Arturo Perez Reverte: The Weekly, February 9, 2003
THE BAG AND THE CURRICULUM. Rain at times, and Madrid's cold and dreary. Umbrellas pass across the window of the library of my friend Antonio Mendez, the bookseller in the High Street. We are there to talk, smoking a cigarette, surrounded by books as Alberto, the employee skinny tall and quiet, he has not read a novel in my life and intend to - "or lack that makes me" bastard grunts usually order the latest news. In those comes a young man with a backpack, and stays a bit apart, the timid, waiting for Antonio and I make a pause in the conversation. Finally, in a low voice, asks Antonio if he can leave a resume. Sure, replied the bookseller. Leave it. And then the boy out of the bag a bundle of pages, each with their passport photo stapled, and gives him one. Thank you very much, he mutters, just as shy as before. If you ever work for me, begins to say. Then shut up. Smile a little, it puts everything back in the pack and goes outside in the rain. Antonio looks at me seriously. Come by the dozen, he says. Boys and girls. Each with its curriculum. And you can not imagine what level. Graduates in this and that, courses abroad, language. And look. You have to fuck.
I catch the folio of the hand. Fulano de Tal, born in 1976. Degree in History, courses of this and the other in Paris and Italy. Three languages. Places, companies, dates. Count to seven works rubbish, the kind of three or six months and then to the street. I look at the passport photograph, a sketch of a smile, look confident, perhaps in hope. Then I look across the window, but the young man has disappeared from the umbrella in the rain. Will, I suppose, going into other shops, bookstores or wherever, pulling his moving resume of the pack. I return the paper to Antonio, who shrugs, helpless, and stores it in a drawer. He recently had to lay off an employee, unable to pay two salaries as is the patio. Before you close the drawer, I can see more pictures of card stapled to pages: boys and girls with the same look and smile at the same point borrárseles mouth.
Spain goes well and all that, I think. The whore Spain. Suddenly the sadness slips me inside and cold drops, and the day becomes more bleak and gray. What are we doing with them, damn it. With these guys. Antonio looks at me and lights another cigarette. I know you think so. What are we making all these young people of the pack, which after the illusion of studies and career, following the dreams and efforts, they are walking the streets delivering curriculum in which leave the last remnants of hope or a degree in History as it is, eight years of GBS, five vocational training courses, personal and family sacrifices to learn languages \u200b\u200bin schools that fail and leave you lying after paying tuition. Helplessness , traps, rat end, unscrupulous employers squeeze you before you back to the street, politicians who look the other way or decorating beautiful, unions with more than demagoguery and idleness shame. Work trash, unemployment trash trash resumes. And when the miracle occurs, the requirement is that you're ready for anything: shop bitch, bitch, business and mouth closed to survive until they get kicked out, and if you have a nice ass, if possible, let the boss sobe it. Even so, boy, girl, you have to give thanks for arbitrary shift changes, worked weekends, overtime six hundred a year of which only eighty listed as such on the payroll. And if you intend to support a family above and pay a flat date with a song on teeth that do not Sodomic free. Labor flexibility, call And thanks to the flexibility of the balls have been generated, said government spokesman shift zillions thousand more jobs, and are light and fan in Europe. Wow. Thanks to that, too, a guy in his early twenties can enjoy the thrill of knowing chichinabo eight jobs in three or four years, and after being on the street with a backpack, eking out life in the rain. Starting over and over again from scratch. Labor flexibility. Damn it. Euphemism and how much shit. Let's see what happens when so much bent, broken siding and go all to hell, and instead of resumes what that guy be carried in a backpack Molotov cocktails.
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