It’s hard to calm the workers down in such cases — even while they’re pouring cement. I’ve tried to explain to them that the vibrations only affect granules up to a certain dimension. But as the frequency rises, the smaller particles start to oscillate, too. At 3,000 vibrations per minute the granules up to 15 millimeters start oscillating. At 6,000, up to 4 millimeters, at 12,000 up to 1 millimeter. Bored, they give me annoyed looks. They say they’ve understood, and it even seems they do. It’s not too difficult: the frequency has to be adjusted according to the composition of the concrete. In the end they forget, they hurry, they’re heedless.
In summer, the pouring days are the most beautiful. Summertime. . summertime. The sun burns, the bucket rocks on its cable like a small flying ship. Two buckets come; two buckets go. We protect the concrete, for the elevated temperature increases contraction and causes cracking, particularly as the material starts to harden. I have explained this to them so many times. They hurry, though. I saw one of them glaring at me furiously as I repeated for the third or fourth time that the closing of the capillaries stops the evaporation and limits the contraction — meaning, let’s follow the rules. This is what we have to do. Otherwise. . otherwise, how. . this is the rule, the relation, which is to say that this specifically sustains us, stimulates us — it’s very important.
At one point the site management proposed that I should move over to the technical department, in an office. I’d be better suited to the work there, or so they claimed. I’m meticulous and methodical, as they mentioned, particularly when a bucket suddenly dropped, raining down cement from the clear blue sky.
They have a terrific way of rocking in the sun, these buckets — a bunch of dizzy boats. They shine. Two buckets come, two go. If you don’t pay attention, they unload — once, the concrete fell right on top me, and it seemed like the bucket opened on its own, without a command.
They asked me if I wasn’t looking elsewhere, somehow. They insist I was daydreaming, that I was preoccupied. I’m convinced that the bucket opened unexpectedly. The hitch must have sprung on its own. Luckily, I had a helmet on my head. We all wear protective helmets. During summer some workers leave them off. It’s too hot. If the cement happens to splash you, your hair gets grimy and immediately dries with a film of cement dust. I look at one guy: it’s as if he no longer has hair, you see a safety helmet, no, not a safety helmet, a gray cap, a mass of dust, a strange wig. Perukes of powder, powdered perukes, petulant and petrified. Of course I didn’t agree to move into an office. I like to feel the cold, the sun, the snowfall, the rain; I like to wait for the concrete, to see how it flows, how it hardens, how it becomes petrified and powerful. It’s something real and alive. The pouring days are the ones we enjoy the most, after all. Our movements bring us together, they communicate: we’re whole. You feel the sun and wind and rain on your cheeks: the body responds to commands.
The cranes, the compressors, the vehicles, concrete mixers, and cement vibrators rumble on all the time. Sometimes I can hardly wait for lunch. Tired but joking, we go to eat, together.
In the mess hall there’s a great deal of noise — lots of noise. You can hear the machines and the vehicles: you have a hard time talking with anyone. We wait for the food. We’re famished. We don’t put on airs. From time to time the food is too greasy, or it has too much sauce. Once, I went looking for the boss to tell him. I didn’t find him. He’d gone to get food somewhere else. I spoke with the woman who did the cooking, since the food ultimately depends on her. She had her back turned — bent over a steaming kettle. I approached and asked if I could speak to her. She was tasting the food, and she paused with the big, metal spoon in her hand. She wiped her hand on the corner of her apron, which was dirtied with all kinds of spots and stains, and offered me her hand to shake. She had an unexpectedly small hand, a chubby pincushion of a hand with short, thick, sausage-like fingers ending in long, blackened nails, which curved like animals’ — a hand that disturbed me.
I didn’t touch it. I got flustered. The cook smiled at me. She had small teeth — white, very white — a round, greasy cheek. She asked me what I wanted. She had a surprising voice — it was slender and slight. She herself was fat. I didn’t know what else to say. I stammered that I was looking for whoever was in charge. She answered something, but I had already retreated back to the kitchen door.
I’d probably behaved strangely because she remembered me. After that, she made a habit of coming out of the kitchen. She’d come into the dining hall and observe for a while, and if she caught sight of me, she’d give me a smile. She had white teeth, very white. Sometimes, if there weren’t many people, that is, if I were late, she’d come to my table. Huge as she was, in her spectacular, thin, soothing voice she’d ask if I wouldn’t like to eat something speciaclass="underline" she’d fix it for me. She would bring it to the table, and I would keep watching those fat little hands with short fingers like sausages and long, twisted, black nails. I missed lunch several times for this reason. It was unpleasant for me. The others had noticed too: it nauseated me. Once I stood up and left while she was talking to me. She realized I was annoyed and backed off, but she still follows me with her eyes. She follows me secretly, from the kitchen door, without coming closer anymore — except rarely. Sometimes she still asks me how I’m doing, smiles with her little white teeth, and heads away.
We finish work late. The afternoons are short, particularly toward the end of autumn or in winter. In winter the working conditions are more difficult. We are very careful with the pouring. The “catching” and hardening of the cement happens slowly. The water in the concrete dilates and disorganizes its structure. The concrete needs to be checked carefully to make sure that it’s properly prepared. I go to the workstation to check if they have reduced the ratio of water, if they have selected the aggregates, if they are heating them correctly. Sometimes they heat the concrete. The temperature has to be measured every two hours. I’ve reminded them so many times. It’s not my business, but I know they rush. They overlook important details. They’re heedless, hurried, keen on immediate results. They force me to keep an eye on them.
Even in summer. Maybe particularly in summer, when they want to pour as quickly as possible and then go into town for a few hours before nightfall. They don’t care that on dry summer days the concrete’s surface needs to be sprinkled with water after it has been covered with matting or a layer of sand or sawdust. It isn’t a huge deal, but it needs to be done. If they rush to arrive in town before nightfall, they do a sloppy job.
The town isn’t far away, ten, maybe fifteen kilometers. It doesn’t tempt me. Still, they took me with them one day, almost by force. It was pleasant outside. The weather was beginning to warm up. It’s a small city, and having the worksite barrack nearby has made it more lively. A few streets, a small downtown. By the time we arrived, it had cooled off again. The wind blew. We walked in front of the stores, the movie theater. We were an odd group, the way we walked in worn-out, grayish uniforms — like dusty, tired prisoners — but the locals had gotten used to us.