Conversation · Paledriver

"I guess that makes sense. Minding your own business."

"Of course it does -- what did you expect?"

"Wait -- you get high off driving a lorry?"

"Oh, it's so much more than high where I go, xerife. It's low -- I go to the bottom..." She closes her eyes in reverie.

Yeah, it's definitely some kick. Some terrible kick... the pale probably. This 'pale' sounds like it's the shit.

"What if the cargo is contraband?"

"Then it's contraband, lawman. What? Do you want to take an old woman in? Be my guest. Lock me away like Bad Hand Hermenegildo."

Bad Hand Hermenegildo's bad hand strangled three hundred people. What can I say -- some people just really like strangling people.

"I don't think I do know what you mean."

"Of course you don't."

Yeah, it's definitely some kick, some terrible kick in the dark. A sleep kick. Perhaps you can find out later...

"Alright. Are you the lady driver?"

"Did you just call me a lady, xerife?"

She clearly doesn't think she's a 'lady'. Don't repeat it.

"I was told of a woman driver. You're the only woman here."

"I'm not that either, xerife." Her smile dissipates. "I've gone too far from it all to remember what was between my legs. It doesn't work like that on the long haul."

"Girl child," you hear her say. "Girl child. Girl child..."

"Lawman," she greets you. "You caught me at an opportune moment. This awful weather keeps me awake. You can entertain me with your questions."

The woman is still hunched over the railing, her head swaying to the music, her eyes looking at nothing in particular.

The woman still has her eyes fixed on the photograph in her hands. In the background, the radio plays.

Snap your fingers in front of her face.

"If you want her attention you may need to be more forceful."

"Wait..." The lieutenant stops you before you can snap.

"She's just a distracted old woman. Better to leave her alone."

"But Measurehead said she knows the secret to turning back time."

The lieutenant considers the slumped form for a moment. He sighs.

"I don't understand why you're so set on what seems like a... personal side-task, but if you must, then let's get it over with..."

"Why?"

"Why? I just told you why."

"If you say so..." [Leave.]

"Where am I? Who are you?" Like a magician recalling a subject from hypnosis, you've jolted her back to reality.

The smile on her face has disappeared, replaced by the wary aspect of a cornered beast.

"Me? I am the law around here."

"Then I don't suppose you could tell me where we are, lawman?"

"Never mind," she sighs. "I remember now. I'm still stuck in that traffic jam. In the Fifties," she adds with contempt.

"When else would you be then?"

"Back in Mesque during the time of the Revolution." The smile returns to her face. "The sidewalks and cafes are filled with young people... I was on my way to see a new boiadeiro picture starring Gabriel Buenguerro."

"Until you came along, that is." The look she gives you is accusatory.

"Who's Gabriel Buenguerro?"

"This is Gabriel Buenguerro..." She shows you the photograph in the lavish amber frame.

Take a look.

A strikingly handsome man looks straight at you, his head crowned with a wide-brim hat. His hair is dark as an oil slick and his jaw is the most perfectly chiselled thing you've ever seen.

This man's got a hold over her. Even fifty years later, you can feel it...

"He was the biggest star of his day. Girls used to faint in the aisles of the cinema whenever he came on the screen, and school boys used to memorize all his lines..." She leans back, savouring the world she's conjured up.

In all likelihood, it's a world that's only ever existed in her mind.

"Right. I have some other questions for you. Police questions." (Proceed.)

"Why not, xerife? It's not like I have anything better to do in this hellhole." She settles back against the railing of her motor lorry. Behind her, mountains of memorabilia, photos, and knicknacks line the dashboard.

There's something off about this woman. Tell her to show you the soles of her boots. Maybe she was at the hanging... somehow?

"So I take it you were in Mesque when you were young?"

"Someone was..." She nods as though her meaning were perfectly clear.

"Someone? Are these not your memories?"

"They are someone's memories, boy." She gets gruff, suddenly. "What difference does it make if it's me or not?"

"They're beautiful. That is all that matters. Beautiful and true -- and they will win. They're coming for this, you know..." She looks around. "All of this."

All of what -- the world? The present?

She seems to derive some bitter pleasure from this strange thought. As if the past will one day wipe the present away, like a tidal wave approaching.

"Sorry to interrupt your dreaming, ma'am."

"I wasn't dreaming. I was there, lawman. It was early spring and 'The Man Behind The Black Sun' had just come out. The posters were twenty metres tall. Everything was golden..." Her eyes narrow and she appears to take your measure.

"While you people were tearing each other apart over your petty little Revolution, in Mesque it was a golden age."

The Republic of Mesque is a massive confederation on the isola of Mundi, the world's largest state by territory. It's a petrostate, a constitutional monarchy, and as of recently an outcast due to its tilt to the far right.

"Where else would you be then?"