OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology Page 23

  He shook himself from the prison of memory and inventoried his things. The watch she had given him for his birthday had stopped ticking. There was a big, ugly gash on its beveled glass. His messenger bag, the one she had lovingly picked out from the recyclables store, was badly scratched but still intact. Nothing else in his car seemed worth saving.

  Felix stared at the dark road that stretched out towards the horizon. The sodium vapour lamps had been spaced too far apart. They left only small islands of light in the vast ocean of darkness.

  Before he took his first unsteady step, he made a sign of the cross and offered a prayer to St. Jude. Felix felt his soul sallow and threadbare. He needed to arm himself against the shadows. The night was still young and he worried about what further troubles lay ahead.

  “Stop using prayer as a good luck charm,” his wife had chided him. “It’s not a religion for you anymore. It’s voodoo.” His little leaps of faith unnerved everyone he knew. But he didn’t really care about what anyone thought anymore. Pain and loss had a way of turning even the smallest of comforts into crutches and somehow his constant calls for intercession made him feel less desperate, less powerless, less alone.

  Felix squinted and followed the thin line of orange lights that seemed to lead towards infinity. To his relief, he spotted a bus stop about half a kilometer away. “Someone will pass by for sure,” he thought. That would be his ticket back to civilization. The young man felt for his bus card in his pocket. He took it out and stared at it for a few seconds, as if to assure himself that it was really there. Satisfied, he started walking towards his lonely destination.

  The night was neither cold nor excessively humid but Felix turned his collar up as a precaution. He had walked about a hundred meters when he remembered that he’d left something of heartbreaking importance, something that he couldn’t live without. He slapped his forehead in dismay and quickly ran back to his car.

  “Where is that glove compartment?” he thought, as he searched the wreckage frantically. The front of the car was hopelessly crumpled. For a minute, he thought that what he was looking for was lost forever and he started to hyperventilate.

  “St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things… please, please help me find it. St Jude, patron saint of lost causes. Please, please have mercy on me.” He closed his eyes and repeated the litany in his head like a nervous tick. Felix forced himself to take deep breaths until his feelings of panic were checked. “I can’t have lost it.” he repeated, cracking his knuckles. “I won’t ever lose it.”

  Felix took a step back to calculate where the glove compartment lay under the car’s twisted frame. When he settled on a spot, he started to remove as much metal and plastic as he could. What began as a careful, studied process slowly escalated into a frenzy of destruction. He tore through the wreckage until he found what he was searching for—a woman’s red turtleneck, carefully preserved in a still-intact plastic package. It had been protected from the crash by a magazine and an old rubber sleeve. The young man slowly pulled out his shrink-wrapped treasure. He opened the package then gently stuck his nose in. His wife’s sweet scent still lingered on the fabric.

  Felix put the keepsake inside his bag and resumed his solitary walk to the bus stop. The terminal was unlike any he had ever seen. There was no sign indicating what station it was, nor in fact, any identifying marks at all. There were no bus schedules detailing arrival and departure times, or any of the billboards that cluttered other shelters. There was only a small laminated notice, attached to one post, reminding commuters to “Select Option 2 for a return ride.”

  Felix didn’t have to wait too long before something appeared in the distance. Like the stop it attended, the city bus that arrived was odd and strange. It was a heavy-duty Hino coach, with a low non-step floor and a spacious box-like interior. He remembered seeing a vehicle like this before, somewhere in the lumber of his grandfather’s dusty photos. An unsettled feeling came over him and he had to stop himself from running away.

  The vehicle was painted sky blue all over, except for a white stripe that wrapped around the cabin, below the large plastic windows. A sign on the windshield said “AIRCON” and above it was an LED board that read “Non-Stop.” Both flanks were decorated with three white hearts. The smaller ones said “Save Gas”, while the big heart had “Love Bus” in bold, red and yellow lettering. As it pulled up in front of him, he noticed that despite the vintage design, the bus seemed newly manufactured. So new in fact, that the chassis was spotless and the rubber on the tires showed no signs of wear. The surreal cleanliness added to his growing anxiety and his body made an involuntary shiver.

