Metro Read online

  Metro

  Steen Langstrup

  METRO

  2 Feet Entertainment

  Metro

  It is Maja, so I answer the call. Using my other hand, I loosen my tie before grabbing hold of the suitcase to pull it along. I am in the airport in Copenhagen, it’s in the middle of the night, and the place is deserted. My steps echo.

  I am on my way to the Metro station.

  “I’m back,” I say in a tired voice, not recalling where I have been. I have worked around the clock ever since my divorce. It’s my fourth business trip this week and it is only Thursday. Well, actually, it’s past midnight by now; so it’s Friday. “What’s up, Maja?”

  Maja is my secretary and I guess she is not calling to deliver good news. No, I know for sure, she is calling with bad news; otherwise she wouldn’t be up at this time of night. There is no need for her to say it, but of course she does.

  “Something’s happened, William.”

  “What?” I pull my suitcase down the long hallway leading to the platform. Up ahead I can see the illuminated red letters and numbers on the sign by the tracks:

  VANLOSE 4 min.

  Underneath this, sliding across the screen is a message stating that the elevator on Flintholm Station is out of order.

  I am alone. Through the glass walls of the station, I look down at the parking lot in front of the airport. It too looks deserted under the pale yellowish glow from the street lamps. I turn my eyes to the tall shadow of the Hilton. Only a few of the windows in the hotel sparkle in the dark of the night.

  “I’ve been calling all day, but I couldn’t get connected to your cell phone,” she says, her voice crisp in my ear. I hear anxiety in her voice—anxiety and fatigue.

  “Why didn’t you call me at…” I hesitate. “Sorry, I have no idea where I’ve been. Berlin? Was it Berlin today?”

  “Madrid, William. You are returning from Madrid. You started the morning in Berlin and then you went to Madrid. Yesterday you were in London, and Monday and Tuesday you were in Miami.”

  What would I do without Maja? Sometimes it seems she is the only person who cares about me.

  I reach the platform, releasing the handle of the suitcase to rub the tiredness from my face. I feel the stubble scratch the palm of my hand.

  I spot my reflection in the glass walls. I look okay, considering that I have been up and working since early morning.

  “Why didn’t you call me in Madrid? I’ve been at the head office all afternoon and most of the night.” I know because that is what I do in Madrid—like everywhere else; I visit the local departments, checking on their efforts to comply with the company plans. Are they moving towards the goals set forth by the management? If the departments are having trouble doing this, it is my job to spot it and get them back on track. Of course, this is done in cooperation with the executives of the local departments, but…Madrid…it is all blurring inside my head. I can’t seem to distinguish Madrid from Berlin from London from Miami… “Why didn’t you just call…?”

  “It’s too personal. I didn’t want them to…I figured you would prefer this to be kept from spilling out all over the place, before…”

  “Personal?”

  I frown, staring at my black suitcase while my thoughts skip to Betina and the kids. I haven’t seen them the last couple of weeks. I try to avoid them, can’t be bothered. Ever since the divorce, I have been living in a rented room. It wasn’t supposed to be anything but a temporary solution; now I have been staying there for more than a year and I haven’t done anything at all to find myself another place. All I do is work. Betina got the house, the car, the kids, everything. I didn’t care. I didn’t need all that.

  All that mattered to me was my job, she could have the rest. So here I am, living in a garret in an old villa in Frederiksberg. I have a bed, a closet to keep my clothes in, a table and a single chair on which I sit in front of my laptop—working, always working. I have no TV, no radio, not even a couch. I have a small kitchen and a sour-smelling bathroom. I can’t say why I haven’t found a better place to stay—or made Maja arrange something. It wouldn’t have been a problem. I guess I just didn’t feel the need. Because of my job, I tend to spend every other night in hotel rooms around the world.

