The Necessary Fatality of an Hour E-Book

Simone Malacrida

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A sequence of scattered frames on this Planet, of stories at first glance disconnected and dragged along by the rush of contemporary society, turns into a fine balance of chance and necessity. What may seem like an ordinary day in our existence is reduced to twenty-four simultaneous stories contained within the span of a single hour. A turn of the clock that punctuates Time, the true master of today's Odyssey in which we are immersed, transcending history and mocking elementary logical principles.

Leseprobe

Simone Malacrida

The Necessary Fatality of an Hour

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

The Necessary Fatality of an Hour

MORNING

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

AFTERNOON

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

EVENING

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

NIGHT

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

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The Necessary Fatality of an Hour

SIMONE MALACRIDA

“ The Necessary Fatality of an Hour”

Simone Malacrida (1977)

Engineer and writer, has worked on research, finance, energy policy and industrial plants.

ANALYTICAL INDEX

––––––––

MORNING

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

––––––––

AFTERNOON

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

––––––––

EVENING

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

––––––––

NIGHT

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

The protagonists of the book are the result of the author's pure imagination and do not correspond to real individuals, just as their actions did not actually happen. Consequently, any reference to people or things is purely coincidental.

A sequence of scattered frames on this Planet, of stories at first glance disconnected and dragged along by the rush of contemporary society, turns into a fine balance of chance and necessity.

What may seem like an ordinary day in our existence is reduced to twenty-four simultaneous stories contained within the span of a single hour.

A turn of the clock that punctuates Time, the true master of today's Odyssey in which we are immersed, transcending history and mocking elementary logical principles.

"When every man has attained happiness,

time will be no more."

Fedor Dostoevsky

MORNING

MORNING

“We're just two lost souls

Swimming in a fish bowl

Year after year

Running over the same old ground

What have we found?

The same old fears”

Pink Floyd

I

I

––––––––

Guapiles (Costa Rica), 22-02-2022 at 6.00

––––––––

“It's boredom! The eye weighed down by an involuntary tear, dreams of gallows while smoking his pipe.

You know him, reader, this delicate monster - you, hypocritical reader - my fellow and brother!"

Charles Baudelaire

––––––––

The morning light was already intense and the ground, slightly undulating due to its soft surface constantly wet by the rains, was beginning to show its black appearance, contrasting with the superb green of the trees, leaves and grass.

It would have taken at least another hour to see the first rays of the sun lick every single corner, albeit with sinister and furtive lateral touches that would not have prevented the heat from making its way, initially supported by the exuding of humidity impregnated in the earth.

Bent over, drenched in sweat and out of breath, Ada was completing the load that would fill her husband's van.

"This is the last one".

A box of pineapples, the small and very thorny ones, highly sugary and valuable, would have allowed Jorge to start the vehicle, an American-made pick-up now worn beyond all imaginable limits, and to go to the nearby agricultural market.

In a short time, all the merchandise was sold wholesale placing it to the main buyers such as large chains of hotels in San José or small structures that existed in the nearby Tortoguero park.

Guapiles was located exactly halfway and was an excellent trading point for supplying the capital or the tourist areas of the Caribbean coast.

Sales were constant throughout most of the year, as were the harvests.

Ada had done her utmost to diversify crops, while around her there were only banana crops, mostly on large estates in the hands of large foreign multinationals.

The local economic repercussions were very poor from this exploitation, on average one employee every ten hectares and also poorly paid.

No one had gotten rich by going to work for such companies.

Her entrepreneurial and agricultural idea had been the opposite of the single crop vision.

No bananas, no coffee due to the lack of climate in the hills, not even cocoa had taken root, but other tropical fruits, such as mango, papaya, pineapple, carambola, sapote, passion fruit and avocado. Perhaps, in the future, if business went well, she would buy another piece of land to grow sugar cane, to extract the molasses.

It had taken some time to produce decent quantities, but there was an even more pernicious tendency to eradicate.

The fact that someone went against the multinationals, or at least didn't accept their way of setting up the business, the fact that she was young and, above all, a woman.

Jorge hadn't had anything to say.

He totally agreed with her, in everything.

He didn't feel diminished by the fact that it was Ada who had come up with the idea and put it into practice.

The few employees they had answered to her.

Everyone was waiting for his directives before moving.

Jorge had gotten used to the idea that Ada was in charge "in the house" and the first comments, purely male-dominated and patriarchal, from his friends and acquaintances were soon silent.

There is no better way to make a malevolence disappear than by habitually ignoring it; at some point, people get bored simply because they have other things to do in life.

Ada's appearance traced the typical traits of Central American physiognomy.

Olive complexion given by a mixture of ethnic groups of past centuries, of crossbreeding between European conquistadors and indigenous peoples, shiny and thick black hair, not very tall and marked facial features, with full lips, triangular face pointed towards the chin and black eyes like the land of its crops.

The physique was compact and massive, with short and powerful legs, prosperous breasts and arms used to the hardships of the fields.

She didn't ask her employees to do more than she did.

She was respected throughout the town and known in the surrounding area for precisely these reasons: the first to arrive at the workplace and the last to leave. She had earned everyone's respect and admiration with deeds and example.

Her only regret had been that she didn't have children yet.

The working activity had only recently started and a forced break for maternity leave and childcare would have meant an almost certain closure of the same.

“Maybe in a couple of years,” she concluded with Jorge.

Returning to the main building of the property, a sort of warehouse where the most important agricultural equipment was crammed and where offices for accounting, filing and receiving customers and suppliers had also been created, she sat down at the desk in the study.

It was the signal, daily and repetitive, agreed for the employees.

