Marcos was an orderly man. He liked to structure his life around routines. It was the best way, he thought, to stay in control and avoid any undue emotion or excitement.

He’d never enjoyed his job as a taxi driver. There were too many unanswered questions, too many doors left ajar. He was always being forced to take decisions, whether he had a passenger or not. One morning he came to a realization: he wanted to drive a subway train. He found the security and certainty offered by rails appealing. 

He studied hard to pass the night class. His wife Marisa waited for him to come home before having dinner, even though the class went on until late. He didn’t love her; he couldn’t allow himself such strong feelings, but he did hold her in high esteem. She made sure that their two children didn’t bother him, kept the house tidy, made his meals and never questioned his rules or dictates, which could be rather draconian. One Sunday, for instance, they’d planned to go to the municipal rose gardens, but it was raining. Marcos insisted they go anyway. The family got soaked through. When they got home, Marcos informed them that the forecast in the Friday newspaper had said that it wouldn’t rain. 

Two weeks after Marcos had passed his class, he was summoned for practical training: four months as a guard and four as a motorman. After this probationary period his superiors would decide whether he got the job and which post he would be given. 

He didn’t much like being a guard: it involved too much interaction with the passengers, the trains remained in the station for variable periods and the carriages didn’t always stop in the same place.

At the end of his training period, Marcos was given the job of motorman. He didn’t greet the news with joy: it was his due. He’d made a significant effort to be top of his class and this was his reward. He liked the idea of being alone in his cabin, safe and secure with nothing ahead of him but solid, predictable rails. 

Sometimes the solitude of the warehouses where the trains were kept when not in use preyed on his mind. He realized that more units were stored at one end of the line, in Catedral, than the other, in Palermo. So there was potential for even greater solitude.

One afternoon, he was told that he’d be starting his shift at four in the morning rather than at five. 

He arrived at Catedral station, entered through the only door open at that hour, walked past the sleeping security guard and onto the platform. The entire D line was utterly deserted but the lights were on, which only accentuated the emptiness. He went to the office and found his assignment on the blackboard: “Marcos C., Unit 8 to Palermo”.

His legs shook. Generally he didn’t like to feel any emotion at all but right now he was feeling fear. He didn’t call out because he knew that the sound of his voice would scare him even more. He sat down, his head spinning. But he decided to do what he was told. If he kept himself busy, he’d keep the panic at bay. 

He walked down the rails until he got to Unit 8. He was so scared that he had to lean on the wall, in spite of the crust of accumulated filth. 

The unit was dark. Heart thumping, he unlocked the guard door and climbed in. He headed for the driver’s cabin and hurriedly turned on the lights throughout the train. With relief, he felt that he was getting the situation back under control. 

First, he checked the driver’s cabin then all six carriages from end to end, shining his torch under every seat. He told himself that the only thing he could reasonably be afraid of was someone having spent the night in a carriage, most likely a tramp seeking shelter. 

On his way back, he locked the door to the second carriage and checked the first one again. Then he locked the door to the driver’s cabin, sealing himself in. The sound of the train’s engines starting up calmed him down. It was seventeen minutes past four in the morning. The journey from Catedral to Palermo lasted twelve minutes. If he tried to go any faster, the emergency brakes would be automatically activated.

When he got to Palermo, he drove straight past the platform, got out in the tunnel and went out onto the street to find some breakfast and wait until five, when the rest of the staff would arrive. 

That night, he had trouble getting to sleep, thinking about the twelve minute journey that awaited him the next morning. Those minutes became his whole life. He drove listlessly for the rest of the day. It no longer bothered him when his children cried or his neighbours were noisy. 

Those early morning journeys were Marcos’ window. He felt empowered to do things that never would have occurred to him before. He varied the train’s speed, stopped in the middle of the tunnel, got down from the cabin and walked along the rails. He turned off the lights and sat in the seats in silence. He smoked for the first time in his life, listened to Verdi on a Walkman, and masturbated with a condom so as not to make a mess. He bought a book to teach himself Esperanto and practiced out loud. 

He was alone, underneath the city in a massive tunnel with all its attendant secret passages and hidey-holes. Stations lit in fluorescent light, empty ticket booths, unread books and yesterday’s newspapers. Mysterious noises.

He imagined what was going on in the city above him. In Catedral, he pictured the colonial era tunnels above the ones dug for the subway. The financial district would be completely silent. The courthouses in Tribunales would be deserted, the usually bustling hallways empty. Marcos stopped the train here several times, underneath the judicial buildings. Things weren’t just lifeless down where he was, it was the same up above him too.

Underneath the plush residential district of Barrio Norte, he thought about all the people who couldn’t get to sleep. Everyone feeling the bed next to them only to confirm that they were on their own. Everyone suffering from aches and pains. Everyone making love, smoking or reading their way through their insomnia. During that time, Marcos truly lived: it was a sensation he’d never felt before. He was communing with the city: now they were soul mates, a shared knowledge derived from his solitary tunnelling. 

The monthly newsletter contained an invitation to see the new manoeuver bay in Palermo. The following Friday, Gaincedo called him. “Now we can park all the trains we need at both ends. Report to work at five.” Marcos tried to protest that it was better for the trains to fire them up beforehand. The reply brooked no argument: “From Monday onwards, you shall report at Catedral at five along with the rest of the staff.”

Marcos went out onto the street. He knew that his one chance at living a full life had been derailed and he’d never get another one. He headed straight for Pacifico Station, a run of the mill, above ground line, walked to the front of the platform and waited for the train. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel deeply and fully and then, in a single, graceful movement, threw himself onto the tracks.   

Copyright David Mibashan. Translated from Spanish by Kit Maude.