  The kids. I ought to see more of them. Emil and Victoria. It’s not like I never get to see them; I took them to Tivoli this summer. I just don’t have much time to do stuff like that. I got my promotion right before the divorce, and I had worked so hard to get it, struggled for years, almost to the point where my eyes would bleed, made enemies along the way—and then Betina left me…

  VANLOSE 7 min.

  Didn’t it just say four?

  “You’re in all the papers, William.”

  “I am?” I shake my head. “How the hell did I end up in the papers?”

  There were newspapers on the plane, but I didn’t get around to reading them as I had work to do.

  “You are actually on the front page.”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t there some freebie papers at the Metro station?”

  “What’s this regarding? Maja, goddammit, talk to me!” Jogging for the newspaper stands, I scan the platform. No newspapers lying around. The stands are empty. “There are no papers here.”

  “It’s a case of mistaken identity. It’s one big mistake. You weren’t even in the country when it happened.” Now she is babbling along, I can’t keep up. Hearing soft steps in the deserted hallway behind me, I turn to see a very young woman pulling a pink suitcase. I spot the white cords of her iPod wriggling down her neck. “It’s really kinda silly, but you need to talk to the police tomorrow. You gotta call the police and tell them… No, maybe you should even call them tonight, William. I almost called them myself, but—”

  “Stop!” I say in a firm voice. “Maja, you are not making sense. I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Get to the point and make it short. I am not in the mood for this.”

  “Okay.” I can hear her drinking something before she continues. “You are wanted for rape.”

  “What?”

  “There have been a number of violent rapes in Copenhagen the last few weeks. Yesterday, the police published a frame from the surveillance recordings in the Metro. The last rape occurred late Monday night not far from the DR-Byen Metro station. The victim recognized you on the recordings from the surveillance camera.”

  I hesitate a few seconds, looking into my own eyes in the reflection of the glass walls—then I laugh.

  “It’s not a joke, William. I don’t know how this happened, but your face is on the covers of all the newspapers. I’m watching you on the TV2-News as we speak, dammit!”

  “Maja, Maja.” I am still laughing. “Do I have some anniversary that I’ve forgotten? Are you guys sneaking up on me with cakes and balloons?”

  “No!” The shout quiets me. “No, this is for real. I’m not kidding.”

  “But…how can it be me on those recordings? Didn’t you just say I was in Miami this past Monday?”

  “I did. I have no idea what happened. Maybe there’s someone who looks just like you, a doppelganger, maybe they got the recordings mixed up. I don’t know. All I know is that this picture in the papers looks too much like you for comfort.”

  “Then why haven’t the police showed up here to arrest me?”

  The young woman passes me on her way to the standing bench. I can hear the rhythms from her iPod. Still, I lower my voice. I have this strange feeling inside. A turmoil I haven’t felt in years. Nerves? “Surely, you can’t be the only one who’s recognized me.”

  “They might be waiting for you at your home. I don’t know. I think, you should call the police right now, make them clear the error. You don’t need something like this taintin
g your name.”

  “You’re right, Maja. I’ll call them as soon as I get back home. Thank you. And now, get some sleep. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

  I turn off the phone and let it slide down my pocket as I glance at the board.

  VANLOSE 3 min.

  Well, at least it seems to be counting down again. I flex my shoulders. They are stiff after hours of working, sitting bent over my laptop on the plane.

  Of course Maja was right. It is urgent that I contact the police ASAP. I consider calling them right now, but refrain from doing this as I would prefer to see that picture myself before doing anything. If she is right, and it really is my face in the papers, I need to get this mistake corrected immediately. That kind of dirt might stick to you and require some damage control. I might consider calling my attorney first, just in case we would need to put some pressure on the cops, making sure they make a public statement of my innocence as they retract the surveillance shot. The key is that there can be no doubt left that I am innocent as this was a police investigation error. Maybe I should sue them?

  If—that is—it really is me on that picture. I find this terribly difficult to believe. After all, I was in Miami that night.

