I don’t know how, but I got separated from the others. I had remained behind. Maybe I had been distracted, looking at the houses and shop windows. They’d probably gone in somewhere to eat, to party. I headed up a street that seemed busy and headed toward the center.
The houses were solid. The people were returning from shopping with bags of bread and beer. I stopped on a street corner and leaned against the wall of a small building, a dairy store. I watched the passersby with their curiosity; perhaps they were asking themselves who I was and why they didn’t know me. What was I doing in their city, on their street, leaning against the door of that particular building?
I headed up a narrow, perpendicular street. The sun touched me suddenly, the sun was touching the houses, too. It was a faintly glowing street, under the arms of tall trees waving large, cool leaves. . short houses, each hidden under a red, orange, or green roof — severe, calm houses under a peaceful and unwavering sky.
The small street descended toward a park. There were several empty benches. I sat down. I stayed on the bench and looked at the children who were shoving each other. They were skipping rope, falling, tripping each other. The mothers were running around making peace. I went out of the park and took several steps, just a few. Near the park was a tall, massive building, a school. Probably the city’s high school. Just a few steps. . I hugged the concrete wall. A car sped past me, a car ready to run me down. It braked in front of the school. Another green car shot past. Two well-dressed young men got out — black suits, white shirts, neckties. They were laughing. Bouncing, they set off toward the school. The car sprang forward. Another stopped. Tall, supple girls — wearing either long heavy dresses or very short dresses — got out, too. You could see their young white knees, and their authentically curly, golden, or chestnut hair fluttered. I withdrew. It was a graduation celebration, I imagined. Kept moving, and went into a courtyard. The metallic gate slammed behind me.
I climbed a step. I had walked into a building with an upper floor. I started climbing up the steps. I stopped on the staircase. It was dark. I stayed like that. I didn’t know which way to go. My hand clutched the cold bannister. I heard voices. Someone would come downstairs. A door slammed somewhere above. A step could be heard descending. One step, yet another. I was waiting for a light to be switched on. Someone panted. The person was coming down with difficulty. It must have been someone sick, asthmatic, some unbearable. . some unacceptable wretch, some ugly, gaunt, and sweating swine who was moving step by step, waiting. Maybe that person felt my presence. Now that person was bleating, breathing disgustingly, some bad stench. I jumped aside, down two steps. I was in the courtyard, in the street. The gate’s iron latch closed behind me.
The street was clear, quiet. The weather had grown cooler: it was cold. In front of the school there wasn’t a. . there was no one. I wiped my brow with my hand. I walked up the street again. It was drizzling now. The raindrops fell along my footpath and enveloped my sleeves and shoulders. I arrived at the intersection, at the corner where the dairy stood. I stayed there. The rain had energized me. Couples walked past arm-in-arm. They had a festive air: the women had ridiculous hairdos, and the men strutted stiffly. They looked at me reproachfully. My outfit wasn’t exactly suitable. . not quite correct. The raindrops slid down my cheeks and my hands. Who knows? We must be prepared. When it rains the pouring of concrete becomes more difficult. The material has to be protected, covered. The rain shouldn’t liquefy the cement. Autumn and winter are coming quickly. We don’t have enough time. We’ll cover the concrete with mats, with sheets of tarp, as is proper. We must work in any weather. No one has any reason to shriek. . no, to shirk, to get shook up.
Hugged against the corner of the dairy, I watched the couples moving along the street, which headed down toward the park, toward the school, yes, toward the school. They were going, perhaps, to some celebration, yes, they were going to a banquet, to the graduation banquet. That must have been why all the taxis were rushing: the young graduates were celebrating their separation from the rigors of school. That’s how they do it nowadays: each one comes in a taxi. Motionless under the rain, in their way: they would have thought I was a lost tramp or something like that, with a dusty beard, disheveled hair, and a filthy uniform dabbed with cement. The couples kept passing, less frequently now, walking at the same brisk, uniform pace. They were late. They were in a hurry. I should have had armfuls of flowers to offer them, large bouquets of blue flowers to give to the girls and boys. They should’ve understood that my bizarre appearance had nothing defiant about it. I’m a person from here, from close by, one of them. My lazy gestures lacked any violence. Only the uniform had drawn in too much water, like a sponge, a cold bandage.
From somewhere nearby, a saxophone reared suddenly — a warm melody, perhaps coming from the school, a low, raspy woman’s voice: a harsh, hot song from a warm, metallic mouth. I remembered my comrades. They had finished their little pleasure long ago. I shouldn’t have wandered away from them. I shouldn’t withdraw, stray from them — I must return to them. Now in the fog and rain, our dormitories are like barges, somnolent, rocked by this hot, desperate melody. In this weather, sleep is deep — very deep. I must return as quickly as possible, I must find some vehicle, some van, some dump truck to get there fast. All things are reconciled there. I have a roof and bed and comrades, which is to say, my duties.
• • •
The roof and walls are damp with the breath of night. And roof and walls have woken up with me now that the cement mixers’ rumbling has just ceased. So often, the walls’ sleep and my own seem protected by the mixers’ noise. Night passes fast and peacefully among the sounds behind the walls. Once it’s quiet, the walls open their pores, suck in the damp, black air that slides along the windowpanes. It rarely happens that the cylinders’ rotation gets blocked. Then silence invades and forces me to feel the midnight.
My sleep is usually long and total.
The day’s rush from the one section to another, back and forth across improvised stairs, the running for concrete, welders, drivers, and materials is backbreaking, leg-breaking work. I don’t hear anything except precise orders, the gnashing of the crane, the horns, the crackle of welding, the splashing of concrete, and the delightful drunkenness of water. I drop, exhausted and happy: a section has been filled, tomorrow another. My fatigue has a clear and ascending name. It’s good this way. They were right to send me here to work outdoors. We communicate simply and precisely. We hurry. We have no time. Tomorrow we will raise the flat block of another morning. I love my team. Our solid movements, uniting us like brothers in the concrete colossus that rises under the inexplicable light without season. For an instant, the friction of our stiff bodies and hoarse voices seems warm and powerful. I float now for a short period of rest, in the dark of the wooden barrack, as though in a hot air balloon among the clouds. Soon the noise will begin again, and I’ll sleep. Until then I can imagine this happy flight over the earth that carries no obligation with it. In the dream of tomorrow, I, with my duties and my rights, will rotate again, uniformly, from a fixed, rigid pole. Moderately, as is proper, I’ll climb with uniform footsteps on the frigid, rotating, damp ray. Again there’ll be an agitation of ants under a somber, streaky sky: clouds, convoys of clouds, strange contours, cusps like clippers, chimes, or castles, camels, craters, crania, crocodiles, and — who knows? — maybe we’ll rendezvous, recover, hear from each other, finally, we’ll ignite, immolate, be born, insatiable, unchecked, maybe even tomorrow, with my brothers (semblables or siblings) still safe and satisfied. Look, the drumming of the building-material mixers have begun to boom again. . with the bongos of the tamerial bixers. . with the bongos and gonbos, and. . oh, let’s grab another hour of sleep till tomorrow, till morning.