James Jenkins: The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

It had been then that Roby, the third trucker, had broken in. It had been then that he’d heard the word which now, traced in yellow lettering on the door of a stinking lavatory, was once more before his eyes: Uironda .

The man had begun to speak in a submissive, almost infantile voice. The spirals of smoke from his cigar softened his features, which were wrinkled with grooves, his fingers gnarled and twisted from gripping the wheel and maneuvering the gearshift.

‘Yours is a curious story, Vittorio,’ he had begun, squashing the butt of his cigar under his boot, ‘but I have a better one. Well, really I don’t know if it’s better, but it’s certainly more interesting than some lame highway ghost.’

Despite his feeble voice and melancholy eyes, the old man had given Ermes a feeling of wisdom and authority.

‘Have you ever heard of Uironda?’

They hadn’t done more than shake their heads and fetch a second beer from the cooler, disregarding the soundtrack of horns and engines beyond the glass and cement outline of the truck stop.

Roby had scratched his bristly chin and had opened his mouth a couple of times silently as if he couldn’t manage to find the words. ‘Uironda is a highway exit that doesn’t exist but is there, which takes you to a town or a city that doesn’t exist but is there. Or rather, it exists, but not on this plane. As if it were an overlap, an interference. Uironda is a mirage. It’s a story that goes around among those older than us, a kind of urban legend. A Romanian trucker told it to me when I was first starting out.’

‘I don’t understand,’ the tattooed guy had interrupted him. ‘Never heard of this Vironda.’

‘ Uironda .’

‘Tell us more.’

‘Well, the Romanian who told me about it wasn’t very clear. According to this guy, Uironda is a place that you can reach or glimpse when you’ve spent too many years on the road and the continuous headlights on your retina, the repe­tition of certain structures and habits, has set your mind in the right way. When you’ve been driving for hours and the view is always the same, and the guardrails, the architecture, the road, are repeated in an identical way for kilometers, sometimes you seem to be hypnotized, have you ever noticed? And that’s the moment when it’s like you’re in a trance, when you’re driving while your mind is somewhere else, and when you’re most liable to doze off. And it’s in that moment when the highway exit leading to Uironda can be seen: when you’re at the limit, desperate and confused, when you’re dead inside and the road has taken away too many hours of your sleep and too many moments of your life. You can see the exit for Uironda and in some way . . . take it. That’s how it was explained to me.’

‘What the hell kind of story is that?’

‘It’s a sort of word-­of-­mouth myth that goes around in our narrow circle. I’ve been sitting on my ass on that truck seat for forty years, and I’ve happened to hear that name other times too. Whispered in a truck stop bathroom, shouted by a drunken whore in a parking lot, crackled from a truck’s CB radio . . .’

Ermes, who had listened to the story with extreme attention, had leaned forward. In those days during his breaks he usually bought pulp sci-­fi novels and read them before sleep, and Roby’s story had captivated him.

‘So this Uironda would be a kind of parallel reality, if I understand right? Another dimension, like you read about sometimes in science fiction books?’

‘Yes, boy, something like that. Have you ever thought about the life we truckers lead? We live as though in an alternate reality with regard to common people. The highway, the truck stops, the parking lots, are all non-­places, places people pass through and immediately forget . . . We’re the ones who know them best, who live them the most. Uironda is supposed to be a kind of alternative reality in an alternate dimension. Something like that, boy, indeed.’

‘And what’s supposed to be in this Uironda, if I might ask, Professor Roby? And why that name?’ Vittorio had mocked, concluding the question with a vulgar sneer.

‘The man who told me the story was very vague on that point too . . . First he said that the dead are in Uironda. Those who died on the road. Who go there to spend eternity, in a kingdom of metal and cement. Then he muttered that in Uironda there’s something that none of us would ever want to see but which at the same time we would want to contemplate with all our might. The most atrocious and unspeakable desires, the deepest fears, the darkest hopes, the atrocities one has committed. As for the name . . . well, I couldn’t tell you. Uironda . It’s a name like any other, for a place like no other.’

‘And someone . . . in short, does someone claim to have been there? Have you ever met someone who says he’s been to . . . Uironda?’ Lenzi had asked, before draining the last of his beer.

‘Uironda doesn’t exist, boy. It’s a highway legend,’ the man had cut him off, spitting a yellowish gob on the asphalt. ‘And if someone claims to have been there, well . . . they’re either full of shit or out of their mind.’

Ermes remained seated on the toilet a few moments longer, staring at the yellow writing without seeing it, the memory of the first time he had heard of Uironda unraveling in his mind, then he wiped himself, got to his feet and took the cell phone from his jeans pocket.

He snapped a couple of photos of the poetry, read the words aloud,

There is no escape from the road

of black whirlpools that swallow tar,

take the junction, get to Uironda,

become part of this realm!

uncertain why he was doing it.

Maybe to have proof.

To remember.

And maybe to spread the absurd legend of Uironda, recounting it to some fellow driver to kill boredom.

After washing his hands and rinsing his face, he headed once more to the café area. He ordered a second coffee. His eyelids felt heavy, as if they were encrusted with dirt. The chubby barista had disappeared, replaced by an elderly dwarf with a bristly moustache doing its best to hide an enormous harelip. The convenience store chain cap lowered on his head conferred a ridiculous, clownish touch.

Ermes observed him captivated while he made the coffee, his insect-­like movements, the skin of his neck a desert of wrinkles and ugly spots. His age could be anywhere between seventy and a full century.

‘Here’s your espresso, Signor Lenzi,’ he croaked, pushing the little cup towards him with a smirk. He had too many teeth. Too many tiny teeth.

‘Thanks a lot,’ responded Ermes, reaching for a packet of sugar. The movement stopped in mid-­air. A tightening in his lower abdomen. ‘How do you know my name?’

The old man looked at him with a perplexed air, bending his dinosaur neck a little to the side. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ His harelip was trembling.

‘My surname. You said: “Here’s your espresso, Signor Lenzi”. How did you know it?’

‘You’re mistaken,’ squeaked the old man. Now his face was deadly serious, molded wax over pale skin. ‘You must have heard wrong.’

Ermes tried to think of something to say, but all he did was swallow air like a fish out of water. All of a sudden he felt very tired, uneasy, scared . When he managed to speak, the words didn’t coincide with his thoughts.

‘Say, have you ever heard the story of Uironda?’

What the hell are you saying? his mind shouted. He looked around as if to make sure that no one had heard him. Only then did he realize the truck stop was empty. Not a soul. The stagnant smell of burnt toast lingered in the air, mixed with the stench of exhaust fumes.