  The Clip Card! I forgot to stamp my Clip Card in the machine. Shaking my head, I pull out my wallet and extract the Clip Card.

  VANLOSE 5 min.

  Now, it is counting backwards again. I go to the machine and stamp my Clip Card twice. Looking up, I catch the young woman looking at me. I flash a tired smile as she quickly turns her head away.

  She doesn’t look much more than fourteen or fifteen years old. It seems a little late for a girl so young to be out on her own. She has long, blond hair and blue eyes. Cute girl. Skinny, but still with that touch of baby fat to her appearance. Far too much make up around the eyes, though.

  I return to my suitcase. I’m hungry. I have nothing to eat. I ate on the plane, but that was hours ago. I wonder if I have anything in the fridge back home. Some bread maybe?

  VANLOSE 1 min.

  The train will be here soon. I turn to see if I can spot it. Usually, you can see the train coming from quite a distance. There is nothing but darkness. I look at my watch. It is past two a.m. I must have been standing here waiting for half an hour…or even longer. Why don’t they say anything over the intercom? They normally do when a train is delayed.

  VANLOSE 5 min.

  As I catch the young woman staring at me again I point to the board and shrug. She shrugs back.

  I turn away. If there had been decent benches at the Metro stations, I might have been able to get some work done. Now, I don’t know how to pass the time.

  I glance at the girl. She has pulled the earplugs from her ears. I glimpse a pair of large earrings as she folds the cord, and pulls a cell phone from her pocket. Of course, she uses her cell phone for her music, not an iPod.

  VANLOSE 2 min.

  I look down at my shoes. They need a shine. The filth from the streets of Madrid is covering them like a membrane. The girl is wearing tartan All Stars. I had the same shoes, only black, when I was her age.

  She kinda resembles my first girlfriend, I think as I secretly glance at her reflection in the glass wall. She has the same build, same hair, same earrings. Especially, the earrings. I had a thing with her ears, I recall, suddenly remembering the taste of those earrings.

  My first love. She was only mine for a few weeks. We were so young and the world was so alive. The memories make me smile. You should never get any older than that.

  I try to remember her name. I can picture her face in front of me, taste the metal of her earrings inside my mouth, feel the warmth of her body, the magic of the first kiss, the strange but wonderful sensation of her tongue inside my mouth, her soft skin, the fine hairs under her panties. I recall every small detail, but not her name.

  “Train arriving in track two for Vanlose.”

  My memories are shattered by the strangely exhilarated female voice over the station’s intercom. I blink, feeling lost for a moment. I had been so far away that I didn’t even see the train arriving, but here it is.

  The automatic doors open. I glance at the young woman as I grab my suitcase and move inside the train. I pick the front seat. As there are no train drivers—the Metro is run by computers—I am able to look out the front window, directly down at the tracks. I place my suitcase on the seat next to me.

  The reflections in the front window allow me to look at the girl, pulling her pink suitcase along the aisle between the seats. She entered the train by at door further down, and now she is coming towards me. For some reason, I seem to like that. I almost wish for her to come all the way to the front to sit here with me.

  She doesn’t.

  This is Denmark. We are Danes. We keep our distance. We do not pick a seat close to strangers if other seats are available. We do not talk to strangers in the trains. While using her fingers on the screen of her cell phone, she picks a seat in the compartment on the other side of the doors I entered the train by.

  I grab my own cell phone from my pocket, not knowing why. I let it slide back down my pocket, feeling a little restless. Why is the train not moving?

  My eyes return to the reflections in the front window. I can see all the way to the other end of the train and it’s empty. It is kind of strange now that I think about it. Usually, there are always people in the Metro, no matter what time it is. I can’t recall ever riding a Metro this empty. If the girl gets off at the next stop, I will be all alone. Certainly, that will change as soon as we get closer to the city. After all, it is Thursday, and the students have started their weekend of partying by now.

