In the early morning, Pablo arrived at the fruit factory a little before the appointed ti.
The supervisor he had t yesterday pointed him toward the long work line.
Rows of workers standing in front of conveyor belts on which fruit passed continuously.
"You stand here." The supervisor pointed to a place in the middle. "Good fruit in the right box. Rotten or damaged fruit in the left box. Simple."
Pablo looked at the conveyor belt.
"Alright."
---
The beginning was easy.
Good fruit right, rotten fruit left.
The logic was simple and the movent was simple.
But after an hour, Pablo realized the real problem.
The simplicity itself was the problem.
The belt did not stop, and the fruit did not stop, and the hands moved in the sa repeated motion over and over.
Right, left, right, left.
His mind was not occupied with anything.
A thirty-seven-year-old man working a job that required the mind of a six-year-old.
But he did not complain.
This is what he had now, and it was enough.
---
In the middle of the day, the belt stopped for a short period.
A break.
The workers walked toward a small area next to the factory and sat down. They began eating their lunch. He did the sa.
Pablo noticed that so of them held pieces of fruit they had taken from the belt and ate them naturally.
No one spoke about this, and no one stopped him.
Pablo grabbed an orange from the box, peeled it, and ate it.
Sweet and fresh.
Better than what he usually ate.
---
At the end of the day, when the twelve hours were over and the workers stopped to take small bags of leftover fruit, Pablo did the sa.
No one said anything.
A small perk in a boring job.
---
He left the factory, his ankle hurting slightly from the long standing.
At the gate, Marco was waiting for him with a tired face but with sothing of satisfaction in it.
"How was it?"
"Boring." Pablo said honestly.
Marco laughed.
"Mine is worse. Twelve hours of carrying fish boxes. My back will break before the month is over."
They walked together toward the cheap food street.
---
They sat in front of a small stall selling rice and fish.
Each ordered his al, and they ate in silence for a few minutes.
Marco looked around at the noisy streets of Naraka.
"Big island."
"Yes."
"Different from my place."
"Where are you from?"
"A small island in the East Blue. My father is a fisherman, and my mother sells bread." He took a bite. "Not poor, but not enough."
Pablo nodded.
"Why did you co here?"
Marco looked at him with direct eyes.
"I want to beco rich."
He did not say it with sha or with bravado. He said it as a simple fact.
"Very rich. Enough so that my family never worries about anything again."
"And after that?"
"I don't know." He smiled. "But riches first."
He looked at Pablo.
"And you?"
Pablo thought for a second.
"The sa thing."
"Just money?"
"Money opens all the other doors."
Marco nodded as if he had heard profound wisdom.
"True."
---
After eating, they wandered through the streets of Naraka a little.
The island did not sleep. Even at night, there was movent at the port and noise from so shops.
They walked quietly, with Marco talking most of the ti.
About his little sister to whom he wanted to send money.
About his dream of owning his own boat one day.
About the good food he missed from his mother's house.
Pablo listened and replied with short sentences.
But he was really listening.
A thirty-seven-year-old man listening to an eighteen-year-old young man dreaming about simple, real things.
Sothing about this was different from everyone he had t in Verona.
---
At the end of the walk, they stood in front of a large building in the middle of the residential district.
A wide building of several floors, with many windows and a simple sign in front of its door.
Rooms for monthly rent.
They looked at each other.
They entered.
---
The man in charge was in his fifties. He did not care much about who ca as long as he paid.
"The double room is four thousand five hundred monthly. Shared baths and toilets on each floor."
They looked at the room.
Small but sufficient. Two beds, a small table, and a window overlooking the street.
Much better than sleeping in random places.
Marco turned to Pablo with slightly apologetic eyes.
"I don't have it now. My salary next month."
Pablo looked at what was in his pocket.
Seven thousand Beli remained with him.
Four thousand five hundred for rent left him with two thousand five hundred.
Not much.
But Marco would pay next month, and he would get his salary after weeks.
The equation was reasonable.
He took out the four thousand five hundred and handed them to the man.
The man took them and gave them a key.
Marco looked at him.
"Thank you." He said it seriously. "I will pay next month in full."
"I know."
They entered the room and closed the door.
---
Pablo lay down on his bed and looked at the ceiling.
Two thousand five hundred Beli in his pocket.
His salary in weeks.
Steady work, a roof over his head, and a person beside him who was not an enemy.
In Verona, his first night, he was completely alone in a room between the trees with no money and no plan.
Now he had a steady salary, a room, and a roommate he could relatively trust.
Progress.
Slow, but present.
From the other side, he heard Marco's voice as he fell asleep with astonishing speed.
A tired young man after twelve hours of carrying fish boxes.
Pablo smiled in the darkness.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, another twelve hours.
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