Bless of obedience
Recommended soundtrack: Iannis Xenakis – Persepolis
On that day, in which noon and six in the night looked the same – as had been the case in the last seven hundred and eighteen days –, when the homogeneity of the gray and the cold and wet wind dominated the watercolor of daily life, on that day he returned to the market.
The establishment was purely illuminated by 60Hz incandescent bulbs, had dusty and pink walls and no music. In fact, there was an acoustic system that amplified any sound generated in the ambient - probably inspired by great cathedrals – in such a way that a simple throttle could compete with thunder in volume and intensity.
In the enclosure, care was taken even with while breathing, which if badly controlled could annoy everyone inside (due to the amplification system), and in extreme cases, could even lead to the expulsion of the inconvenient, feared act, very rare and famous for its nickname: allez-y.
That market was unique in the city and the allez-y implied harsh sanctions that would later afflict the unfortunate subjected to its effects. Among the sanctions, the hardest was the obligation to voluntarily stay home for three months without any contact with the community.
The community consisted of twenty-five houses, all of pink paint, with two windows on each wall and a door on each side. All with three bedrooms, with only one of them filled.
It was not a good idea to have visitors, and it was not considered decent to have more than one inhabitant per house. It was not understood as morality to promote encounters and there was an implicit suggestion for the rejection of social things. It was reprehensible to look the others in their eyes.
The community was hidden among a cluster of rocky mountains without vegetation. The nearest neighbor was a hundred miles away.
In the market he quickly swept his eyes through the metal containers, all unlabeled, all containing exactly the same stuffing, a piece of bread baked the day before. Gray bread.
It was veiled, however, that the bakery figured in the imagination of all community members as the paradise on earth. Even the mayor, who always dispatched from his house - without advisers, otherwise it would not be of good tone - ambitioned a position in that toil.
In the bakery two people worked, who had moral authority to communicate through a gesture whose semantics was "now its your turn." And any spectator who, gifted with invisibility, had the chance to enjoy the scene, would very easily realize that those moments were the most desired of each day of those two bakers.
The process of organizing the baking consisted of assigning to someone a batch, which lasted three hours in the oven, and the relay should occur at the end of filling the pots with the result. Even with the programmed time, each baker endeavored, in his own way, to make the three hours go by.
After a while, and before the filling of the pots, jubilation took hold of the room - which for someone of greater sensitivity would have become more enlightened - and the moment so eagerly awaited took its place: the baker currently responsible signaled with his finger that the furnace would next belong to his colleague. And due to the lack of vigilance, at that moment, morality was left aside to the detriment of lasciviousness: the signal occupied five delightful seconds of their lives, through directional curves constructing air sculptures, and the grand finale was imposing, when the stiff indicator dictated to the other what should be done.
Both, the one who ripped the space with his stiff finger and the one accompanying the work had their eyes glazed, their pupils dilated, and their consciousness nailed at the moment. The same spectator, if permissive with respect to the sensations of the flesh, could not conceal by much the term enjoyment from the description of the scene.
On one of those days, by allowing six seconds of procedural coitus, the body of one of the bakers caved, and one of the breads, perhaps soaked with the same satisfaction, lay down before being picked up and packed.
Obviously, that bread was bound to tear into someone's life. And it was precisely from him, who after picking up and opening the pot came upon a dirtier food than usual. It was strictly forbidden both by law and morality to return the container to the shelf, so that same bread, the fruit of gesture fornication, should be taken home by some unhappy man. But the creativity of the human spirit has as its main characteristic to be surprising (otherwise it would not be creative).
As he approached the sole attendant of the business, he opened the can, showed off its contents, and, with the conviction of inertia, forcibly and stridently cleared his throat. Twice.
The Earth stopped. The other three individuals in the room became static. Morality dictated that one should not look at others, especially in this circumstance. But curiosity spoke louder. Not only did they glance sideways to find out who was involved, but they also scratched, all three at the same time, their throats. The attendant collapsed. The four of them walked past her, their heads down, and left the money to pay for their purchases. The community had lost four components for the next three months. The components left the place with a disguised smile. The sun was shining bright.
July 30, 2018, 5:28 p.m.
Software Engineer, Writer and Drummer wannabe. Actually, wannabe several things but life won't give me enough time.