Day: June 2, 2014

21

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O ataúde

Son as sete da mañá dun luns que ameaza con ser un dos oitenta e cinco días que chove na cidade de Alxeciras. Vai frío no centro loxístico do porto, aínda falta unha hora cando menos para que saia o sol. Unha cuadrilla de operarios afánase en cargar a tempo o último vagón dun tren de mercadorías que tardará case nove horas en chegar ao seu destino: Barcelona. Un guindastre axuda a dous mozos a colocar unha pequena pero pesada caixa de madeira. Non hai nada do que abraiarse ou do que sospeitar, todos os vultos son pesados e incómodos.

Os mozos agardan na porta do vagón para introducir o último elemento do cargamento dun convoi que mide case 400 metros. Chega a máquina amarela que transporta o último pallet. Os mozos míranse sorprendidos, son novos, é a primeira vez que se atopan con algo así no traballo: un ataúde. A primeira intención é o instinto da superstición, de negarse a tocar ese frete que a máquina xa situou á altura do vello chan do vagón. O berro seco e apresurado do operario da máquina transportadora obrígaos a moverse e empurrar o ataúde até unha esquina do vehículo de carga.

O convoi, que era tirado por unha locomotora da serie 319 de 1159 cabalos de vapor, partiu de Alxeciras con puntualidade. E cando levaba seis horas e media de viaxe o ataúde ábrese. Jaume Bastida sae do interior cunha pequena caixa de ferramentas e unha panca nas mans. Móvese buscando unha caixa moi concreta, unha caixa pequena, unha que leva un enorme adhesivo laranxa co texto “Fráxil”. Jaume emprega a panca con habelencia, procurando non desfacer en exceso a madeira da caixa. En canto saca a tampa lateral faise visible o seu contido: unha caixa forte.

Dez horas e media despois Francesc Bastida aparca un vello coche funerario no interior dun taller de Castelldefels. Está incómodo co traxe e a garabata, pero o que máis o amolan son os zapatos, que lle están a facer unha ferida nos calcañares dende que saíu do porto de Barcelona. Pecha por dentro a porta do taller, afrouxa o nó da garabata e deixa a chaqueta sobre uns pneumáticos vellos. Abre a porta traseira do coche e golpea o ataúde cos cotenos. Abre a tampa e aí está Jaume, enchoupado en suor, facéndose o morto coas mans cruzadas sobre o peito, coa lingua fóra, rodeado de billetes.

 

 

 

21

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The coffin

It is seven in the morning on a Monday, which looks like one of the eighty-five rainy days in the city of Algeciras. It is cold in the harbour’s distribution centre and there is at least one hour before sunrise. A crew of workers toils in time to load the last wagon of a goods train that will take nearly nine hours to reach its destination: Barcelona. A crane helps two guys to place a small but heavy wooden box. There is nothing to wonder, nothing to suspect. All packages are heavy and uncomfortable.

The young men are waiting at the door of the wagon to put the last item of the shipment, in a nearly 400-meter long wagon. The yellow machine that carries the last pallet arrives. The guys look at each other surprised, they are novice, this is the first time they meet with something like that: a coffin. The first reflex is the instinct of superstition, to refuse to touch that thing which the machine placed into the old wagon floor. The curt cry of the machine operator forced them to move and to push the coffin to a vehicle’s corner.

The convoy, pulled by a 319 locomotive of 1150 horsepower, departed from Algeciras on time. After six and a half hours, the coffin was opened. Jaume Bastida came out of the coffin with a small toolbox and a lever in his hands. He moved around looking for a very specific box, a small one with a huge orange sticker: “Fragile”. Jaume used the lever skilfully, taking care not to destroy the wooden box. When he pulled the side cover the content was visible: a safe.

Several hours later, Francesc Bastida parked an old hearse inside a garage in Castelldefels. He is uncomfortable with the suit and the tie, but the shoes are killing him since he left the harbour of Barcelona. He closed the door of the garage from the inside, loosened his tie and threw the jacket on some old pneumatics. He opened the back door of the hearse and knocks on the coffin. Francesc opened the lid and there he was, Jaume, drenched in sweat, playing dead with his hands crossed, with his tongue out, surrounded by banknotes.