adolescence. Then, the mandatory enrollment into the Party.

“Mona, you weren’t a good girl.” He was shaking his head and waving around in the air his index finger.

I cut him off. “Good girls never wrote history! Great stories never start with ‘So, I was going to the church, and suddenly’ or ‘I went and ate a salad, blah, blah.’ A great story will start with, ‘You would never believe this shit. I saw a hot guy, and I was wasted…’”

“Joan of Arc wrote history, but you know how she ended.” He was teasing me.

“You know, Alin, your death will probably be from being sarcastic at the wrong place or the wrong time…just saying,” It was my turn to point my finger at him.

He burst into laughter. “You really hate normal, don’t you?”

A ray of sunlight slanted across his face
.
His eye color changed into light green while the sun was shining upon his face.
Why can’t you make up your mind? Are your eyes green or brown?

“Trying to be normal in a sick society, that’s sick. You know how it is. We live in a fucked-up system. It’s not my fault I am the way I am. I had to adjust. My way was being different; not following the crowd.” I couldn’t stop talking, which bothered me.

I continued, “Teachers told my parents my membership could be revoked, and I wouldn’t be able to attend university or find a job without being a member.” I dismissed it with a wave of hand.

If someone would ever request to leave the Party, it would be a gesture of significant courage, and the consequences could be huge. You would become a political dissident.

“Anyway, I went for a couple of times, and then I refused to go. My mother went to the doctor, gave him some imported cigarettes or whiskey—the usual gifts—and he wrote me a note saying I was sick. I got away with it for a while. They noticed. As I said, principal’s office, the whole treatment. My mother was awesome. She was like my lawyer. She fought against those ass-kissing teachers. You should have seen her.”

I stood up and tried to imitate my mother’s voice. “My children, at their age, should go to school to study and have good grades. Period. My children are not workers. This is child abuse. My children are not slaves. Period.”

“Was she listening to
Free Europe
?” He almost whispered the question.

It was
the
forbidden radio show. “Yes. She used to listen with my neighbors. Oh, and the
Voice of America
show as well.”

We all did, secretly. But no one had the courage to repeat what they heard.

“Anyway, teachers were afraid other parents would follow me or complain about why their children were forced to work the field and I was not.” I was talking quickly to avoid any interruption.

“I’m grateful to my parents. They let me be free. I was the only girl playing poker with lots of guys; with real money. When they cut the electricity, we played in the dark, at my place, by candlelight or a petrol lamp. I was cheating, hiding cards by sitting on them. I was the youngest player and the only girl. I guess no one thought I could cheat.”

“Or maybe they were distracted by your boobs,” Alin said slowing his words.

I clapped my hands, laughing. “How did you know? I didn’t wear a bra at home.”

“You were winning; I guess?”

“Of course. Sometimes I would lose, and I would prefer not to pay. I would ask them if I could show my boobs to pay my debts.”

“Did it work?”

“You’re a guy; you tell me.” I laughed.

Alin was laughing as well, shaking his head, covering his face with his hands. I heard a soft clank from the bracelet he wore.
Yep. He is in a rock band.
The cuff was black leather, decorated with a thin, stainless-steel chain bracelet.

After a while I asked him to go in the aisle. I needed to stretch my legs. He agreed to follow me. My body was sore. The train benches were not comfortable, and the space inside the compartment was pretty narrow.

The train seemed empty. Alin opened the window, and we felt the fresh air touching our faces. Outside a small meadow with long grass just disappeared passing by. We passed a village with white painted houses surrounded by picket fences with folkloric wood sculptured gates. The houses were separated by square fruit orchards on either side.

In front of a house, a small boy was standing by the street waving a sign at passing cars. He was probably selling fruit from the orchard by his house. As we passed, the scene changed again; the houses lost their luster as we entered a poorer section of the village. No longer white with neat fences, the houses now looked desolate and were in disrepair. Sagging porches and broken fences; even the weather seemed gloomier as the sun hid behind sudden clouds. Then the village dwindled as we passed into the countryside once more.

After a while we returned to our compartment, and I sat next to him this time.

“Tell me about your first time.” He came closer and gestured for me to rest my head on his shoulder. I moved over, and let him put his arm around me
.

I assured him,“Nobody wants to know about my first time. Nobody.”

He was quiet for a while. I closed my eyes and I let him play with my hair.

Where have you been, Alin? Where have you been my whole life?