Now they knew they would have to stop by their desk to discuss the day's deliveries with Ada.

It was not a continuous job.

In the hot hours of the day it was impossible to intervene on the crops and only a few of them were able to perform office duties.

Usually, each operation on the plants was completed by ten in the morning, and then resumed, to a lesser extent, between five and eighteen.

The majority of the employees were employed in at least two jobs, as, with the pay agreed with Ada, they would not have been able to survive.

There was a sort of ritual in everyone's gestures.

Those who live in the countryside know that respect for rituals, in terms of actions and traditions, is essential for the natural continuation of activities.

The ritual serves everyone to mark the day and the seasons and it is what Nature imposes with the cycle of harvesting, sowing, the slow replacement of old and new crops.

“The dried leaves on the papayas must be removed and then their irrigation status must be checked.”

Ada's sentences were precise, without frills and very direct, but they were never imposing in the minds of the employees.

The way to do was the key.

You didn't have to command or even rise above them, but you had to listen to their voice in the first place.

Understand what they had seen in the field.

“Four eyes see better than two...”, she used to say.

Everyone was aware of a trivial truth.

It was better to work for Ada than to do it for the multinationals, which paid less per hour of work, exploited you by making you do everything and there was no time left for other activities.

In exchange for this situation, all the employees had done their utmost to give their best and give advice.

Thus Ada's products were of a higher quality and could be sold at higher prices.

Every day, at the Guapiles market, Jorge was the seller who picked out the best prices for the goods.

It was cold consolation as the coffers were always on the verge of breaking even.

A season with a few too many hitches would have been enough to jeopardize the whole company and the work done.

On closer inspection, there was no need to get rich even with this activity and furthermore the risks were all at their expense.

“But it's ours, it's the result of our ideas and our commitment. We don't have to answer to anyone”, such were Ada's strongest convictions.

Old Pedro, whom everyone nicknamed Pilar, represented the historical memory of the agriculture of the past, when the majority of the fields were not yet in the hands of the multinationals.

According to him, there were no major innovations to be copied from this subsistence economy, but there was the spirit to recover.

A spirit of community, now almost entirely lost.

“Everyone produced his own and then put everything into the consortium, which proceeded to sell and divide the profits. Everyone had something to eat, at least until there was an agreement between the government and the multinationals.

From that moment, the consortium was first put aside from an economic point of view, with prices so low that they didn't even pay the costs, then it was ousted and finally they put someone unsuitable, hired by the powerful, in charge of the same.

So everyone preferred to sell the land, attracted by the cash which, in short, ran out.

Few survived for a few years, managing to build different businesses. The majority moved to the capital or went to work for multinationals.”

Pedro was about ten years older than Ada's parents, who had moved elsewhere with the proceeds from the sale of the fields.

Ada had only spent a few periods in Guapiles with her family, usually no more than a few days during the usual patronal feast, but that was enough for her to get noticed by Jorge.

For years they had only glimpsed each other, then, towards the end of Ada's adolescence, the boy had come forward, talking to her, aided by a few glasses of beer.

From that moment on, the girl had made up her mind to move back to Guapiles, abandoning her family, to return, as her grandparents had done, to cultivate the land, but with innovative methods, through careful subdivision of the land in various products and focusing more on quality than quantity.

Until now, the gamble had paid off, not without sacrifices and doubts about the future.

Pedro had also proved to be an excellent sponsor.

He was known by everyone and the fact that he was employed by Ada gave a mark of absolute honesty and professionalism to the woman's business.

Someone in the city spoke of her in an admiring way and there were those who, especially among the young, did not hesitate to affirm that they wanted to imitate her.

Perhaps, later in time, if others had followed her example, the consortium could have been recreated, but for now these were mere assumptions and dreams to be cultivated rather than factual realities.

Ada wiped away the sweat.

They didn't have an air conditioning system in the building.

Besides being expensive, it would have been useless.

The doors to the outside were often wide open to the constant comings and goings of people and equipment.

In the hot hours of the day, then, there was hardly anyone there.

Both she and Jorge went home to rest.

Up early in the morning required a small refreshment after lunch, usually based on rice, beans, pico de gallo and fruit.

What could not be sold, due to ripening defects, was consumed at home or given to employees as a sort of benefit.

The top priority for their families wasn't so much money as food.

Ada was aware that money could also be squandered on unnecessary goods or, worse, thrown away in alcohol, while food was a guarantee of sustenance for the children.

Precisely for this reason, she had decided to pay only one paycheck per month and not proceed, as she usually did in those parts, with a weekly or biweekly pay.

The economic education of the community had to be done in small steps and without neglecting any possible form.

Only in this way would it have been possible to create a local economy far beyond subsistence and dependence on multinationals.

"Mrs. Ada, do you need me for the accounting?"

Conchita, already a mother of three and with a failed marriage behind her, was one of the most assiduous workers.

Having to look after the sustenance of her offspring alone, she never backed down and, although older than Ada, she was unable to give her the full face or remove the appellation Miss from her every sentence.

Ada scanned the desk for some clue, but found none.

She didn't know where Jorge had placed the last invoices.

“What are you busy today Conchita?”

The woman looked up and admitted candidly.

“Today I have the cleaning shift at the laundry. Once a week, then I would like to spend some time with my children.”

Ada included.

“Okay, it means that today I don't need you for the accounting. We'll do the math when you don't have other duties."

In this way, the woman would have maximized her income, placing the job at a lower hourly wage when there were no other commitments.

Conchita stood up and made a gesture of understanding.

She would only have to inspect the mango plantation and mark possible fruits to be harvested the next morning.

The degree of maturation did not escape his expert eye.

