Ankhro
The taxi he drives, patched together with new parts, has made him forget the fatal accident that cut his life short. Even so, he keeps carrying faceless people to a barren destination.
His hands tremble on the steering wheel. The cold always wraps around the shadows that climb into the back seat.
When the last ride is over, he takes the taxi to the central garage. He hands the foreman a fistful of gold pennies and has a drink at the bar.
—You look down —says a graceless voice.
—Cheers.
And he drowns his loneliness in a daydream of the next shift, where the taxi waits for him in an endless night that never ends.
Tiluje
A woman runs beneath a dreadful storm that swells with rage above the sullen rooftops of the city. Lightning cuts through the darkness with a light that draws in ghosts.
In a phone booth she makes a call. Tears explode in her eyes. Her figure, dressed in immaculate white, runs along the frozen pavement until she finds the taxi.
Ankhro
He pulls up onto the sidewalk, and the car shudders. His heart races when he sees a woman in a wedding dress, in that frozen, taciturn alleyway like the rest of the dark city.
The woman hesitates. He lowers the window.
—Getting in? —He asks, in a frightened whisper.
Tiluje watches him sadly.
—Yes, yes.
Ankhro and Tiluje
She looks at the driver’s card.
—Your name is Ankhro? —Her question fogs up the windows like a deep mist.
—Yes, that’s my name.
—What have you done today? —She sketches a bitter smile.
—Excuse me?
In the rear-view mirror, Ankhro is unsettled by the woman’s face, as pale as her dress.
—I… —she stifles a sob—, you can see —and she lifts a fold of her gown with one of those gestures that try to hide the sharpest pain.
The ride continues in silence, until she leans toward the driver’s seat.
—What can you tell me about yourself? —The syllables of each word float in a sea of doubt.
Ankhro feels his heart pounding. After a few moments, his voice forces its way out:
—I’m just a cab driver… and you?
—I —she lowers her gaze, one hand on her chest—, I’m Tiluje, I live in Oregon, do you know it?
—A girl from the green meadows and crystal-clear streams of Oregon in this filthy city? —The phrase comes to him with surprising ease—. You’re a long way from home.
—My home —she repeats, hiding a sad little laugh behind her hand.
—What’s so funny? —His eyes flick nervously to the rear-view mirror.
—Nothing… it’s the first time you say it.
—The first time? No, I don’t understand… —His heart settles, his hands stop trembling on the wheel—. Do I know you?
Silence falls, where the purr of the engine is only mixed with the crunch of the wheels.
After that pause, they both laugh.
—Maybe —she answers.
Every time Ankhro looks at her, her eyes shine.
And they start chatting about theatre in the thirties and a place called Broadway. The conversation carries them to a house on the outskirts of Portland, to dreamcatchers and the crafts she makes.
An unfamiliar smile appears on Ankhro’s face. The lights flicker, Tiluje’s gaze shines with excitement, the engine lets out a loud growl, the taxi darkens for a second and, when Ankhro looks back, the seat is empty.
His frozen heart only drives his eyes to wander over the world outside.
—Hello? —He repeats several times.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead and smells burning as he flips up the stripped heater switch. He goes back down a narrow street that looks like an old black-and-white photograph, gets out of the cab and feels a disheartening wind cut through his coat.
Ankhro
In the garage he argues with the foreman. The other workers laugh, and he lets himself be carried along by other people’s arms draped around his shoulders in front of a bottle of whiskey.
—What happened? —He mutters to himself.
Tiluje
She makes another call, and her snow-white dress glows amid the darkness of the filthy metropolis. When she sees the taxi, she starts crying again.
Ankhro and Tiluje
The handle creaks as it turns.
—Getting in?
—Yes, sorry…
A feeling full of fear rises in Ankhro.
For the first time he has a conversation with a passenger, and in an ashen alleyway, when the two of them smile and tears well up in her eyes, everything goes dark for an instant and the back seat is empty.
Ankhro
—Who is she? —The words hammer at a bar lined with glasses and whiskey.
Night after night, the same question.
Ankhro and Tiluje
Riding in the old taxi, their smiles turn conspiratorial. A bolt of lightning crashes furiously onto a telephone pole. The car lifts at the rear with the impact; when it slams back down, the windows shatter and slice her face. Ankhro twists around and grabs her hand.
—Juliet! Are you all right? —His voice is tight with anxiety.
Her eyes fly open with wild emotion.
—You remember? You remember my name!
—It’s you… you’re Juliet…
They hold hands, and warmth floods their faces.
—Ankhro, he’s getting closer, he’s coming for me… I have to run… please, don’t drink the whiskey!
Ankhro
—What is happening? Who is Juliet?
A glass of whiskey in his hand. In the troubled reddle depths, a face grows more and more distant.
Ankhro and Juliet
In the solitude of a still-full glass, a taxi is reflected, leaving a puff of smoke behind and the shadow of the foreman stirring in the offices.
Juliet calls again and runs beneath the raging storm.
When Ankhro slams on the brakes beside her, she releases the squeal of the passenger door and climbs in.
—We were going to get married! he cries through tears.
—But you had an accident…
Their embrace shatters every mold of that cold eternity, in a barren reflection of a world left behind.
—Who am I?
—Don’t you understand? Now you are the Ferryman…