  He made the sign of the cross three times before getting on board. As he entered, he asked the crisply uniformed driver where the bus was headed. The man shook his head and did not speak. He pointed instead to the modern ticket reader behind him. Felix tried to engage him in conversation, but as soon as the driver’s gaze fell on him, Felix shut his mouth. The man’s eyes blazed like hollow furnaces, burning away all questions, cauterizing all speech.

  Felix flashed his bus card. Two options appeared on a small screen, simply labeled with the numerals “1” and “2”.

  “You are young. Choose Option 2, my boy,” the coach’s solitary passenger told him. “I’ve selected Option 1 already. That way one of us will see where each one goes.”

  “Thank you sir,” Felix said as he moved uncertainly down the cabin. He sat opposite his fellow commuter, an old European man dressed in a black cassock, with a white Roman collar around his hearty neck.

  The young man whispered another prayer of thanks. What luck that he was travelling with a priest. The presence of a man of God dispelled much of his naked fears, and for the first time since his accident, he felt the faint flicker of hope.

  “Thank the Lord that you are here,” the priest said. “I was slowly going mad by myself. What is your name, my son?”

  “My name is Felix del Mundo,” he answered softly, nervously, like a child’s prayer.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Felix,” the old man said, in a deep reassuring voice. “I am Father Vladimir of the Society of Jesus.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you too, Father,” he replied, as he dusted the chair with his handkerchief. “There’s something creepy about the bus driver. He didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “I don’t think he can speak. I’ve tried to converse with him for the best part of this ride. He simply took my last obolus and sent me to my seat.”

  “Do you have any idea where he’s taking us? The sign on the bus says ‘Non-Stop’ but where is it nonstop to?”

  “I wish I knew, my son,” the priest said. “Your stop is the only one I’ve seen since coming aboard. The odd thing is that this isn’t the same bus I started riding. I distinctly recall boarding a white LiAZ tourist coach.”

  “I’m not sure I get what you mean. But, yes, something isn’t right,” Felix concurred. His dusting became more frantic. “I’ve never seen this kind of bus before. What stop did you board at, Father?”

  “I… I don’t remember, actually,” Father Vladimir muttered. “I was coming back to Estragon from a big Semiotics conference. At some point I think I was in a car accident. I still have my luggage with me.”

  “Estragon?” the young man asked. “Where on Earth is… oh my God! We’re dead, Father. I think we’re dead!” The young man said with a start, seized suddenly by the unforgiving inevitability of mortality. “I saw this in a movie once. Think about it. We were both in car accidents, in different countries! How did we get here? That can’t be a coincidence. My God, we’re dead!”

  Felix hung his head with the grim realization, and raked his hands through his hair repeatedly, trying to overcome a sudden urge to scream. “Here I was thinking how lucky I was to escape without a scratch.” Felix took out his hanky and brushed the back of the seat in front of him. He cleaned it thoroughly before banging his head against the foam cushion.

  The priest let a few moment
s of silence pass before speaking. “Calm yourself my son. We don’t know that for sure, do we? I certainly don’t feel dead, but then again I’ve never been dead before. There could be other possibilities.”

  “What other possibility is there?” Felix asked, befuddled by the unfamiliar logic of their situation. “We must be dead, and this bus is our hearse. It’s too much of a coincidence to ignore.”

  “There is… there is coincidence, and then there is synchronicity,” Father Vladimir continued. “When two things happen together, that doesn’t always need to mean anything.”

  “Sorry, Father, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the young man said, cracking his knuckles anxiously.