  I spot a discarded newspaper on the seat behind me and swiftly grab hold of it. The front page contains a large photograph of me. It is blurry and not showing me from a particularly flattering side. My eyes are gazing directly at the reader oozing anger, maybe even insanity. They made sure to pick the frame from the surveillance recordings were I looked most criminal. I am wearing the same clothes as I am right now, same dark suit, even the same tie. The shirt might also be the same, but you can’t tell; all my shirts are white. A dark shadow of beard stubble is covering my cheeks.

  THIS IS THE RAPIST, the headline reads and Maja is damn right; it is me in the picture. But how can that be? I wasn’t even in the country Monday night. Yet, it is me in the picture standing inside the Metro near the doors, clutching the bar under the roof, staring right into the surveillance camera. It could have been this same train, and I would have been standing no more than a few meters from where I am sitting now. You can’t see anybody else in the picture. Maybe the train was empty that night as well. Only, I wasn’t on the train that night, and I have never ridden an empty Metro.

  What is happening?

  A doppelganger? Everybody has one. Isn’t that what they say? Only, it can’t be a doppelganger. The man in the newspaper has both the same tiny mole on the chin as I and even the scar in the eyebrow I got during my military service. It can’t be anybody else. No doppelganger could have both the mole and the scar—even a monozygotic twin wouldn’t have both. It can only be me. But how did I end up on that photo?

  I look at my reflection in the front window, touching the mole…the scar. It is exactly as in the newspaper. The young woman is looking at me. I stiffen, feeling cold inside. What if there is a newspaper lying back there as well? What if she recognizes me? Young women are known to make false rape reports just to get the attention…or so I have read in the papers. If she does that, I am fucked for sure. Nobody will believe anything I say. Nobody.

  I drop the newspaper like it burned me. I look down at my legs, pulling an imaginary dust bit from my trousers. I am sweating. Why is the train not moving? Why isn’t there anybody on this train?

  A thought hits me out of nowhere, and I carefully turn to pick up the newspaper. Comparing the picture on the front page to my reflection, it is exactly the same… Only, I am not. I am mirrored, or the reflection is
mirrored; and if the picture in the paper isn’t mirrored too, then it can’t be me in the picture. Both my mole and my scar are on the right side of my face, and both the picture and the reflection would have them on the left side.

  I frown. The picture will probably turn out to be mirrored. It would be quite astonishing if there was a man out there in Copenhagen who looked so much like me that he literally could be my mirror image.

  Then I see it. The suit, the buttons. The buttons are, of course, placed on the right side as they always are on men’s clothes. The buttonholes are on the left. If the shot was mirrored, they would be placed the other way around, like on women’s clothes.

  The train beeps, the doors close, and the train starts moving. I glance back at the young woman. Now, she is sitting with her eyes closed, maybe even slumbering. The earplugs are back in her ears. My eyes follow the white cord along her neck to her ears and once again I can almost taste the metal of her earrings inside my mouth.

  And then I remember. Her name was Ellen-Marie. My first love. Ellen-Marie. Of course. Ellen-Marie Lundquist. I was so in love with her. I don’t even think I was that in love with my ex-wife. Betina seemed more like a reasonable choice, a good woman to mother my children; but Ellen-Marie, fourteen years old… It was so intense. The feeling of her fine, soft hair between my fingers. It was magic. She trembled when I touched her. I even remember the scent of the tea she used to make those afternoons in her parent’s big, empty villa. The posters on the walls of her room, the hand that slowly found its way inside her shirt. She was far too young to wear a bra.

  Noticing me staring at her, the girl shoots me a hard look. Embarrassed, I turn away. Maybe if she had been older I could try to start a conversation. God knows, I need a woman in my life. There have been no women, absolutely no women, since the divorce. I haven’t had the time nor the desire. No more women for me. I have been working, doing my job. I have traveled the world with my laptop and Armani suit. I need a woman I suddenly realize, but not a fourteen-year-old child with a vague resemblance of the first girl I made love to.