What might have seemed incomprehensible to a layman was natural for Conchita.

In a few cases, she used her touch to feel the texture of the fruit, but in most of them a glance was more than enough.

A mix of shape, size, color and smell formed the perfect mix for understanding the state of ripeness.

Upon her return, a simple folder placed on her desk would indicate the placement of the crop, while in the field a small yellow label would mark the exact fruit.

In this way, Jorge and Ada would have carried out a collection in a very short time the following day.

Some fruits, such as papayas and passion fruit, were instead picked the night before and placed in a cool place in the cellar of the building.

It was the main task of the attendants during the afternoon.

In less than fifteen minutes, the provisions would be delivered and the warehouse would be emptied, leaving Ada alone to await Jorge's return.

Usually, the husband was back by seven in the morning.

The sale had to be done in less than half an hour, while another half hour was needed for the journey to and from the market and the transshipment of the crates.

In practice, the necessary money would have been raised in an hour.

Back at the company, together with Ada, they would calculate the daily expenses and a part of the surplus would be kept in the cash register and the other part, the majority, paid into the current account as soon as the bank opened its branches. from which the invoices to suppliers and the crediting of salaries would then start.

It was a perfectly tested mechanism that deviated from this scheme only during the weekend, as the bank closed its doors on Saturdays and Sundays.

Agricultural work did not allow for any weekly stop as the plantations and crops require constant care, without interruption and without any sign of rest.

A minimal imperfection is enough to make a part of the harvest totally unusable and this would have had repercussions on the general accounts of the company.

Ada got up from her desk and went to the window of the building, from which she could have a complete view of the fields.

An unreal silence of a few people who were entering a tamed Nature was the representation of his oasis of peace.

In there, the problems of the world were not allowed to enter.

It was a small kingdom protected from the distortions of society.

Neither crimes, nor wars, nor social upheavals penetrated inside the boundary wall.

Further on, beyond the secondary road that guaranteed access, the slow swarm of people began.

After the market, it would have been the turn of the students and those who went to work.

Shortly before the closure of the company's morning activities, it was the turn of the tourists.

Not many in February to be honest, but the flow was pretty much uninterrupted.

The Tortoguero park attracted all kinds of presences: from expert naturalists to those in search of adventure or extreme contact with the teeming life of tropical forests and lagoons halfway between freshwater streams and the Caribbean sea.

Jorge had feared a possible exploitation of transit tourist resources, that is, organizing guided tours with tasting of their fruit.

It was certainly an interesting idea, but it had to be well prepared.

Investments were needed to equip a part of the building, to beautify it and to introduce some comforts that would have convinced the mass of tourists to stop by them.

Profit margins would have been higher as selling prices could have been at least double, if not triple, what was fetched at the market.

Moving away from the window, Ada straightened her dress, took her gloves and took the stairs.

It was time to take a tour of the fields to inspect the work.

Most of the time there was no need to say anything, but a check was always a good thing.

Only half an hour had passed since Jorge's departure, but the heat had increased significantly.

Humidity began to transpire from the ground and there was no benefit of the breezes present at high altitudes or of the currents that collided in those places, mixing the humidity of the two oceans.

From a purely climatic point of view, Costa Rica enjoyed a unique ecosystem, being able to count on the presence of the cordillera in one of the narrowest points of Central America.

Thanks to this alone, it was possible to grow almost any type of fruit without the need for artificial irrigation.

The well on the south side of the property was mostly used for a few days during the dry season, while in the rainy season it was almost unused.

On closer inspection, there were many possible improvements such as a cistern for collecting rainwater or the installation of solar panels for the production of electricity.

There was no shortage of ideas for expansion, but they would have been possible in small steps, without getting into debt and without any kind of external help.

Ada was aware that wanting to do everything right away was one of the best ways to go bankrupt and end up working for multinationals.

She wanted to avert such an occurrence in every possible way.

Usually, during her journey, a nod of understanding with the staff was enough for her, without looking away or even slowing down or hastening her pace.

A slow gait, cadenced and rhythmic, following the rhythm of Nature.

She glanced at the clock.

Jorge would be back shortly with sales feedback.

It was easy to recognize his arrival, given the typical noise of the pickup, whose engine, once roaring, was now mostly similar to those placed on tugboats.

The fact that her husband understood mechanics did a useful service.

They had avoided dozens of repairs to both the truck and the non-manual farm equipment.

Jorge didn't hold back when it came to getting his hands dirty, whether it was with grease or soil.

Her husband was five years older than her and now in the fateful year of his thirtieth birthday.

With a slender physique and without a trace of fat, his figure contrasted with Ada's solidity and stood out well above her stature.

He almost always wore a hat with a very wide visor and alternated at least a dozen.

It was the only quirk of a man who, in other respects, led a moderate life without exceeding in food and drink.

As a young man he had several chances of conquest, but his eyes had been enraptured by Ada and he had not wanted to let her escape.

He had preferred to reject other women and not listen to the advice of his friends.

Looking back, he could be said to be satisfied.

The wait had been rewarded and now he led a completely happy life, also envied by many, precisely because of the figure of his wife.

He missed not being a father yet, but he couldn't bear the idea of having to raise children without being able to guarantee them a decent life.

“If they have the ability and if they want, they will have to be able to study, up to university if they deem it useful and necessary.

They won't have to feel inferior due to economic hardships or they won't necessarily have to work from a young age. I will break my back to grant them those rights.”

He had been determined, almost more than Ada, in setting the next stages and postponing the birth of an heir.

He would have preferred a mixed couple, a boy and a girl, while Ada only doted on children. According to her, this world was still too difficult for women.