  “Sometimes things just happen together and there’s really no connection between them. That’s called ‘coincidence’. However, if you do find something, like an idea or a plan that connects the two, that’s actually called ‘synchronicity’. I believe what happened to us was pure coincidence. My accident and your accident are not connected. Yes, we’re on a strange bus heading to an unknown destination, but that doesn’t mean we’re on an omnibus to the afterlife. Think about it, if we’re dead, shouldn’t there be more people on this bus? Thousands of people die every day.”

  “Are you for real Father? I’m sorry, but you don’t talk like a regular person.”

  “Well, this is far from a regular situation.” Fr. Vladimir said. “I’m not sure we are even in the regular world anymore. We could be dreaming or unconscious.”

  “So are you saying that this is only in my mind?” Felix asked uneasily. He looked out the plastic windows with uncharacteristic diffidence as the bus swept by endless fallow fields wrapped in darkness. The pall of night reminded him of the vacancy, the finality of oblivion, but something in his heart told him this wasn’t death.

  After a period of reflection he said, “Maybe you’re right, Father. I always thought that there would be a big tunnel of light when you died, and that the people you loved would be waiting for you somewhere. No, I don’t feel like we’re dead at all.”

  “Don’t be too put out,” Fr. Vladimir said quietly. “This is all much too strange, even for me. I wouldn’t blame you at all for feeling moribund.”

  The old man droned on about death and the persistence of memory, but Felix just couldn’t focus enough to listen.

  “It’s moving too fast to jump off,” the young man remarked. “I just want to get off. Perhaps if we rush the driver together we can overpower him.”

  “And then what?” the priest asked. “We would just be lost. It would be better for us to reach a destination first, at least, before we contemplate such actions. I don’t think either of us would like to be trapped out there. It’s nothing but a brutal wasteland.”

  Felix said nothing. This had been the second time in his life that he had wanted to jump from a moving bus. The first was in New York City, a little more than five years ago. With his student visa expiring, he had no choice but to return to the land of his birth. The young man had been so used to life in America, that Promised Land for all Filipinos, that his trip back home had seemed like a punishment, an exile to limbo after his brief taste of heaven. On the bus he had fought a great urge to run away, and he would probably have done so, if a beautiful young woman hadn’t sat right next to him. Like Felix she was also on her way to Manila. By some odd twist of fate, they ended up spending the next fifteen hours together. In those long golden hours, they became fast friends. Before they knew it, their relationship blossomed into something else. A year later, the two of them were married.

  “We feel most mortal before dawn, they say.” Fr. Vladimir said, trying to comfort his brooding companion. “Let us keep our wits about and let us not lose hope. Who knows what destiny waits at the end of this ride?”

  “Thank you, Father.” Felix sighed. He knew that the old man was trying to make him feel better. “It’s just that being trapped on this bus is driving me nuts. I wish we knew where we were going. It doesn’t really matter where. I just want to get somewhere and get the hell off.”

  “I can’t honestly say that I am not worried.” The old man mumbled. “But Milton said that the mind is its own place. In itself it can make a heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven. Perhaps we can lighten our mood with a change of topic. Let me think… hmm… my life’s work, my magnum opus if I may, is a lexicon of dreams. I have been compiling it for decades. Shall we talk about dreams instead?”

  “You study dreams?” Felix asked, momentarily distracted. He had dreamed of his wife every single night since her death. Different dreams, different situations but always with one thing in common: every night she would tell him to come and find her. His anxiety returned and Felix took out his handkerchief and started folding it into a four-point pocket square.

  “Yes, I study them, looking for a common language to define their meaning.”

  “So can you interpret dreams, Father?” he asked, tucking the pocket square back into his pants.

  “In a manner of speaking, I can.” The priest explained. “For example, according to my research, if you dream of riding on a bus to nowhere, it means that you feel you’re being carried along by events beyond your control.”

  “So… you think that we are in a dream right now?” the young man said, looking around the strange bus and weighing the unreality of their situation. “I suppose that’s possible. I could be in a coma somewhere.”

