The Old Man and the Banana

Santiago used a biro to write on the banana. He kept it hidden in the sleeve of his uniform and took pleasure in how the pen effortlessly glided against the yellow skin of the fruit. He thought this one would run out of ink soon and he would need to steal a replacement from the Overseers.

The messages were necessarily short, driven by the movements of his Supervisor on the packing line and the lack of real estate that a banana presented. One sentence each time.

He finished, always careful not to be observed, and turned the fruit over so that the words faced down. He slid the box down the conveyor to Paco, the boy who had stood next to him for so long, and watched as the young hands dexterously applied the plastic across the top of the box, sealing it in time until the Lockdowner opened their monthly ration.

Paco glanced around furtively, and once he was sure they were not being observed he asked.

“What did you write, where are you up to?”

Santiago spoke softly, without turning his head.

“But I have killed this fish which is my brother, and now I must do the slave work.”

Paco nodded in silent approval as he sealed the next box in front of him, they were at his favourite part of the story.

When the work quota had finished the buzzer sounded and the two companions made their way out of the giant food production dome. They were heading to the residential quarters along with the others in shift seven.

The Old Man gazed in wonder at the scale of the operation that they were a part of. All this food being grown and harvested inside the domes away from the unclean, infected outside world.

The Overseers eyed them with malice as they shuffled slowly as if shackled. Their energy was kept deliberately low by the poor-quality artificial food they were provided with.

“Filthy Processors” mouthed the black uniform closest to the line, “We should just put you all outside and be done with it.”

Paco tensed as if to speak but Santiago placed a hand on the shoulder of the young boy to calm him. Paco relaxed under the touch and his anger faded. The men knew better than to rise to the taunts, a beating and a spell in the hole would follow for anyone who dared.

They queued patiently as they always did, they were hungry, but no-one was fighting to get this meal any quicker. Each tray was clutched tightly as the bar code on every wrist was scanned and food was dispensed into the appropriate compartment.

The thick brown paste known was called Nutri but unofficially, amongst the shadows, as Brown or Dirt. There was water too, dispensed into a plastic beaker from a machine that was supposed to filter it, but the taste was less than natural, and the odour was metallic.

Paco whispered, “I hate this stuff and the water always tastes funny.”

The Old Man knew the water was not natural, but Paco had never tasted real, fresh water or greedily gulped a soft drink from a chiller on a hot day.

“I know but we must bear this Paco. One day we’ll eat a beef sandwich and a tall glass of cold milk like I used to get at the Deli run by Mr Schwartz, you remember me telling you?”

Before Paco could answer an Overseer moved between them.

“No talking in line, get your food and sit down or you’ll get a taste of this.” He brandished an electric prod his demeanour said he was itching to try.

As they sat, Santiago pushed half of his food onto the young boy’s tray. Paco knew better than to argue with him, all the conversation on this matter was exhausted. He simply nodded his appreciation at the Old Man and waited for the signal that they were allowed to begin.

The idea of time passing and the comprehension of mortality that it gave you was why the Quota System existed. When you had no Monday or no December you had no idea of how long anything lasted for. The Work Quota was followed by Eating Quota, Exercise Quota, Sleeping Quota and so on. The regimen and the order had never changed, at least since Santiago had been here.

A buzzer sounded and the men rose automatically in unison from the cold metal benches. Trays were silently returned to the appropriate station for sterilising and they made their way to the yard for the exercise quota.

The Overseers were milling around to keep order. Some talking was permitted but there was no equipment, no weights, no balls, no hoops. You walked or you stood still, those were the choices.

Paco and The Old Man walked together as they always did. The boy had noticed Santiago had been getting a little slower of late.

The Old Man saw his concerned look and patted the boy on the head.

“Don’t worry, I’m just tired, that’s all, nothing to concern yourself with.”

Paco seemed appeased by this but then looked impatient and gave an expectant lift of his eyebrows.

“What?” asked Santiago, feigning ignorance.

“Stop teasing me, we only have one quota so get on with it” the boy grinned as he said this.

The Old Man smiled too as he began to speak softly.

“I was young when it started, the World was different and so was I, sinewy and full of potential, like you my little friend.”

The Old Man stopped talking for a moment as he thought back to before the plague, before Lockdown when he and those like him were rounded up to toil here.

“Do you remember your days of the week Paco?”

“Yes!” said Paco a little too loudly “Monday, Friday, Sunday he recited, wait I forget the rest.”

Santiago silently chastised his noisy outburst with a glare and the boy was quiet again as they shuffled past an Overseer. Out of earshot the Old Man started to speak again.

"So, we were up to the part where he talks about being young and how he travelled and saw things but now he is old and looking back, hoping for more adventure but knowing time is against him.”

