Conversation · Call Me Mañana

"Yeah, the two-and-a-half-metre tall Semenese supremacist there." He points to the bridge above the gates. "Walk right past him..."

If it's all so simple -- why don't the strikebreakers just go up the stairs?

"Stop being a wimp, you need to help me out right now!"

"No need to get aggressive." He takes a swig from his flask. "I'm really not the one to ask."

"Why not? I need to get through the gate to the harbour. You need to let me in!"

"Why are you striking?"

"We're negotiating our share."

"Your... share?"

"Aye." He seems pleased with himself.

"Wait, so not wages or pensions or..."

"This stuff -- they already covered."

"However much you feed the wolf..."

"... the wolf always wants more. I like wolves."

"Oh, okay. Economy stuff. I get it. I want to talk about something else."

"How large a share would you like?"

"All of it. However, right now we want all the harbour workers to be on the company's board, so they could take part in the decision-making process."

This seditious talk sounds like communism. (Just so we're on the same page: Communism is basically wanting to kill the rich people or deporting them to a labour camp in southeast Graad. But don't say that out loud if you're a communist.)

"You seem to have the wrong idea here. The board of a major company is not council democracy."

"Quite a shitty board, I must say. Means someone's gotta reform it. I, for one, want to face the fat ones', when decisions are made."

"The fat ones, always leeching on the honest man."

"You see, the owners already benefit greatly from the harbour. No one can doubt that. They get so much."

"Right."

"Aye, now here's the thing... at any time, some other capitalist could take the place over with the blink of an eye, without even owning any of the buildings."

He takes a swig from his flask. "So why should they be the only ones with the power to take stuff over?"

"It's still kinda confusing to me, but whatever."

"Hey, if the rich folk screw over poor folk, with little concern for their merits or futures, why shouldn't poor folk screw over rich folk from time to time?"

"I guess that makes sense."

"But don't you think the owners have a right to the harbour? Didn't they organize it into existence?"

"So you feel like you should also get something?"

"I don't think I understand."

"And you're the ones to reform, thus reaping your own benefits?"

"The bossman, Evrart, what can you tell me about him?"

"I think it's best you make up your own mind, now that you've met him." He shrugs. "In my eyes, he is a capable organizer and a decent businessman."

"What does bossing the Union entail anyway?"

"I guess you kinda get to be the village chief. He oversees the harbour, makes deals with the owners or other relevant parties. Watches out for his own."

"By that you mean corruption?"

"By Heavens, why would he not be corrupt? We live in a harsh and disordered world, see. And in this world..."

"... the old man is corrupt for our benefit and we know it. Appreciate it, even. He is, personally, not too lavish."

"You're right. He's very ascetic."

"Okay, he's reasonably lavish, sure. That's his prerogative. It's not like you want a saintly demeanour on a corrupt motherfucker. That would be a manipulative illusion."

"Besides, there are no non-corrupt systems in the world anyway. And moralism is the most corrupt of them all."

Not you, you would like to say... But then there's that weasel door.

This man has political theory -- and it has not failed him today.

"That desk seemed lavish to me."

"He is reasonably lavish, sure. That's his prerogative. It's not like you want a saintly demeanour on a corrupt motherfucker. That would be a manipulative illusion."

"You mean corruption?"

"I guess you're right, I should." (Conclude.)

"He's probably in his container at the harbour, so head right on in there." He re-adjusts the beret on his head.

"You seem to have spent a lot of time thinking about the political situation."

"Sure, I've had the necessary free time." He spreads his arms wide, using the reach to show how much time he has. "Fortunately, there's always time."

The look in his brown eyes conjures up an understanding: for him, having command of his time is the most important thing.

It all comes together now, the way he speaks about scabs, his general attitude. He's a follower of a 500-year-old Franconigerian boiadeiro code -- itself an appropriation of Vespertine cool...

That of a noble peasant or a travelling herdsman. True to yourself, independent in your actions, loyal to your friends.

Maybe I am a boiadeiro?

No.

The man sits on the railing, his hands reaching far and wide, yet it feels as if he could effortlessly go even wider, if need be. An endless torrent of time.

But...

No.

What if...

Unless...