Both had a completely formal and detached relationship with their parents.

Those of Ada were too distant to be able to think of a continuous exchange, while Jorge remained tied only to his sister, the only one who hadn't gone to work for the multinationals and who had opened a hairdressing shop.

She was the best in the area, people came to her who traveled up to fifty kilometers to show off perfect hair and the latest fashion cut.

“Lady, come here.”

One of the employees had paid attention to Ada on a detail. One of the sapote plants appeared to have lost more leaves than expected.

The woman scrutinized what was being shown to her.

A special treatment would have been needed. He looked around and made up his mind on the exact location.

“Put it on the map and then my husband and I will take care of it.”

For the morning, it appeared to be the most urgent intervention to implement.

She resumed her journey and, on her way back, she heard the unmistakable noise.

In less than a minute, Jorge would have crossed the company gate aboard the pick-up.

He was about ten minutes earlier than usual.

"Good sign," Ada said to herself.

With a quick logical reasoning, this meant having sold everything in a short time and, usually, the immediate consequence had been to have placed the goods at excellent prices.

She quickened her pace to be able to confront Jorge as soon as possible.

The husband, after having parked in the open space in front of the main building, turned off the engine and got out of the pick-up, but not before placing his hat on his head.

Before unloading what was left on the rear of the vehicle, he would have been run over by Ada's questions.

He glimpsed the figure of his wife approaching at a brisk pace.

He didn't need to ask any questions as he already knew the topic of discussion.

When the woman was close enough to hear his voice clearly, he gave an account:

“Mangoes and papayas went away quickly and at very good prices.

Everything else average. We got a good ten per cent more than usual...”

Ada was satisfied and sketched a smile.

“They also asked me if we want to expand production to coconut palm or sugar cane.”

The woman was aware of the risk of a hurried step.

The coconut palm did not require great care, but it was necessary to find the right personnel to harvest the nuts at a height.

Furthermore, it would have taken years before being able to produce palm oil, which has lately been in great demand in the food and cosmetics industries.

Sugar cane involved a lower investment, but at the same time a lower yield.

It was a more calculated risk.

However, the idea of making her company a pole of attraction for tourists or to reconstitute the consortium had been in her mind for some time.

“Have you seen Miguel or the Torreira brothers?”

They were the main competitors in the production of artisanal fruit. None of them churned out such excellent quality products as Ada's, nor had they dedicated themselves to the diversification of crops.

These were small landowners, with a larger cultivated area than Ada's company, but who had focused on the quantity of product.

Large-scale distribution, not yet present in Guapiles, but massively concentrated in the capital, was almost the only customer for them, who were willing to accept constant reductions in sales prices.

It was a poor market that would, sooner or later, dry up competitors' coffers.

For this reason, Ada was interested in them.

If they had agreed in three companies, it would have been the first nucleus of the future consortium.

Both Ada and Jorge remembered well what their parents told them when all the farmers were united in the early 1980s.

The handed down spirit of those times and the nostalgia in remembering them.

"We will have to put everything back on its feet, listening to the words of that Frenchman who had foreseen everything."

So they said several times.

There had been, in the mid-eighties, when multinationals were starting to monopolize every hectare of the plain near Guapiles by imposing the monoculture of bananas, a French gentleman who had advised the farmers of the area.

“Do not sell and do not give in to blackmail. Take charge of the consortium yourself, without the need for external managers who do not serve your interests."

It was a challenge that was never played.

The farmer front was divided, there were those who had sold attracted by the money and those who did not feel able to manage the consortium.

So everything had gone up in smoke.

After nearly forty years, the generations had changed.

Now there were far fewer independent landowners, but more determined and better educated.

Torreira brothers would be able to manage the consortium and Ada would be able to control the accounting and finances.

They could have planned medium-term strategies, agreeing who and what should grow, how much production to churn out and which channels to contact.

Jorge replied in the affirmative.

“We will have to invite them here to us...”

Ada was aware that only her husband could take the formal step. An invitation between men to talk business.

Once inside the building and seated at the desk, she herself would have presented the idea of the consortium.

She was convinced that if they teamed up as three, others would soon follow just out of a spirit of emulation and if business then took off, it would be an unstoppable avalanche.

About a hundred producers in the area, with lands scattered everywhere and which would have countered the advance of the multinationals by defending the local territory, giving a better qualified and better paid employment prospect.

This was Ada's vision.

The exchange of skills would have benefited everyone and there would have been no downward competition between them.

At that point, even hotel chains and large retailers would have had to come to terms without imposing degressive prices.

Jorge rubbed his hat.

He was aware of his wife's reasons and shared her ideas, but he was worried about the outcome.

He knew that putting several men at the same table, each with their own vision, was a daunting task and that hardly anyone would accept a woman's ideas without arguing.

Only Ada was so deeply involved in company management, at least within a radius of fifty kilometers from Guapiles there were no other women in such top positions in any of the small and medium-sized agricultural enterprises.

The husband made a gesture of understanding.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow. Miguel is easier to convince.”

Ada took his hand.

Torreira brothers find out that he has accepted, they will too. They don't want to stay out of the loop."

Jorge had immediately fallen in love with Ada's open and intrepid spirit.

It was something that had transported him to other worlds, where he hadn't thought of arriving on his own.

He had noticed it immediately, as soon as he had spoken to her.

She was young, but she knew how to sustain a discussion and make it stimulating, hinting at a difficult conquest.

In fact, it hadn't been easy to get her closeness and intimacy.

For the first few months, Jorge had found himself in a state of constant tension, a sort of constant falling in love.

Others would have given up, but man was driven by a higher will.

All efforts to do so had paid off with interest.

