The Test
“Just you try to teach some lessons then see if you like it, you bastards,” José Esteves mutters in pedagogic fury, stepping outside and cocking the electric sting lest the AIDS Brigade approach, syringes at the ready, even at this hour in the morning.
No way would he think of using the Underground to Rossio Station. It’s been in fumigation stage for months now. The roaches are so many they even covered and devoured some of the less cautious passengers in a matter of minutes. Huge roaches, from Africa, brought in with the skimpy belongings of the very final refugees admitted into national territory.
Going down Avenida da Liberdade on foot is risky business as well. It’s still night-time and the dense forest of the central garden is fraught with small eyes and wicked grimaces. José Esteves turns the light of his electric truncheon on, hoping to intimidate any would-be attacker. The School logo glimmers on his chest. Everyone knows teaches are subject to an incomputable number of contagious diseases, not to mention that their cards hold a most diminished credit. But worst of all are the illiterate homeless. The conceptual aphasics that pullulate all over Lisbon in ever growing numbers. They won’t care whether José Esteves is a teach. All that matters is that he’s protein for the pot.
In truth, perhaps it’d be better to be attacked by a band of urban-depressives than have to stand up to the student masses on Test day. At least he’d have a pretty good excuse for skipping class.
Once arrived at Rossio Station, José Esteves and a few other surreptitious workers sneak around in short running steps through the maze of ethnic tents that block the way to the platform. Chickens peck here and there amid garbage heaps. Little children run up to the passengers, attaching themselves to their trousers and skirts, shrieking: “Guide, sir, guide…” In the short stretch that takes him to climb the out of order escalators, José Esteves is approached ten times by the collector Stragglers. Some stealthily flash him Rolex watches. Others try to sell him an extensible whip. A few, towing their little sisters around in unbreakable chains, endeavour to rent them by the minute for a quick pedo-sodomitic visitation. Rooted to the gaping hole of a burned up store in the second landing is a rough and ready bar that sells pills, little bags, and flasks coupled to dermal compressors. There’s not one security guard to be found. If there’s any police in the vicinity, then it’s up on high, riding helicopter, sightseeing through the infrared sensors of air-to-ground missiles.
José Esteves shows his travel pass outside the platform to another Straggler hired by CP for duties such as these. The Straggler smiles from behind a greasy mane. “Sitting place, chief?” he asks him. “Thank you,” replies the teacher knowing it’s almost impossible to find change in pockets protected by so many security zippers. “I don’t need help…” “Will you look at the guy…” threatens the Straggler, waving the ticket puncher around menacingly. “At least two hundred Euros for my troubles…” José Esteves shakes his head, reveals the intimidating tip of the electric truncheon, slips away through the barbed wire defences and hurls himself after the train that threatens to leave.
The train immediately dives into the musty gloom of the tunnel. It progresses quickly for fear of some centenary block collapsing on it. Soot gets inside through all orifices, settling on the hunched figures of passengers who slip molecular filter gauze over their noses.
José Esteves struggles to find a seat. He doesn’t want to travel by the window, for well-known reasons. He doesn’t want to travel near the gangway either because of the usual procession of destitutes that always ride without ticket or pass, God knows how. Bad luck this time. Because he refused to pay the Stragglers, he has to remain standing, twisted against a seat, subject to the constant friction of passing beggars.
Beggars which come in dozens. Some of them sing to the tune of a micro electronic synthesizer, shrilling, accompanied by a pack of little children on a leash. Others drag themselves along, pulling their hair in desperation: “I’m hungry, I’m sooooo huuuungry…” Others, bare-chested, parade their sores, ulcers, pustules and countless mutilations of all sorts: “Please give me something for the implant. Something, please…” Fat, flaccid, pregnant matrons clutch the throats of passengers and show them their breasts, whispering aggressive demands of uncontaminated milk for the offspring.
But as the train approaches Amadora, no one cares about anything anymore. The uninterrupted line of beggars vanishes as if by miracle. The wide open windows of the carriage, protected only by a safety net, suddenly become a place to avoid at all costs. Some of the wealthier passengers rummage around in their purses and briefcases for automatic weapons with laser sights and slim enough barrels to fit through the wire meshing. The carcasses of derelict buildings rise from both sides of the track like cliffs of rotten concrete. Tubes from the upper terraces run along the wall and curve ten metres from the ground in the direction of the tracks, like the mouths of cannons ready to fire. Passengers grumble, shrug their heads between their shoulders, unfold helmets, flip down soldering visors, and wait, all while the train puts on speed in an attempt to make itself scarce. PAF, PAF, PAF, go the first lead balls crashing into the carriage’s plastic, falling rapidly from high above in the buildings, judiciously aimed by the hollow tubing installed for precisely that purpose. No point in replacing the glass on the windows, not even if it’s bullet-proof. It never lasts more than three or four days. The truth is that other spheres are flung from high above, glass spheres full of acid, contaminated blood, liquid faeces and a few quotidian horrors more. Passengers yelp with panic before the fierceness of the attack. Those armed fire away at the buildings in the vain hope that the weapon’s software hits someone. “Damned kids should all be shot…” mumbles a little old lady as she pulls a AK-47 from her bag. Fortunately, it’s empty. “One by one with a bullet through their heads. This isn’t a prank you’d pull on people….”
