Midnight in the City

Part One

After racing through the strange winding streets for hours, in and out of alleys, behind grey and brown buildings, and dodging the intermittent rain that had now become a steady of torrent, I decided it was time to find some form of public transportation.  In the most unusual place, out through a long corridor in a structure that seemed less a shop than a factory but was virtually empty, I found a subway station.  The entrance room was crowded, with long lines of people waiting to purchase their tokens.  Finally my turn came and I asked for as single ride to 95^th Street.  But when I took out my wallet to pay, there were only foreign banknotes from various countries but not a single one that would be accepted.  I searched my pockets for coins.  Nothing.  I asked the woman behind the glass if she would exchange one of my overseas bills.  She said she was sorry but it was against the rules.  I then turned to the crowd who were pushing in against me and complaining about the long time I was taking.  Would anyone be willing to exchange or buy one of my overseas notes?  They only pushed harder and complained more. 

          I moved away disgruntled, frustrated. Down the corridor, however, I could see another and much larger room.  There were some men in dark grey suits sitting at desks.  I walked in and waited to be recognized.  Not  one of them looked up.  And when I stated my problem, speaking as loudly and clearly as I could, there was no answer.  Then an older person, with a lengthy beard, came towards me, walking slowly through the labyrinth of desks.  He asked my problem.  I explained again.  He pointed me towards a door I had not until then seen and suggested I try there.

          Give it a push, the old man said, almost an order.  His voice seemed more friendly than anyone else’s had been. Push, he said again, though I was already pressing my hands against the door.  Harder, he insisted.  At last, the door began to budge, and eventually it opened wide enough for me to slide through sideways.  There, he said.  Just go in and do what you are told.  He walked away. 

          The room was dark.  I could see nothing.  A few moments passed and gradually various shapes became discernible.  Some dusty windows at the far end of the chamber let in an opaque version of light streaked with dust, and between those windows and where I stood a large corridor emerged to view.  There was no furniture, except for a small table in one corner furthest away from where I was standing.  There was a small candle lying on its side on the table.  It was small, mostly melted away, lying in a puddle of solidified wax.  I took a further step into the room.  Suddenly the door slammed shut with a bang, as though a gust of wind had blown it back, but I had felt nothing.  In due course, my eyes adjusted to the brownish light, perhaps stimulated by the loud crack of the door as it shut.  I called out to see if anyone were there.  Hello! Not even an echo came back but my shout was absorbed into the floating dust and near total darkness.  I took another step forward and spoke again, this time stating my specific and urgent problem of needing some way to purchase a subway token but having only foreign money.  Was there a bank available? I asked.  Could anyone provide credit on the basis of the foreign banknotes in my possession?  Complete silence.  I waited for a moment, then retraced my two steps back to the door, turned, and tried to push to get into the outer office again.  I pulled at the handle.  Nothing happened.  I banged on the door, shouting for someone to help me get out.  Still nothing but silence outside of my own desperate efforts. 

          I closed my eyes, let myself go, and started to fall to the ground.  Then I opened my eyes.  It was light and the row and row of desks, though mostly empty, had a few clerks sitting at them, moving papers, answering telephones and waving their hands to a small crowd of people at the other end of the room who then came up one at a time.  I rubbed my eyes. 

          See, he said, I told you to press on with it and not to  give up.  The old man was back.  The questions stuck in my throat: What had happened? Was it all a dream? What must I do now?  All that came out, it must be stated, was more phlegm than words, a pathetic objection to—to what I did not know. 

          Now, he said, go, it’s your turn, and he pushed me forward.  Go to the desk on the far end, over on the left, near the window.  Hurry before it’s too late.

          In a mixture of stumbling forward and floating through the dust-filled space, I came to the desk indicated. The silence continued.

          An officious young man, probably in his mid-thirties, with a narrow tie tightly knotted, and a dripping pen in his hand, pointed to the chair in front of him.  When I had sat down, he said in a quiet monotone: Name, address, occupation, and request.  I mumbled my particulars and then said: I only have foreign banknotes.  I need to exchange them so I can buy a subway token. Please.

          He looked carefully at the form I had filled in.  Held it up to the light.  Read it again.  Shook his head.

          Invalid, he answered.  Return to the corridor and wait for instructions.

          As I awkwardly arose to go, the old man, whom I only now noticed was still  standing behind me, pressed down on my shoulders and said, Don’t give up so easily, my boy. But I hesitated and tried to leave.  The old man insisted: Demand a proper answer.  Now.  If you don’t do it now, it may be too late.  You won’t get any more chances.

