Next to the Last

By Satyagraha Hoerip

We all shook hands. Dr. Macro, his wife and all their 12 children, with me and my youngest brother. The train whistle screamed again and again, so we hurried our farewells.

When at last we jumped on the train -- having thrown our bags on the carriage floor -- the train was moving slowly and gathering speed. We did not have time to go to the rear platform to wave at Dr. Macro and his family. They had gone through so much trouble to see us off. Even the little baby and their two German shepherds were there.

Inside the train was very quiet. Evidently, the other passengers had gone to their respective compartments. Their doors were all closed, so that it was easy for us to find ours. We put our bags on the racks above our heads, and my brother immediately opened the window. The wind streamed in too strong to my liking, so I quickly asked him to pull it down again. And since we had spent all of the previous night at Dr. Macro's place chatting about all sorts of things -- God, the Devil, ghosts and supernatural things, wars, natural calamities, etc. -- we soon settled down and made an effort to get some restful sleep.

My brother slept on the seat opposite me, stretching his legs towards the window. I slept the other way around, my head against the window. The swaying of the train, accompanied by the humming of the wheels and the sound of the locomotive with the whistle wailing occasionally, soon lulled us to sleep and carried us floating into dreamland.

I do not know how long we slept that way. When the conductor knocked on our door, I got up to open the door. He asked for our tickets in a friendly and respectful manner, and I gave them to him in the same friendly and courteous way.

"Oh, you gentlemen have made a mistake," he said, looking carefully over our tickets. He had almost punched them automatically with his new and shiny ticket-puncher. "You should have taken the next train after this. This is not the last train."

He said the words very calmly, but God knows how deeply they disturbed me.

Something like cold sweat -- maybe it was cold sweat -- trickled down the nape of my neck and around my throat. My hands were nervous and my face turned as white as blank paper. My brows glistened.

"But the porter didn't tell us when we ran across the platform at the station. And also..."

"Of course! This train is going in the same direction," he said hastily although still in the same respectful voice. "Only by a different route. You will find it very boring, because it will seem like we are going in circles, as if we're going nowhere. In fact, the journey may seem endless to you. What do you think? Do you suppose you have the patience to stay with us?"

I smiled. The man was a cynic, I thought, or at least he had a very good sense of humor. And so I kept on smiling.

"Oh, come on, Sir!" he said irritatedly, his patience suddenly vanished. "I have no doubt you are a friendly person, steadfast and full of confidence, who observes life with a cheerful disposition. But I have to be going on my round, you know. Keep your smile to yourself for the moment. What I need now is your answer."

I nodded. He made the usual holes in our tickets with his puncher and went away, his head nodding in perfect synchronicity with the rhythm of the train. Still, he averted his face from my sight, and at that precise moment doubts appeared in my mind: was his face featureless? No hollows for cheeks, no protrusion for nose?

Right then I felt angry with myself. Why hadn't I looked more carefully when we were talking?

But I quickly quenched those doubts. Was it possible that a human being -- a train conductor at that, who had to come into contact with so many people, and who certainly would have had long years of service -- was it possible that such a person would have the frightening face I had imagined just now? Ah, confound my stupid eyes!

So I went back to sleep in the same position as before, without wakening my brother who looked so handsome in his youth and in his deep sleep. And once again the swaying of the train, accompanied by the humming of the rails and the sound of locomotive with just a few occasional wails of the whistle, lulled us to sleep and carried us floating into dreamland.

All members of the Macro family were present in my dream, repeating our discussion about mystical matters, about God, the Devil, wars, famines, etc. And because it was a dream, everything was jumbled and devoid of logic.

I did not know how much time had passed. In my sleep, a feeling of hunger kept pestering me. Time and again I awoke. But when I glanced at my brother, still sleeping so soundly, I refrained from waking him up to get dinner at the dining car. This kept recurring until at last I could no longer stand the agonizing hunger. This time I decided to wake him. And so I got up.

But what was this? Was I seeing things?

I was shocked out of my wits. When I stretched out my legs and arms to relax my muscles, it was difficult to believe what I saw -- could it be that things had become so horrible while we were sleeping? That everything had become so terrible?

And why shouldn't I be shocked? Earlier, I had seen the conductor's face as totally flat, no hollows for cheeks and no protrusion for a nose. And now, my brother, who was 17 years younger than I, had changed completely. His face and hands were wrinkled with age. His dark hair was daubed by gray streaks. Whereas he had seemed so robust before, even in repose, now he had lost all appearance of youthful vitality.

I wanted to scream, but don't, said my mind. I stuffed my mouth with my right fist, while my left hand rubbed my two eyes one by one. This can't be! It is impossible, my mind protested insistently. It was simply too outrageous! My heart broke into pieces and I felt such great compassion for my little brother that I could not keep myself from sobbing uncontrollably.

My whole existence objected. Both of us must have fallen under an evil spell. Or else the compartment was haunted and the two of us were being ridiculed for our ignorance.

"Yusaak...Yusaak!" finally I barked at him, calling out his name. "Yusaaak!" I repeated, emphatically, and louder than before.

Apparently he heard me, for he tried to wake up. He stirred and gradually opened his sleep-filled eyes. Then he stared at me hard. Oh God! He had really turned into an old man. His gaze was no longer that of a growing young man. It was the gaze of the grandfather of my grandpa's grandfather.

"What is it...?" he asked with the quavering voice of the very old.

For a brief moment his gaze swept his skin, but, drawing his eyes back to me, he suddenly asked, still in that shaky old man's voice, "Well, what is it" Who are you, anyway?"