  “When you wake, or think you do, what would you say of this evening?” the old man asked. “I have an interesting thought experiment. Let’s say that we are indeed just dreaming, and you are dreaming that you’re riding a bus to places unknown, what is your inescapable tragedy, my son?”

  “I haven’t said a prayer to St. Christopher yet.” Felix said abruptly. He had wanted to ask the old man about his dreams but couldn’t bring himself to open his heart to a stranger.

  “Sorry? What are you going on about?”

  “St. Christopher. He’s the patron saint of travelers.”

  “And buses, I imagine,” the priest added. “Forgive me, but I feel as if there is some truth that you are denying. However, I suppose Carl Jung can wait, if you’re not comfortable with confessions.”

  The old man looked out to the manifold darkness and became lost in his own thoughts.

  After a while, the young man began to feel irritable and a bit lightheaded. “Father,” he asked. “Do you have anything to eat?” In his rush to drive back to the city, Felix had forgotten to have dinner. Now he felt the deleterious effects of hunger, as his blood sugar started to drop precipitously. “Is it possible to feel hungry in a dream?” He thought, “If I die now, this won’t be suicide. The saints will let me see her. Please St. Jude, St. Anthony, let me see her. We need to be together.”

  “Ah, hunger… another great leitmotif. Knut Hamsun used it well,” Father Vladimir murmured, still lost in his thoughts. The priest had spent too much time in the bus alone. He succumbed readily to the temptation to forage his mind for conundrums and verities.

  “Father, I have diabetes.” Felix cried out. He knew that his wife wouldn’t have approved of a diabetic coma, not after she had spent so much time mothering his illness. “I feel dizzy.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. Where is my head today?” the priest said, with much embarrassment. Fr. Vladimir opened one of his large valises. Inside he had an enormous bag of chocolates, bottles of mineral water and a crumbly cake packed securely in a sturdy Styrofoam box. “I was on my way to a party for the children of my orphanage. I suppose this is as noble a use for these victuals.”

  The priest took out some paper plates and used the handle of a plastic fork to cut the cake. He carved out a big piece and handed it to Felix, along with a bottle of mineral water. “Smachnoho!” he exclaimed, “That means bon appetit.”

  “Thank you. That was surprisingly delicious.” Felix said, gobbling his share with desperate gusto. “What kind of cake was it?”

  “Kiev cake,” the old man answered
proudly. “It’s a divine confection isn’t it? It’s made of two airy layers of meringue with hazelnuts, chocolate glaze, and a butter-cream filling. It’s very rich, like the culture of my people.”

  After they finished eating, the young man excused himself to take a nap. When he woke up it was still night time. In the bus he did not dream and that bothered him greatly. He realized how deeply he needed the comfort of seeing his wife every night, even if it was just a shade of her memory.

  The young man noticed that Father Vladimir had also fallen asleep. He wondered how long they had been travelling. He looked at his watch but remembered that it was still broken. He tried to recall the details of his accident, but his memory now seemed fuzzy. It was as if it had happened a very long time ago. He took his phone out of his bag and checked it again. “Please, I just want to see her picture,” he prayed, but his phone remained hopelessly dead.

  A voice boomed suddenly in the darkness: “Come, let’s get to work! In an instant all will vanish and we’ll be alone once more, in the midst of nothingness!”

  “Dios ko po!” Felix cried out, startled by the old man’s declamation. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were awake, Father.”

  “Nothing like a quote from Samuel Beckett to start the day,” Fr. Vladimir said gruffly. “Night and sleep came and went but we did not dream. At least I didn’t.”

  “But it’s still night,” Felix protested. “In fact, I think it’s still the same night. Everything is exactly the same. Nothing’s changed since we ate and slept.”

  “Forget the night my son! Beckett said that nothing matters but writing, and this applies to us now.” The priest said, with a distressed tone and an odd, vacant look. “I think I have figured out where we are. We are not dead. We are not dreaming. We are in a story. Oh heavens, this would be such a contrived, self-referential plot if that were true!”