a story from across the pond

A man of routine this gentleman was. A man whose 9 to 5 was meticulously planned and in his mind was a constant metronome. He thought he had lost his mind when he fled his original scene but soon realised that his uptight conduct was just something which went along with his grain and could not act otherwise. Very few times in his life he strayed from his routine but he was contacted from the abysmal internet by a company looking to interview him for his language services. Strage, he thought. Of all the institutes to hire, his was the youngest. There was plenty of competition and knew this could mean a lowball offer, or perhaps something worse. He ignored his paranoid gut and decided he needed to step up his game. He accepted and was promptly contacted with a time and day. Though as any introvert knows, there is a deep pit in one’s stomach which begs you to stay home in any new situation. And so it was for this man.

In one of the old buildings along that bustling Paseo Colon, in the downtown of Buenos Aires, a man stood restlessly by the front doors, itching and stepping with the occasional glance at his wristwatch. The doorway was quite narrow and indicated that the years had not been kind to the man. That his excess of fat around the belly would impede him from entering. They were high doors, reaching over two meters and were barred. The bars hid behind a lovely stained glass which in contrast to the bars, which delay the common thief, is another example of how times had changed in Argentina’s metropolis. 

Prior to making his way to this building, the gentleman bumped into a hurried young lady, spilling her coffee down his only white shirt and to make matters worse, he had only just started the working day. He apologized sincerely, mumbling his words. The woman had hard pressed lips and was clearly in a race against the clock. Her folios under her arm and her quick high-heeled step gave her an air of authority much seen in today's courtrooms. The suit was a tad much, thought the man. Her shoulders were too buff, he later reflected. The man had offered to buy her another, and would have done so with much urgency. But the muttered curses under her breath made it very clear that this should be the last time the two meet. The man was left with quiet guilt and with a fresh memory to wrestle with before he shut his eyes at night. The man promptly reassured himself as he made his way to that building that he would never have to see this woman again. Though it did flash through his mind that he might have seen her once before. He walks up this way a few times a week. Perhaps, he said quietly, that he should take the bus to his work. At least he should until he is certain that this frustrated lady has forgotten his clumsy and scared mug.

Though on this particular day, the man was in more of a huff than usual, more distraught than on other days and he knew exactly why. His regular routine had been adjusted and was to enter a new building for work. He kept reminding himself that all of these occurrences, the bumping into the lady, amongst some other less noteworthy ones that same morning, were all due to his inability to adjust to new routines and that should not be treated as omens. The man seemed to peer at things uncertain; a discoloured brick which he had never previously noticed, humming a tune in his head then hearing it aloud shortly after, a cockroach crossing his path in a straight line, or in this case, the stain of coffee on his shirt resembling a crescent shaped smile. 

He reassured himself and lit a smoke to kill the nerves before his first appearance at this new job. And out from his eye’s corner stood the very same inpatient lady, like himself waiting to be buzzed in by the building's employee. His side glance caught her own and in that instant he thought to mention how sorry he was about the earlier collision. She seemed to have a new cup of coffee in her hand but as he turned all this about in his mind, the moment passed and they were both buzzed in. She entered first with a side turn to slide through the narrow doors into the elongated hallway. He then followed, thinking that having to stand with this angry woman in the elevator would be a nightmare. Luckily though, being only 10 paces behind the lady, he saw her rush up the stairs, and so he, with a deep sigh, made his way to the lifts and called the ancient elevator. The elevator was one surly installed last century and seemed in tune with the rotting colonial theme of the town; the white walls turned yellow from a lack of maintenance. And on the outside of the buildings, the paint had scabbed off altogether, but the rounded edges of the ledges still remained. This particular elevator had those scissor doors which one would have to open manually. Usually the breeze which would be felt as it ascended would be cool and pleasant. But on this occasion the breeze would be in vain. As he entered he noticed the date of its last service seemed very close to the date of the building's inauguration which is on a plaque at the building’s entrance. Sometime last century. It couldn't have been serviced that long ago, he reassured himself. Nevertheless, this first warning sign was ignored and thus entered into his view, a hand stopping him from completely shutting the scissor doors. His scare was subtle but sent a feeling of cold pointy fingers running up his spine. It was that same lady whom he hoped never to see again. They stood side by side and the man had already pressed his button, the 7th floor. Just as she had stopped him from closing the doors in fact. He seldom uses these older lifts and when he does, he rarely shares it with another. From the man’s experience, when the elevator’s travelers press the buttons, even in a non numerical order, the computer would normally prioritise closest to furthest, which of course is correct and fair. This unfortunate man would for a second time today, anger this already late woman. She gave off the impression that the people who worked for her were going to suffer today, all because some fool bumped into her and then pressed the button for the top floor just before she pressed the third. Maybe she wouldn't notice. Well, she had indeed noticed and her pressed lips began to reveal some lipstick stained teeth. Her contempt for this fool of a man was steaming like a boiling kettle and made it awkward for the man to get a clear look of her face. But she had the decency to rage in silence, though it seemed excessive. The man felt he had nowhere to go. The label on the elevator allowed for a maximum of 6 people to be on at one time but it was clearly impossible. There was room enough for two, he frantically pondered. Perhaps people back then were much thinner as the front doors might signify. All this tumbled around the man’s mind as he tried to avoid eye contact in a mirrored elevator, as the lady ascended with him four slow floors beyond her own which she would then have to return to. 