Once the first barrier was overcome, Ada proved to be loving and affectionate, attached to their relationship and very passionate.

It was the woman who had led her then boyfriend to discover her body.

Jorge felt somehow in awe of him, as if he were defenseless and without any protective shield.

With a quick nod, they headed to the back of the pickup to remove what was left and put it away in the warehouse.

Later, they would take the proceeds to the office to carry out the usual division.

From that moment, all attention would have already been turned to the following day, to how to maximize the collection and to make an a priori estimate of the possible sales.

“This is the last package.”

Jorge made his way to the part of the warehouse where cool drinks were available.

The humidity and heat made it entirely necessary to stay hydrated on a regular basis.

He pulled out a bottle of still water and took a couple of sips.

He had paused several times to reflect on how the company and his life would have changed if Ada's ideas had gone through.

They would have had more time, especially his wife, to raise children.

Their house, not far from there, located on the outskirts of Guapiles, was a masonry house spread over a fairly large single floor.

There was a living room and a kitchen with its bathroom, while, separated by a corridor, the sleeping area consisted of two bedrooms, one of which was still unfurnished waiting for the future generation.

They had managed to buy it with almost no debt and hadn't spent much money on it to beautify it internally.

It was functional, comfortable, and suited their current needs.

A small paved sidewalk ran around the house which separated it from the garden, which was also of modest size. A shed for the car and various tools had been added on the right side.

Ada preferred to get around by bicycle for small errands to and from Guapiles.

The family finances were absorbed by the farm and there would have been no need to purchase an additional means of motorized transport.

They weren't doing badly, as they didn't lack a secure home or property or food or work, but it couldn't be said that they were sailing in gold.

They had before them a hard working life and a prospect of well-being that would, perhaps, involve only the generation of their children.

Of this, Jorge did not regret it.

He had accepted the situation and was moved by a greater will than his fellow citizens and peers.

In his opinion, it was better to give up something immediately so that the happiness of future generations could be increased.

“Otherwise the multinationals will always get the better of us”, so he usually repeated during get-togethers with acquaintances.

The majority of people limited themselves to complaining, without proposing solutions, while Jorge and Ada had carved out their own personal response.

They felt proud to be doing something important for the community.

Ada couldn't bear the idea of a country and a population totally subservient to foreigners, especially Americans.

It was true that, thanks to them, Costa Rica enjoyed greater prosperity than neighboring states, but somehow one always had to tip one's hat to that benevolence, vaguely paternalistic and colonialist.

"And instead we won't have to say thank you to anyone", added the woman when her husband expressed his opinions.

Years ago, they would have been considered a bit crazy, while now there was a common feeling that pushed for small businesses similar to theirs.

Even politicians had come to cheer and support such initiatives.

Jorge headed upstairs.

He had given the proceeds to Ada, who was already dividing it into two parts.

His long, low-pitched strides were an easily recognizable sound to his wife.

Arrived at his destination, he saw the two piles of banknotes.

He took the first one, positioned further to the right.

In a couple of hours he should have deposited it in the bank, whose branches were not far from the market from which he had just returned.

The second, however, was about to be placed inside the safe, located in the locked office and hidden by one of the numerous paintings depicting the forest.

There were no additional expenses for that day.

“Tomorrow you will have to fill up with diesel for the equipment.”

It was a particularly long operation, as it required loading, filling and then emptying a couple of tanks, going to the nearby distributor of refined products and then filling, by hand, the internal tanks of each single machine.

This task had to be done about once a week.

Employees had to be in the best possible working conditions: if they needed some mechanized tools, they shouldn't have found them without diesel.

In that case, they would have postponed the operation they had set themselves and which they deemed necessary, going to worsen the quality of the harvest.

It was these little precautions that made Ada's company completely special.

An ongoing commitment by the owners to create the optimal circumstances in which to carry out their duties.

Because of this, Ada was so highly regarded and so respected.

Jorge nodded to his wife.

Though it had only been a little more than five minutes since he'd walked through the company gate, they'd been carrying on a remarkable amount of activity.

Programming and routine allowed for these nearly perfect mechanisms.

He took a look outside.

The light was now dazzling, as if it were already noon.

The plain of Guapiles, opening towards the east and towards the Atlantic Ocean, ensured a diffused luminosity in the early hours of the morning, while in the evening the sun set early, behind the profile of the cordillera, in the west.

Soon, the ground would dry out of the night's dew, condensed on the layer of grass or seeped into the plowed sods.

He scanned the horizon.

The sky was clear, without a cloud. There would be no rain, at least in the morning.

He knew very well the variability of the climate in the area.

In one day, one could witness up to a dozen downpours of rain, interspersed with glimpses of serene.

The rain represented a completely familiar element for the inhabitants of the place who, almost normally, did not even use an umbrella.

We took shelter under some makeshift shelter, waiting for the downpour to end.

It was also one of the three elements, together with the sun and the heat, which ensured a constant harvest throughout the year.

There was almost no alternation of the seasons.

Three different productions could be made during the twelve months, some of which were staggered from plant to plant.

“It won't rain this morning,” he concluded, turning to his wife.

Their employees were now lost among the various assigned parts of the plot.

It would have been difficult to find them even for an expert eye like his.

Magically, within a couple of hours, they would reappear to bring back to Ada the conclusions of that morning.

It would be their last activity, waiting for some evening surgery.

Ada looked at him condescendingly.

In her eyes, Jorge was the most fascinating man she had ever met, better than many movie actors.

She had never been interested in men, at least not until she caught the look of the man who would become her husband.

It was only in that instant that she noticed a certain attraction towards him.