Christ! He was asking me who I was! Honestly, this was the very end! I just couldn't understand any of this!

I felt I would never be able to comprehend the whole crazy happening, and as such I couldn't answer. My mouth was twitching slowly and I realized I was crying again.

No use telling him who I was. It was no use doing anything at all. It was as if I was already defeated without a fight; conquered by this evil spell without having resisted it.

"I feel as if I have met you before," my brother said. His voice croaked and his pointing finger trembled like that of a dotard.

I looked at him for a long time. Then, seeing that it was useless to bring him to his senses that way, I stood up. I opened the door and for a few moments, I stood at the threshold. How still the long, long corridor looked. How deserted and empty.

The doors to the other compartments were still closed and, oh, how I longed at that moment to break them all down. To have a look at the faces and features of the other passengers inside those cabins, one by one. Against the swaying of the train, I made my way to the right. I was hoping that on that side I would somehow find the conductor I had met earlier.

It lasted a very long time, swaying and being thrown this way and that by the movement of the carriage. The train was really getting to be too much for me. Perhaps it really was shaking severely, but then it was also possible that it was the result of my losing my confidence and balance, physical as well as mental. I was not sure anymore.

Only one fact I knew: there was not a thing I could understand.

I broke open the door to the cabin at the farthest end. A man, sitting with his back to the door enjoying the scenery through the window, was not aware of my presence. I felt a little relieved, for from his clothes I saw that he was the man I was looking for.

"Excuse me, Mr. Conductor, Sir!" I began, my voice suddenly choking. "Sir..."

"What?...oh, it's you. Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, turning around. Good heavens, his face was flat.

It was no use doing anything at all. Only now it was the face of an aged man. His nose was so flat, it looked as if two holes had been punched in above his lips. His skin was wrinkled, his hair completely gray, and his voice was the trembling vocalization of a dotard, too.

"Uh...I'm from compartment..."

"Yes, yes, I know!" he interrupted me. "You're the one who got on the wrong train, aren't you?" He started to smile. "Is there anything I can help you with, Sir?"

I was struck dumb by his words and his memory. How sharp it was, and how strong, when even my own youngest brother could not remember who I was.

Perhaps because I remained silent, he said, standing up and swaying towards me, smiling all the while, "Now, what did I tell you long, long ago?"

I just kept silent, overwhelmed by his "long, long ago."

"Didn't I tell you from the very beginning that you guys got on the wrong train?" he continued. "This is not the last train, for which you bought those tickets. It's true, this train will reach the same destination at the end, just like the train you're supposed to travel in. But this one has a route that is...Anyway, you have found that out for yourselves now, haven't you?"

I still couldn't utter a word.

All of a sudden I wanted very much for him to keep on talking, anything he would like to talk about. He could even abuse me if he wanted to. Perhaps he might explain the mystery of this train. I was hoping the old man might disclose the secret of this train, if not the whole story, at least parts of it.

"Please go on, Sir. Talk some more," I urged him on, because he stopped talking, staring at me mutely. I realized then that I was nagging him. But to hell with false shame. "Go on, Sir. Talk!"

But he just smiled and smiled. Only when he got tired of looking at me did he begin to speak again. With his head nodding, he moved his hand back and forth in front of my nose while his lips moved quite like a garrulous old woman's.

"This is funny, really funny! In the beginning, long, long ago, you impressed me as a man who could endure anything whatsoever. You're steadfast, courageous and self-confident. And because of that, in the past, you're jolly and full of spirit. But now...huh."

Whether he intended it or not, he did not finish his sentence but left it open with the same enigmatic smile, as if he were scrutinizing me. And that made me feel uneasy.

"Hey!" he suddenly shouted in surprise, then bent down in laughter until his gray hair was just a finger's width away from the front of my chest, so that I found it difficult to keep from bashing him in the face.

"You're really wonderful, you know. Truly incredible!" he abruptly became serious again, full of awe. "You are an extraordinary person, Sir. You did not succumb to time and space. This is unbelievable."

I dared to swear that I was not impressed by his praises. What worried me was the way he kept saying such words as "the past," "long, long ago" and "long time ago", which felt like a mountain of fear pressing on my chest. What did he mean, exactly?

"Or...could you be immortality itself, Sir? I mean...Eternity?" he said again, backing away, fascinated. His old and tiny eyes shone curiously, his look mingled with reverence.

To my surprise, I suddenly felt exuberant. I tried to smile, while I nodded my head. I did not know where the idea came from, but I spoke to him in a voice full of authority as I proudly held up my head and puffed out my chest. "Well, you have just found that out, you old scoundrel!"

Totally unanticipated, indeed, I had not expected it at all, he fell backwards. I examined him instantly, and saw that he would never move again. He had died.

I quickly closed the door and hastened to find my cabin. The corridor was still quiet, deserted. I passed compartment after compartment. All of a sudden the corridor seemed way too long. Endless.

Nevertheless, I felt compelled to find it, our compartment. Its number was printed on these tickets. There I would wait for the time when I would find the solution to this mystery, this lunacy. Only I could never find the place.

So here I am, still walking, stumbling on like a drunk, trying to keep my balance against the movement of the train, which grows more and more powerful all the time. Only once in a while the motion slows down, giving me the chance to search among the compartments for the one of mine, with calm and purposeful steps, while a million temptations crowd in on me.

The temptations are manifold, jamming and fighting each other. Will this ever end?

Satyagraha Hoerip, 63, won the Chilean Literary Competition in 1987. His academic career includes teaching Modern Indonesian Literature and Culture at Ohio University (1982) and as a visiting research scholar at Kyoto University, Japan (1990).