The density of the landscape slowly melts into
the falling night. The hesitant rain, quietly coming and going, dots the windshield
with ephemeral drops. I drive through the falling night: I drive back home, my
eyes fixed on the red lights of the car in front of me. Postmodern life, I wonder,
so replete with suburban roads and constant traffic flows, so glassy and dimly
lit, so unpredictable: rhythms of work which are as hesitant as the autumn
rain, now coming, now going, as capricious as the changing season. Winter is
coming, by the way...
The car in front of me turns left and I unthinkingly
probe the night with the high-beam lights. There’s not much to see beyond the flickering
radius of the lampposts. Deserted sidewalks, precariously crammed between
apparently empty houses and the road; scattered stores, here and there
glimmering in the dark; and, overlooking the ensemble, heavy, silent and often
crumbling buildings of old textile factories loom beyond the reach of the lights.
The factories are everywhere: this is the heart of industrial Minho. Places
like Vila das Aves, Moreira de Cónegos, Vizela, Pevidém, places with
interesting names that may sometimes sound familiar on account of local
football teams. Places of low wages, widespread illiteracy and rampant
unemployment.
I stop somewhere among these places to pump fuel.
Rising prices, a few cars and a lorry. As I finish pumping a car queues up
behind mine. It takes rather long to pay. The lorry driver is telling a guy how
easy it is to get a job when one has a driving license for heavy weight
vehicles. In the meanwhile the cashier stares at the cash register,
apparently unable to deal with some technical problem. The lorry driver
completes his idea: “some money is needed to get all the proper licences, of
course; prepare to spend some 3000 euros in the process”. The guy, not older
than thirty, laughs off the idea: “3000 euros?” he gasps, mentally processing
such a huge amount, such an unthinkable fortune; “I would get married if I had 3000
euros; why would I need a job in the first place if I had such money?”. 3000
euros, a driving licence, a job: those things are apparently way beyond the
reach of the guy, their sheer inaccessibility making them not even worth the
effort of trying. The lorry driver allows himself a little smile, takes his
change and leaves.
As this edifying conversation takes place I
keep looking at the car behind mine. It didn’t move, even though all pumps had
long become available. Some ten minutes have gone by and there it is: why doesn’t
its owner simply choose another pump? As I pay I notice that the fuel station staff
is growing impatient with the guy. I learn that he must have been there for
quite a while: he’s waiting for a coffee; I mean, he’s trying to persuade the
staff into giving him a coffee: “I
would pay for it if I had 3000 euros”, he amusedly says.
I take my change, slightly disturbed by the passivity
of the customer who keeps on waiting behind my car. I’m about to make some gesture,
some shoulder shrugging, something that could express some empathy, some regret
for the time it took me to pay when I actually see the driver: a middle-aged
woman, her eyes blankly looking at some fixed point in the distance; there’s no
sign in her whatsoever indicating that she had moved at all during the nearly fifteen minutes it took me to pay; I give
up my shoulder shrugging: she simply didn’t see me. In her eyes nothing but
absolute nothingness.
I have seen this look on other people’s faces: the look of purposelessness. Time stretches no more than a day for
these people, the future lying somewhere in the distance, vanishing beyond the radius of the lampposts, darkened
by the crumbling building of some old textile factory. They are utterly
demoralized by having nothing to do, nothing to expect, nothing to hope for.
I drive through the night. I turn on the radio:
news of austerity darken the darkness even more. I change to another station and some
music fills the car. Driving music, how appropriate: this one, to be more
precise.
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