People evade one another when the wagon doors open and they make their way. Little ants, one following the other, carrying leather bags and plastic purses, concentrated on their unaltered route to slavery. Step by step the escalators trace their way to the footbridge. Moving up, a glimpse of a breeze slips under her shirt and produces a massive erection of body hair. A momentary relief from the murkiness of the afternoon; the ablution from the stinky breaths of the fellow passengers, which seems to stick on the skin while travelling. The view from the bridge makes her stop for just a moment, to steal a little moment just to daydream upon this cute vista or maybe snap a picture. There’s a two hour gap between now and her next class. There’s no reason for rushing. Her trousers are dancing around her legs and her bag is bouncing on her lap; still sweating under a sudden stream of light and on ahead, the stadium. Red and hefty and ugly like all manmade things. Red steel and cement combined with ugly posters and logos, it just stands there. Years and years of fans and players passed through here, going in and out, celebrating, forgetting about their problems and screaming at a rolling ball and a couple dozen extremely rich men. The emblem of a developing society, the pylon of fun activities, the people’s opium, the masqueraded mafia’s cover up: football. She never really felt the excitement of the run down ball. There’s a certain appeal that this rubber object has, one that she never felt and never understood. Why can’t someone enjoy the piercing sound of skates on the ice? How come nobody is interested in the athletic performances of ice skaters? Aren’t they creatures that defy gravity? Don’t they achieve otherworldly athletic achievements? And the music; isn’t it just better to listen to that music than to get lost in this chaotic mass of canaille screaming? The sound of ice being torn, the heavy breathing, fabric rasping with lycra. One day she will get to find someone to share her love of ice skating. Maybe not here, in this part of town, maybe in another part of town. Not even in this town if she had to think about it twice.
Why is she here anyway? Why does she choose to stay here? 34 years. Born and raised in this city, down by the port. A proud resident, that’s what she is. Irrevocable in her sense of home, although alienated by her own tribe. Four sisters and one brother. Who on their right mind would do that: raise six kids in the city, in an apartment, piled up, six kids on top of two parents all crumbled up on the ground floor. And then of course, the mistress behind it all: Granny. And her son. The Uncle. Such a typical sample of family history: the sister with the family, the unrepentant bachelor brother living with his mother; the brother in law: a simple, hardworking plowman. All of them surrounded – or better said surrounding- six defenseless children being raised by themselves. It could even be considered as a romantic affair by some. Fast forward to today, the next generation. Her brother is gone, a sailor, floating somewhere in the Indian sea; older sister in the country side, adopted the plow and a plowman herself, they’ve had four young children; twin sister travelling the world with MSF; younger sister number one finishing a master’s degree in Mathematics in London, engaged to a seemingly affable young man; and finally, younger sister number two working in shipping, engaged to be married to an accoutered lawyer. And her, midway through the family’s reproductive agenda. Still young, her father insists, ready to have a family of her own, her mother emphasizes. She is surrounded by her siblings - older and younger- all settled and unified and happy, making mama proud, fulfilling their destiny, or at least the female ones. Her older brother joined her in the role of the pariahs of the family. The ones who decided to fly solo for some time. Her brother seems content. At least the two times a year she gets to see him. He is constantly traveling, he never talks about his personal life and he dodges any pressure to even talk about having a family. And he is a man. He is out of the pressure point, geographically and mentally. He bought a house in the Philippines and spends quite some time in Buenos Aires as well, forty years old now, nobody cares anymore. There are already two grandchildren in the picture and the younger sister number one is getting pregnant soon –feeling the pressure of her eggs growing older by the minute. “Young eggs, healthy babies” mother insists telling everybody.