Previously, she considered the boys either too stupid or too dedicated to their almost camaraderie activities.

The reality was that she didn't want to end up like her mother or her grandmother, to follow a man they weren't in love with anymore, but didn't have the courage or strength to let go.

She had told herself that she would not fall for easy conquests or flattery and so she had.

She had to be certain that Jorge was the right man, with a character suited to hers and a similar way of seeing the world.

Only then would she let go of her inhibition, taking away all the brakes.

Her behavior had been a slow falling in love, exactly the opposite of the classic love at first sight.

As she got to know the boy better, the more she was impressed and fascinated.

Now she saw it the same way as years before.

Time had not scratched the magic of love.

She was not going to have an easy win over their relationship.

Ada closed the safe after having placed the day's surplus proceeds inside.

She replaced the painting and locked the office door, placing it in an anonymous drawer of his desk.

She saw the bottle of water started by Jorge and her mouth felt dry.

She quenched her thirst with two large gulps, almost finishing the contents of the same.

Everything was ready for the classic ride in the fields with her husband.

A daily repetition of every single gesture, almost to imitate the continuous gait of Nature, always the same, moment after moment.

Just as the dawns preceded the sunsets and the night followed the day, both had given themselves a specular roadmap, tracing the breath of the Great Mother Earth.

This was how the best fruits were obtained from it.

Not forcing her, not raping her with unnatural techniques, but remaining compliant and gently accompanying her towards a specific end.

Only by respecting Nature, the fruits would have been harvested continuously and there would have been no environmental and economic catastrophes.

Was it possible that it was so difficult for others to understand?

For multinationals and economists?

Still, they were highly educated people, you couldn't say they were stupid, but they acted like one, destroying and looting something not easily rebuildable.

It was enough to break the delicate balance between plants, animals, flowers and grass or between water and soil to touch the disaster.

The two spouses stared at each other.

The time had come.

They left the office and went down the stairs.

The heat increased step by step, as if it wanted to welcome them into the maternal womb of the Earth.

The brightness was getting blinding.

There were no shaded areas, except beyond the road, under the plants of the first wood that already leads to the forest, where animals lived that had stopped emitting their morning calls.

Jorge waited for his wife.

His long legs gave him an advantage in walking.

But he wanted to go out with her.

That was how they did it every day.

Hand in hand, they crossed the threshold of the building to go outside and make a tour of inspection of the crops.

Employees would see them, as they do every day, and would be pleased and relaxed in understanding their family and work togetherness.

It was one of the certainties of their day.

Just before leaving, Ada drew her husband to her.

There were no prying eyes in there, no one would see them.

She wanted to kiss him, to still feel the sweet taste of mango mixed with the acidic finish of papaya on his lips.

She approached her husband, while in the distance the bell tower of Guapiles was about to strike the new hour.

“The west it was a clear day, a strong daylight, cold, glassy; if, on the other hand, he looked from the opposite side, he saw an equally decisive, enchanting lunar night, veiled in humid mists”.

Thomas Mann

II

II

Miami (USA), 22-02-2022 at 7.00

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“And the Poet, who is accustomed to storms and laughs at the archer, resembles the prince of clouds in everything: exiled to earth, amidst mockery, he cannot advance one step because of his giant wings. ”

Charles Baudelaire

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The clock radio came on gently, filling the room with sweet Caribbean tunes from a local station devoted primarily to the Hispanic community in and around Miami.

It was not uncommon to hear the conductors speak directly in Spanish and report news not so much from Florida and the United States, but from the various islands in the Gulf of Mexico and further south, up to the border with Venezuela.

It was a way of keeping in touch with the culture of origin, although by now almost everyone was the child of first or even second generation immigrants.

Few had clear memories, and their own, of what it was like to live in Cuba or the Dominican Republic.

The majority fed on the stories of their parents or grandparents and some holidays in their native places, but, despite this, there was a very strong sense of belonging: there was no Hispanic-American who hadn't tuned in, at least for once, on the frequencies of that broadcaster.

Gig rolled over in bed.

He didn't feel like getting up, he would have gladly continued to sleep as he still felt tired and his face matted from a not exactly peaceful sleep.

He had to find a valid reason to force his body into an unwanted action.

He made up his mind.

It was Tuesday.

It was his turn to take his son Michael to school.

His brain gave a pulse of adrenaline rush, trying to awaken every organ from the numbness still present.

He stood up abruptly, as if to make up for the minute he had lost with his indecision.

Apart from a few weekends and limited vacation time since his divorce from his wife about three years ago, he didn't have much time left to spend with Michael and had told himself to make the most of every single moment with him.

It was partly because of the custody of the minor, entrusted by the judge to the mother.

Sandra had another man and remarried soon after.

This guaranteed a more suitable family framework for the growth of a nine-year-old boy.

Gig on the other hand didn't have any other woman or, at least, not one with whom to live and build something.

Furthermore, his work was certainly not compatible with fixed timetables as referred to in the world of school for children.

The Miami Police Department's narcotics squad did not have an identically the same work routine every day and, therefore, could not routinely be present for a child's constant needs.

It happened to be late at night or even to spend entire nights away from home when there were stakeouts or raids.

Other times, one had to wake up so early that one's biorhythms were fatally disrupted for a couple of days.

It was anything but an ordinary job, suitable for raising a child.

In fact, he wasn't even suited to conciliation with a married life.

Almost all of the Gig colleagues had gone through similar situations of divorce and separation.

“You marry the Department,” it was often said and it was the pure truth.

To be a full-time narcotics squad operative cop, you have to be willing to accept the compromise of an irregular existence.

Sandra had been making such a good life for a while, in the hopes that Gig would take a more interest in paperwork or advance his career.

