Far from the stars, far from everything

In the darkness, I drive fast on old mountain roads. The forest around us fades behind rusty guardrails. The last towns are far behind us, just small lights like stars above our heads. Silence fills the night with its noise, mixed with the sound of a cicada that hasn’t noticed the evening passing. The air outside the window is cool and lightly brushes between my fingers.

Inside the car, there’s a smell of youth and music, mixed and fast. Some friends are talking while punk music blares from the old cassette radio. Someone pretends to be sleeping in the back seats, hidden behind a t-shirt of the Pistols hanging up. A friend laughs and smokes. We’ve been traveling since morning, and now we might be close to arriving.

We know where we’re going and what we’re looking for, but we don’t know exactly where it is. We were told to ask when we got close. No problem. We’re used to getting lost, to not arriving anywhere, to being late, to hearing that the festival was the week before.

The car is filled with punk music and the smell of pastries. We have several packs. Our shopping is always calculated based on how much money we have and how many days we need to survive. Money is tight; there are four of us, and we need to eat something for three or four days. We figured that two or three pastries each per day would be enough. We have nothing else except for the water we filled our bottles with at the station before leaving.

Every now and then, gentle curves to the right, then to the left. Occasionally, I doze off for a few seconds, but no one notices. They sing and shout without realizing it. I drive while watching them in the rearview mirror.

We need to get somewhere and hope someone can give us more precise information than what we have. As always, our information is limited. We simply rely on chance.

No one else around us, no noise outside the windows. The headlights stretch out over the road and fade into the asphalt. They briefly illuminate the forest, the trees, and branches reaching towards us.

A deer.

I won't stop. I glance for a moment. I see it half a meter off the side of the road among the trees. It watches us pass, still. I remember its eyes and the reflection of light illuminating it.

A deer.

I ask if they saw it, but I was the only one. They laugh. It’s true; I saw it. They laugh again. A deer. I could turn back to show them and prove that I’m not making anything up, but it might have run away. A deer staring at you. A deer, guys. Because deer stare at you. All deer do that. They laugh.

I drive. While thinking about the deer, I hear shouts from behind me; I see the Pistols t-shirt waving around. I prefer not to know what they are doing.

We arrive at a tavern in the middle of nowhere with some abandoned cars in front of a patch of grass. It’s an old house with pink or orange lamps hanging from electric wires.

We enter and ask if they know where the commune they told us about is located.

The commune.

A friend had lived with them for a few months. He had told us about people far from everything living in old farmhouses in the mountains. They had renovated them and cleaned up the fields around them. They farmed and had animals.

In autumn, they said they were going to collect chestnuts and needed help. They made flour from chestnuts; they needed it to make bread. They gathered them and then dried them out maybe? They had part of the farmhouse for storage, again maybe.

We didn’t know anything about chestnuts: revolution, guitar, punk music, trains, boredom, love, loneliness, police, mountains, squatted houses or chestnuts. There wasn’t much difference.

They yelled at us to go to work. They yelled at us to come outside. They asked if we found ourselves disgusting. They asked how we managed to live like this. They told us that we couldn’t sleep by the roadside; it was forbidden. Chestnuts were a new good idea for traveling. A good reason to be a little disgusting again.

A girl approaches; she has dreadlocks, blue eyes, silver earrings. She stares at me and says that if I wait for her to finish eating, she’ll take us there herself. For me, no problem at all! Without even asking if we want her company, she goes back to her table while we head outside.

We sit near the entrance on the ground and look at the night filled with smells of earth and fast cars zipping past us. We wait some more; a friend begins telling stories about summer. We all know what he’s talking about; we were all together. But staring into space we listen to him anyway. It’s not cold; it’s early autumn and feels nice outside. My hands are between my legs. I’m very tired. Another friend laughs. Stories make you laugh even when you know them well. You know every word and how it ends. You know when he won’t be able to speak anymore because he’ll burst out laughing. You know it but it still makes you laugh. It makes you laugh under those orange lamps. Even if you’re uncomfortable sitting on dirt outside that tavern with your back against a rough wall, while your head wants nothing more than sleep.

He tells about getting off the train at the station. When we got off we had to change trains and cross over tracks without going through underpasses. With the station master yelling. Go back! You can’t! You can’t do that! If you tell me I can’t cross, I'll cross twice! Pass me the tent! What tent? I don’t have a tent! You were supposed to bring it! I don’t have it! You should’ve taken it down from the train! Where’s the tent? I think it’s on the train. But there’s no train now. It left. The station master. The one who says you can’t cross tracks. The tent was left on board. What do we do? No problem; we’ll have someone bring it back with whoever comes next. Wait while I call. Yes but you guys stop crossing tracks. I’m not saying this to annoy you. I know you’re just kids. You’re all a bit rebellious. But you look like good kids. Hello? Yes? Okay. They’ll bring it back on the next train. In the meantime go sit down. Can we go out? Sure. I’ll call you when it arrives. Guys let’s go over to platform two. Let’s cross. No guys! I told you can’t!

The girl comes out of the bar and looks at us without saying anything. She walks towards her old light blue car. As she walks she asks me if I can follow her. I say no problem. I think it’s a challenge. I’ve never driven well but I don’t think it will be an issue. I doubt that car can go faster than mine. I doubt it will start on its first try.

We get in her car. We watch her as we wait for her to start moving. She calmly lights a cigarette, lowers her window and sticks out an arm. She signals me to go ahead.

She takes every curve launching herself into oncoming traffic without even looking. I wake up completely. I’m scared. To keep up with her I have to throw myself into oncoming traffic too. My friends laugh. I go as fast as I can. I swerve right then left. I brush against guardrails a couple of times. We ascend as the road narrows. A valley opens up on our left. It must be quite a drop if we fall. She takes a couple of hairpin turns and I follow behind her as fast as possible.

At one point a narrow muddy path appears on my right. She dives onto it without slowing down. I understand why she asked if I could keep up with her. I try not to lose sight of her.

I feel my car bouncing. I see tree branches around me. I hope deer are as far away as possible. I hope all the deer in this area have already been taken down by her. I see her up ahead. She swerves left. My friends laugh.

I remember her car lights. The smell of mud. The light blue. Her arm.

The darkness.