I have never read Dante’s Inferno, the literary tale of the seven levels of Hell each worse than the other. But that’s a book that came to mind as I descended into the bowels of London Underground last week.
For starters, the angle of the escalator on its relentless fall into the opening arch beneath has a gravity all of its own. There is no turning back, no way up once on the downward steps.
You are committed to an eternity of the Circle Line as it pitches and jolts through the darkness — each station a purgatory where lost souls might finally ascend into the light after their tortuous journey.
There is a deceptive stillness on the white ceramic tiled walls opposite the platform — the subway pattern often replicated by inferior interior designers, a subtle psychological torment to remind condominium owners and urbane urban yuppies of the underground unfurling beneath their city buildings.
There are those who appear at ease with this new norm. I do not. I haven’t been on a tube train in months, long before the word coronavirus was ever uttered or pecked by my finders on a keyboard
The advent of the train, counted down on amber-lit digital signs, pushes a breeze ahead through the tube — like some monstrous dragon’s breath about to consume commuters and all in its sure and steely footsteps.
The doors jerk aside, luring prey as they mind the gaps where many might disappear forever into a sub-platform abyss. And inside, all are wearing masks. It is like we sit — all bandits, banished from the light and air of the streets above where the pandemic is real.
Here, on the tube, over masks of blue, scarves of football teams, coverings of cloth, we eye each other suspiciously: Have they had it or have it or are they a super spreader determined to do their worst as we shake, rattle and roll our way through the intestinal tubes of London.
In the best of times, good air is hard to come by on the circle, the District, the Northern, the Victoria. These are not the best of times, and every breath even through our woven shields seem to plague my thoughts, a paranoia of the pandemic.
As trains hurtle and hustle under the city above, the stations themselves remind of times when those in the Middle Ages were stricken by sickness and pestilence.
But the city has persevered and survived, rebuilt and thrived.
These cold cement platforms, these subway tiles, these tunnels and tubes, offered refuge and quiet, calm and a good nights’ sleep in times of bombing and blitz.
Londoners, in quilts and socks, pyjamas and blankets rested, not knowing if their homes would stand through the night. But there was safety in numbers then. Now, crowds are contagious, the risk multiplied.
I would gladly give up my seat not to an elderly or infirm person, but to a person who would dare sit in the vacant one beside mine.
There are those who appear at ease with this new norm. I do not. I haven’t been on a tube train in months, long before the word coronavirus was ever uttered or pecked by my finders on a keyboard.
I find my temperature rising — yes, it is warm on the underground in summer — but wonder if this is the first signs that I am developing the symptoms. Is there sweat on my brow?
Can others see that I might be a carrier? Might they turn on me and somehow report me to those who reports are made. I am miffed that another masked man has taken the seat opposite me.
My nose starts to itch. Try as I might, I cannot help … cannot stifle … cannot stop … “Achoo”. I sneeze the sneeze of the damned.
“Bless you,” the man opposite me mumbles through his mask.
Somehow, all is still right with the world.