When she had ascertained that her husband had no intention of doing so, she had told herself that perhaps it was better to look elsewhere.

Gig would never be detached from the adrenaline drug of being operational and being able to act in the field.

There was, in his profession, something anarchic and rebellious.

He didn't have to answer to anyone in terms of schedule and routine and no day was like another.

It was a way of living a job totally without rules and building one's own network of channels and contacts.

Simply, his wife figure was not present and he took note of it in the easiest way possible, that is by building something with someone else.

Only at the time of parting did Gig realize how much he had not been present, mainly in his son's life.

Ironically, he became a better father after his divorce.

Now he didn't go wrong once when it came to having to do something for Michael.

Now he had all the time required to be with him.

It was as if a reaction mechanism had been set in motion: he had lost Sandra, but he didn't want to lose the baby.

Gig headed for the bathroom with lightning speed.

He had to take a shower and then shave.

He quickly undressed and turned on the shower faucet.

The jet of hot water enveloped him, giving off a quantity of steam that would soon fog up the mirror.

The music in the background had now been drowned out by the noise, close and accommodating, of the water which, descending from her body, was going to collect downwards.

It was a familiar and comforting sound.

It reminded Gig of the waves crashing on the beach, but not the mighty ones of the ocean, but the placid and calm lapping of Cuban bays that he had recently glimpsed.

Given his status as the son of Cuban exiles, he had not been allowed to return to the island for years.

Only recently, after the détente that had taken place, had it been possible to go, with his parents, first to Havana and then to Santiago de Cuba, their city of origin.

He had found in it a mixture of nostalgia and awareness of having chosen the difficult but better path.

Cuba had lagged behind in terms of opportunities.

There he could not have educated himself and pursued a similar career.

In America, hardly anyone discriminated against him for his origins.

He was born in Miami and was a US citizen, although his features clearly denoted the Hispanic nature of his blood.

For as long as he could remember, everyone called him Gig, a somewhat endearing diminutive of his real name, Guillermo Gago ; not even his parents had ever called him by his baptismal name. This was quite common among Hispanics, which is to nickname a certain person and then use that expression to refer to him for life.

In Florida, the percentage of those of Caribbean origin was the majority and, therefore, there was no discrimination of any kind.

The fact of being in the majority strengthened the stereotypes.

There were not many of Irish origin, as in Boston for example, and other European communities, such as Italian Americans and Greeks, were also present in smaller numbers.

If there was a part of the population that was not seen well, it was blacks.

Gig himself had little sympathy for them.

Generally, they were considered somewhat of a delinquent, although there were no statistics to support a higher incidence of crime among black people.

At the Department, they often encountered all-black gangs and were treated more harshly than other criminals.

He didn't feel racist, at least not in the current sense of the word.

It's just that he didn't want to hang out with them.

That's all.

He did not really consider them "brothers", as he did with almost all the other ethnic communities present.

He had never gone into a rage, calling them various epithets, although in his mind there were many of them.

Dealing with drug dealers of all kinds is not exactly the best for those who have a child and think that, in a few years, the same could meet some baby drug dealers.

There was the risk of becoming violent and implementing a sort of preventive justice.

Nobody would have complained about behavior that was a bit over the top, like an arm squeeze or a punch in the stomach.

Lately there were a lot of videos of policemen preying on blacks and his colleagues had been put on alert.

As far as Gig's behavior was concerned, he had never crossed the line, as many of his colleagues had previously done.

He knew that the Disciplinary was waiting for nothing else, a sector of the Police particularly hated by the same agents.

In order to make a career there, one had to find someone corrupt or violent within the Corps.

No one looked kindly on colleagues from the Disciplinary, indeed they were not even considered colleagues.

The fact that women, mainly young and good-looking, were placed in these roles had not softened everyone's natural distrust.

In reality, in Gig's beliefs, more than the blacks, the communists, or the reds as his parents still called them, could not be tolerated. Not that there were many in America, but the slightest sympathy for something that smacked of socialist was enough in his mind to unleash furious reactions in him.

In his opinion, these were traitors to the Fatherland and the people.

For what little he had voted, he had always spoken out in favor of the Republican Party as it seemed to him that it was more in line with the defense of the homeland and the right to protect oneself by carrying arms, and this was considered something intangible and untouchable to gig eyes.

Furthermore, according to the agent, the United States had to be brought back to the center of the world stage, as when they proudly opposed the Soviet enemy and the Cuban dictator, without worrying too much about the opinion of others and allies.

Several times, his parents had told him about the first, very difficult years of life in Florida.

"If it weren't for the association of refugees and exiles, in which a wealthy French man had actively participated with funds and personnel, we wouldn't have made it".

Thus the child had been educated, thanking someone he had never seen and who lived on another continent.

In any case, he much preferred the hard life in Miami to a regime without freedom and, according to him, without guarantees of prosperity for its inhabitants.

Gig got out of the shower and grabbed a towel.

He turned on the light above the mirror to make the condensation clear more quickly and ran his hand over his face to feel the texture of his beard.

It wasn't long, perhaps a little rough in some corners.

The music had started to be heard distinctly again, they were playing to the rhythm of salsa, to reawaken the day in joy.

Soon, tap water would cover the tune again.

Gig reflected in the mirror.

His face was tired, despite recent sleep.

At forty he was no longer able to bear certain nightly working rhythms; he was affected for several days.

How he was going to get from there to the boarding house was a mystery. Maybe he really needed some quiet office work.

Draft minutes, order paperwork.

He would be bored out of his mind.

“Perhaps it would be appropriate to accept Ted 's proposal ...”, had been a fixed thought for just over a month now.