Santiago closed his eyes for a moment and thought back. To days on the porch reading his well worn books, to real sun on his face, to his mother schooling him about education and the importance of reading. He remembered his first taste of Hemingway, thrilling and exciting, the kind of life he felt destined to lead once. He hoped he was paying homage, keeping the words alive.

From his memory he began to recite from the book he had memorised so long ago.

“When I was your age, I was before the mast on a square-rigged ship that ran to Africa, and I have seen lions on the beach in the evening”

So, Santiago continued to read his beloved Old Man and the Sea to Paco.

The buzzer interrupted rudely, as always, and men with a collective broken will shuffled toward the sleeping quarters.

The corridor was white and smelled of chemicals. Santiago thought often of his mother in the hospital as she lay gasping for air. She had been one of the first in the village taken by the then unknown illness that didn’t know the difference between rich and poor or the good or the wicked.

The bunks were lined opposite each other in two rows of ten. Twenty men in total per Habitat. Paco climbed to his top bunk and Santiago lowered himself slowly into the bottom berth. The Old Man was tired, he had lived this way for too long now.

Santiago had tried to keep track of how old he was, but he had existed under the artificial lights used to cultivate the crops for so long he couldn’t be sure. He was older than his mother had been when she died, he thought wistfully. However it was measured, he felt the weight of time today.

Paco was a boy, maybe 12 old years now, born inside the compound with no idea of the world before, other than that which Santiago gave him. He was taken from the woman who had birthed him and raised to pack ration boxes for those who were white enough or rich enough to live in Lockdown.

“Tell me some more stories about the older times” Paco implored as he leaned down to stare at the Old Man from his top perch.

“Enough for one day my young friend, I’m tired and need to sleep, we’ll have more at the next quota.”

“You mean tomorrow!” said Paco with a spark in his eyes.

“Don’t let anyone hear you talk of tomorrow or the old days Paco. I won’t be here forever, and you need to keep the knowledge alive, it’s no use if you are locked away or worse.”

“Yes sir.” The large brown eyes started to well with tears and The Old Man felt a pang of guilt, he was just a child after all.

“Tomorrow I will tell you again how The Old Man catches the fish.”

Satisfied, the boy lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes. The artificial sunlight was extinguished and replaced by impenetrable black. It would remain this way until the next Quota began.

In darkness the Old Man dreamed of his mother. He saw her kind, gentle expression at first but, as always, it melted away, and he found himself terrified and running in the street being rounded up with all of his kind, mostly immigrants who were poor but uninfected. The butts of guns and cattle prods were used to herd like animals. When the back of the truck opened he saw the lights of the growing domes and the only world he had known since then.

When he thought of Cuba now he only had vague memories of sand and azure seas, of swimming and fishing and of course tales of Papa Hemingway. But the words, they could not take those away, and his quest to keep them alive was his Spanish Civil War.

2.

Marie stared from the window and watched as the package was clumsily dropped into the delivery slot. The shape formed by the protective suit indicated that the delivery was made by a human, but the sex could not be determined. She assumed it was a man because of the way the precious cargo was handled. No woman who made meals for a family and didn’t know when the food may run out would drop a parcel of fruit so roughly.

She and her mother were fortunate, she knew that. Her father had been a doctor and although he had succumbed, infected by treating others, they had a place here, at least for now.

“Its here” she cried in the direction of their second room.

“Bring it in” a weak but somehow defiant voice ordered from behind the flimsy door.

Mother was old, not sick really, just old, at least what passed for it since the lockdown. So many quotas of limited exercise, artificial light and filtered air made for a lifespan that was ill defined but certainly short.

Marie handed the older woman the box and watched as her face became youthful, just for a second as she pulled at the plastic wrapping placed there by dexterous younger fingers.

“Is it there?” Marie asked as her eyes darted across the contents.

“Hold on, my fingers are stiff” as the older woman fought with swollen joints.

She soon produced enough of a hole to force the covering apart and retrieve her prize. The yellow fruit was turned over to reveal The Old Man’s words.

She clutched the fruit like a baby in her bosom as Marie grabbed the notebook and pen hidden under the drawer of the nightstand. It was well used and contraband for sure, but two women didn’t warrant searches very often. What could they possibly be hiding?

Marie took the banana and dutifully transcribed the words into the book alongside the others.

“Whoever this is I can’t imagine the patience it takes to do this, they don’t even know we see the words.” Marie said as she wrote.

“Words like this inspire passion and can propel people to do things they never thought possible, this is a mission, a quest. This is hope and that is what the Overseers want to keep from us, that’s what the words are for.”

“So, he has the fish now, I’m so glad for Santiago.” Marie said as she re-read the sentence.

“Oh, my girl, his trials are not over yet” said the Old Woman.