          The officious man at the desk had already started to wave his arms to call for the next petitioner.

          It’s no use, I said.  I don’t know what to do but to get out of here.  How do I--?

          Do it now, the old man urged, or I will give up on you, too.

          It was obviously too late.  My energy had drained completely away.  The old fellow disappeared and I dragged myself out of the door, back into the dimly-lit corridor, through the endless crowds, and made my way past the entrance hall with the booth where they sold tokens.  It seemed to take hours.  I was almost pushed back by the throngs hastening in the direction of the woman who sat demurely behind her barred-glass window.

          You again? she said when I reached the front of the line.  Have you found a way to convert those funny foreign notes?

          You remembered? I said.

          She blushed. 

          Look, she said, putting two tokens into a little cup and pushing it towards me.  Take these.  My treat.

          I hesitated, then picked them out of the metal cup, and whispered for some reason.  Awfully kind.  I promise to—

          No need, she said.

          But—I started to say.

          You can come back though, she said.  Maybe tomorrow.  She blushed again.

Part Two

None of this now seemed real at all.  I looked back as though it were a dream, yet not a normal dream or even a nightmare, but some kind of vision thrown in my face from some passing assailant.  The woman’s generosity overwhelmed me, and I found myself turning back to try to go through the turn-style and finally get on a train.  But then, as I walked out of the entrance, something clicked, lights went off and on suddenly, and when I looked into the tunnel, I realized this was not the subway system I had thought it was but rather a metro line in another city altogether, another country, another time.  It seemed vaguely familiar, as in my experience of travelling all my life, it was a secret pride to enumerate the different underground rapid transport systems I had ridden on.   Which one this was, however, was only vaguely familiar, and I could not be sure.  The signs were a blur, not even communicating any specific message.  A voice on a loudspeaker barked its message and yet no words were comprehensible, not even by the rhythms of speech what language it was.  People walked past quickly in both directions, occasionally pushing against me, but their faces were all down, again blurs and blotches. 

          Then someone took hold of my arm and pulled.

          You forgot your change, someone said.  Here, you’ll need this.

          When I looked, it was the friendly woman from the token booth.  As I automatically mumbled my thanks to her, it came back to my mind, first, that she had paid for the tokens out of her own pocket and consequently there should have been no change, and surely this must be another act of generosity, to ensure that I had a few coins in this place that was growing increasingly unfamiliar as the moments passed.  Second, the woman’s face, unlike everyone else’s around me, was clear.  She was not part of the unfocused images that filled the long tunnel I was walking through.

          Well, she said, I must go back to work.  Please—

          I was not sure what she was going to say or what she wanted me to answer, but I almost remember that there was a hope that she wanted to ask me to come back later, after whatever it is I had to do, and that I wanted to respond in a warm and affirmative way, sensing that life could be very interesting if the bizarre and outlandish events of the night before could be replaced by a mutual friendship or...  but then she was gone.

          The crowds became thicker and more insistent, and the vague murmur of voices, more animal-like than human, grew louder and clearer.  The faces around me came back into focus, too.  The dream was over.  However, as I looked around me, allowing myself to be carried forward by the throng of people, I realized that this was not the city I had thought it had been, and by their facial expressions, the style of their dress and the sound of their speech, it was a place distant in time from the night before.  It was no longer the 1950s but at least a generation or two earlier.  But was it Paris, Berlin, Vienna or where and in something like 1912?  Perhaps some or all at once.  This was again a dream but unlike the previous one, where at least I knew who and what I was, I could not keep a steady hold of my own identity, but found that self slipping away. 

          A young man bumped into me.  He was in a bowler hat, an orange-brown suit, and shoes with spats.  A Jim Dandy in a hurry to go somewhere.  After the bump, he swirled around, tipped his hat, and begged his pardon, with a broad smile, at which, by the shape of his teeth and the glint in his eye, I recognized him as the old man I had met the night before.  Though without a hat of my own, I raised my right arm smartly in a sort of salute, and greeted him with some words that, as they flowed from my mouth, changed from the language I normally use to the one the old-young man had used himself in his brief address. 

          I am sure I know you from somewhere, I said, and yet you probably can’t remember me as we haven’t met before in your time.

          To be sure, he responded, and is that supposed to mean something, my good man? 

          He then took off, stopped, twirled back, looked in my face.

           “Well, I never,” he said.  “I am sure I never. And yet and yet...”

          He put out his hand in a gesture of formality, pleasantly enough, but with an odd look of puzzlement spread across his face.

          “Well, I never,” he said as he shook my hand, tipped his hat, and scurried off on his way.