Ted was a colleague of hers in the narcotics section, one with whom she never patrolled jointly as their respective habits had led to the creation of different working groups and also different areas of expertise.

The two of them were the more experienced, not so much because of their length of service as because they had always dealt with drug cases.

Others changed sections from time to time. There were those who moved from the homicide squad to narcotics or vice versa or those who, wanting a career, did not stay too long in a single section, preferring to get a general idea and then aspire to coordination or management positions.

Ted and Gig, on the other hand, were the narcotics tough guys, the ones who knew the names of neighborhood drug dealers by heart and who knew who to grill first in case of a tip-off or an important shipment arriving.

They also gained experience of the drug market over the past twenty years, knowing what was trending, what new substances were on the horizon, retail and wholesale prices, main countries of origin and distribution channels. .

The real problem was to intercept the drug before it was sold and reduced to small doses.

It would have been useless to stop the individual drug dealer and a similar result would have been achieved even by tracing back to those who supplied him.

The two delicate moments within the drug chain were the unloading, that is when the goods were introduced, illegally, on American soil, almost always in their pure state, as less volume had to be transported, and the cutting phase, where it was necessary have a sufficient amount of space and men to be able to mix the different substances.

Both Ted and Gig were aware that, apart from these two single events, each interception of narcotic substances was a poor piece, like an insipid will to claim to empty an ocean with a spoon and in this sense they tried to educate their less experienced colleagues or new recruits.

Lately, Ted was having excellent results in the seizure of drug shipments from small pleasure boats, having found a reliable information trail.

He had managed to discover, thanks to infiltrators, one of the most powerful Hispanic families in all of Florida.

Instead of arresting them all, creating a power vacuum that would soon be filled by other criminal gangs, he had made an agreement with the head of the family, who had handed over part of the gang into the hands of the narcotics squad.

He had thus got rid of some uncomfortable relatives or friends who would have ended up hindering him or questioning him.

In parallel, the same head of the family passed information to Ted on loads from other clans, mostly non-Hispanic.

In doing so, it nipped in the bud any type of unwanted competition and the main clan could manage the market in an oligopoly regime, without having to chase down prices or spend themselves in bloody, costly and useless internal feuds.

Faced with this, Ted had put aside any moral qualms.

He didn't care about having to come to terms with some criminals, if the end result was to obtain an all-time record of kidnappings, arrests and to see the amount of drugs on the streets decrease.

“We will never beat them, we will never eliminate the drug problem. You know it better than me. You've been convinced of this for years.

If you accept, we put together our areas of expertise. Otherwise, sooner or later someone will suspect that you are not doing your job well since the results are notably different and lean on my side”, so Ted had warned Gig during a night at the beginning of the year, in which, without any other presence, they had found themselves alone at a petrol station.

Gig had been listening without saying a word.

No one else knew of their meeting at the Department and no one would ever suspect anything.

Everyone was aware of their skill and the beneficial effects that a collaboration between them would bring.

From that moment on, Gig doubted and remained debated in his heart. On the one hand, he knew that his colleague was right, but on the other, he never wanted to make deals with certain people, even of Hispanic origin.

Besides, there was another torment in his brain and it was of an economic nature.

After the divorce, the judge ruled that he pay his wife a thousand dollars a month to support Michael.

This figure, together with his expenses, eroded his entire salary.

He knew that Ted gained something from such compromises. Not much, so as not to make the Regulations suspicious, but five hundred dollars a month, perhaps even a thousand, could be obtained.

It was a figure that would definitely come in handy for him.

As he shaved, his thoughts swung between these positions.

Making the fur he said he was in favor, then when he passed the blade against the grain he found every possible objection.

By now it was a fixed thought every time he started to shave.

It was the only time of day he could afford to think like that, for as soon as he set foot in the Department, he would be overwhelmed with all sorts of problems and news.

He knew Ted wouldn't wait forever; in another month at the latest he should have made his intentions known.

Accepting, for the first time, a compromise with the criminals, bringing home a few dollars and hitting many successful operations or going straight ahead with the same problems as always such as the chronic lack of money and the ever increasing difficulty in framing the various gangs dedicated to drug dealing?

The main problem was inherent in him.

The mind would have suggested the first option, the heart the second.

How to resolve such an inner conflict?

He had never been used to having to choose two paths that both seemed to have negative implications.

He came out of the bathroom, put on some clothes, a pair of jeans, a heavy T-shirt and a jacket and put on pointy boots that vaguely resembled those of cowboys.

He never wore a uniform, it wasn't required, and he would even get in the way of any searches or interrogations in the field.

The uniform was intended for official ceremonies and events.

For everyday work, it was enough to bring the badge and the service weapon, a recent FN509 semi-automatic gun.

He hadn't gotten used to this weapon yet, preferring the old Beretta M9.

It was more powerful and somewhat suited to his nature.

He had kept it, ransomed it from the Department, as a personal weapon.

Sooner or later, he would also have had to get a semi-automatic rifle, one of those suitable for hunting birds.

He could have tested it in the nearby swamps of the Everglades, taking advantage of some hunting trips organized by some of his colleagues.

The few times he had been there he had enjoyed himself and, sooner or later, he would have had to teach his son to shoot, as a good American family man and a good policeman should have done in line with constitutional principles.

He turned off the radio and went into the kitchen.

He felt his stomach was empty and hunger pangs were gripping him.

He hadn't had dinner the previous evening, he had allowed himself, while on patrol, only a quick cheeseburger, accompanied by a Coke Zero.

He opened the refrigerator.

There was half a bottle of milk and a good supply of orange juice.