Conversation · Call Me Mañana

I could...

Maybe...

It doesn't sound that cool. Sounds antiquated, obsolete, passé. It's not disco.

"Got the picture. Let me ask you something else."

"Sure thing." A gust of wind blows through his hair.

What is this, news of the world? Talk about personal stuff. Get to know him.

This was great. You feel mentally reinvigorated.

"Are you a... communist?"

"No," he pauses to think for a moment. "I don't think I'm a communist. Seeing something of value and saying I want it all to myself is a much older and simpler notion. No science to it at all..."

"Even a weak child can think it. The only things holding someone back are I can't and I shouldn't."

"Right on, brother."

"Just the way the world works, boiadeiro."

"Cool. I don't have anything to add to that."

"A none-of-the-above kind of man? No harm in being that."

"You shouldn't take what's not yours."

"Then how can anything ever be 'mine'? But that's okay -- we don't have to agree. The prairie is wide enough for all of us."

"But the stuff you do aligns admirably well with the World Republic, why not call yourself a communist?"

"I have nothing against communists, they are honourable boiadeiros." He takes a swig from his flask. "And they have good analysis."

"But my own code serves me well. If my code starts failing -- a code can fail a man as well as a man can fail a code -- then I will have to submit to a new one. Which may well be communism."

He knows who he is. Firmly grounded -- has no need to reinforce or elaborate his political identity to himself or others.

"I am not sure I understand."

"See, I am primarily a lazy person." He looks very amused, as if thinking about some private joke or mystery.

No doubt he's communist enough to call himself such. But he won't.

I don't want to talk about these interesting things. It's not my business.

But certainly you have to form an opinion on everything and then tell it to everyone.

Why is that?

He likely believes that when someone has radical ideas, he should still rather present himself as a self-interested moderate, not as a missionary of a minority ideology.

Because?

It might come in handy to present ideas as a part of reality -- the only reality that exists -- instead of some abstract true form. On the other hand, he's not lying when performing this sleight of hand. He's a self-interested moderate.

"Basically, you're a self-interested moderate?"

"That's one way to call it, friend." He chuckles. "An unnecessarily complicated way."

"Laziness, self-interest, and negligence certainly fit the doctrine espoused here."

"Is it the dulcet tone of ultraliberalism I hear?"

"At least some people are willing to make the necessary sacrifices in order to reach higher, and to better the world."

That's a strange way to go about it.

"It sounds like you're a communist who thinks he isn't doing enough to call himself one."

"I guess I understand..."

The board is where the stockholders send their representatives. Often those representatives don't even represent the stockholders' interests. It's not actually like some council-based democracy.

"Shouldn't you be grateful then? It's a lot more than most people here have."

"Never grateful. Were we ever grateful, we'd have nothing. You fight for every piece."

"At least you got the benefits, that's something."

"It's not enough. Not enough to get ahead. More about keepin' us in our place."

"That weasel I visited. Turns out he has one hell of a colonial mug collection."

"Yeah..." He nods, rubbing his chin. "The janitor who gave me the key to his apartment said the guy's a bit of an asshole."

"Yes, his mug-collection certainly represented... antiquated social values."

"Like I said before, I don't know much about this weasel, but the bossman said he's a real piece of work." He touches his beret. "Thanks for helping out, friend."

"All I'm saying is he had lots of mugs."

"See how we're all busy concentrating on the racist mugs? That's what the ruling class wants."

"Yeah, it would be really bad if we got into an argument about it. Waste of a good noon. Or afternoon? Or night?" He looks around, oblivious suddenly. "Anyway, thanks for helping out, friend."

"A man with such a funny mug collection can't be that bad."

"I don't know about that. Anyway, like I said before, bossman said that weasel's not a friendly boia." He touches his beret. "So thanks for helping out."

"Wait... I don't even know your name. Who are you?"

"Call me Mañana. I'm just a humble harbour-worker... for the past six, seven years."

Mañana sounds like a mesque word, but he doesn't actually look much like a mesque.

Not a given name, for certain. It's a taken name -- the kind for artists, or criminals, or revolutionaries and the sort. An alias. A nom de guerre.

"Mañana? You don't look like a Mesque..."

"I'm not. I'm Vacholiero. Not all Mesques have the Mesque look, either, you know. Things in the real world are a bit more... fluid. Stuff ain't always what it appears to be."

"So, not a given name, I take it?"

"I'd say a real name is what most people call you." He realizes something.

"Now that we're getting so well acquainted -- what's your name?"