But the moment which would leave its stain on his mind would be that of his leaving the elevator and turning back to see the woman's enraged face and then saying, out of pure courtesy and even habit, “good day” as her eyes followed him as she descended into madness, and the subsequent lower floors. He meant well but he had a feeling of having taunted a caged lion. The ordeal was over and he went to meet his new client. 

Roberto! - said another from across a busy office - yes - replied the man with a quick hustle in his step to meet the other’s prematurely extended hand - Mario, was it? - yes, sir! - it’s a pleasure to meet you, and forgive my shirt, I nearly knocked a lady over this morning and spilled her coffee all over me - oh dear, the bathroom’s just over in that room across that office there if you want to clean up - oh no, I’d hate to waste your time - not at all, tell you what, you make yourself comfortable and I’ll make us a couple of coffees, what do you think? - sure, thank you very much - how do you take it, Roberto? - Black and two please - the imposition of having this gentleman make him a coffee was embarrassing enough. Roberto never drinks coffee just black, but he didn't want to stretch the unnecessary bibble babble any further than necessary. Roberto was in the bathroom with a handful of wet hand towels of the disposable kind, patting away at the stains on his shirt. At least it was no longer sticky.

He did not want to spend too much time in there so he returned and was quick to mention - well that’s as clean as that’s gonna get. I apologize again - not at all, don't worry yourself. Please have a seat - thanks - so Roberto, tell me about the course. I heard good things from those guys over at (...) - for a moment, Roberto thought Mario to have mentioned a company which he has never worked for, but quickly returned to the conversation at hand - yes well I’ve been doing this a few years and I’ve noticed that the teachers often teach the clients a “specialised English” which in other words means an English which would keep the HR departments hiring us, which would also mean many things were missed. Their results would sooner than later decline and they would sack us. This was back before I had my own company. My approach is to get a feel of your interactions with your English speaking counterparts overseas and to then adjust my material and method - I do think that would be best. We had a few institutes working for us here and they always seemed to sell us the same garbage. I wasn't necessarily unhappy with the others but my secretary wasn't impressed, and I value her judgment dearly - yes I can understand that. There is a lot of pressure on the teachers and the institutes to stay in business and not necessarily to be good at what we do. It’s kind of like the news nowadays. First in, best dressed and it doesn't matter who's right. I'm trying to set a new trend and so far i’ve had plenty of regular business and clients who are actually improving - yes, yes, hang on a minute - Mario’s phone rang - yes, Maria, we’re out of coffee, can you run out and grab us one black and two sugars, right Roberto? - he glanced and pointed at Roberto hurriedly - Yes, yes that’s fine- he returned - yes one black and two and my usual, thanks. 

Roberto had been an English teacher, working in Buenos Aires for a couple of years. But he had only worked independently for a few months, he had been selling his courses as if he had been more experienced. He would tell people that he was from Canada, a fairly neutral country in the eyes of the Argentinians. He couldn't say he was English or American for obvious reasons, so he opted for Canadian. He lied of course but he spoke English so well that most Canadians wouldn't pick up on his tone, if any he had. But the curious thing about Roberto was that his name was not his own but rather borrowed. 

He stole the name from a man he had met in Uruguay. The man dropped his wallet and looked much like himself. He tried to catch up to the man but to no avail. Before heading to the police station, he walked in on a woman going into labour and found out when he mistook the male bathrooms for the female and witnessed her water breaking there in the middle of the bathroom. She was in clear distress and shouted to him for help and with a pointing finger which was all she could muster in her condition but the shout terrified Roberto and he thought that the shout was an indicator of him being in the wrong bathroom, something extremely condemnable nowadays, and thus he ran off, wanting nothing to do with it. But in the back of his mind, that image terrorised him. He knew he should have helped. An act of cowardice. In the midst of all this chaos, he forgot about the man whose wallet he found and continued about his business. The next day he stopped at the front doors of his office in Montevideo and instantly felt a mourning in the air. He peeked through the windows and saw a frantic group of young people, some older and greyer. The eyes of the crowd locked on him and fingers began to point and soon after, the shouting. In that gutting moment of realisation he disappeared with a new identity in his pocket and fled to Buenos Aires to start a new life as Roberto Ines, a Canadian-Uruguayen who wanted to make it as an English teacher across the pond. For years to come and even to his final day, the thought of everybody he ever knew and loved, thinking him somebody who abandons a birthing woman in her and her child’s time of need out of fear would cringe him from his sleep and even when traveling near the port he would keep with his head low. 

Ah, here she comes - oh thank you so much - as this Maria lady placed the coffees down on the table, she looked terribly familiar but Roberto played dumb - oh dear, I forgot to ask for the sugar, let me get some from the kitchen, I’ll be back in a minute - no problem, Maria. The two gentlemen started drinking the coffee without sugar and the bitterness was far too strong for Mario to withstand, and he made a face. Roberto on the other hand tasted a staleness in his coffee but wanted to make a good impression so he continued drinking it until Maria brought the sugar. As they sipped from their cups, Roberto having almost finished his, Maria leaves and utters a sentence which Mario didn't seem to hear and was so subtle it made Roberto second guess he ever heard it. A second went by and Roberto started choking on his coffee and he looked back at this so-called Maria and there she was, the lady whose baby he could have saved. It was true after all, what he thought to have heard her say - Montevideo - Mario saw his interviewee choking to death and the whole office was in a panic, calling ambulances and bringing him water. She disappeared amongst the nearing people who were all concerned and trying to help. But the words - she poisoned me - was but a bloody cough. In his final attempt for a breath of air, an overwhelming feeling of having sand in his lung limited his final act to an indecipherable accusation with his index finger stuck in the pointing position where Maria had been, but in vain.