Ayer lunes vinieron dos seises seguidos a las ocho y media: uno normal y otro especial. Nos agolpamos frente a las puertas del primero —una multitud heterogénea—: marroquíes, subsaharianos, españoles, eslavos, etc. La tripulación de una galera romana. Se abrieron las puertas y el conductor nos gritó: ¡Los de Jesús Abandonado, al autobús de atrás! Solo quedamos en el primer autobús los españoles. Entre el resto, aunque muchos no hablaran español, la orden se extendió como una mancha de tinta. Cogí un asiento que miraba en sentido contrario a la marcha. Viajaba, pues, enfrentado al seis especial. En él se repartían los desamparados, con las miradas perdidas.
Hoy martes a las ocho solo viene un seis. No hay seis especial. De nuevo, hay una mezcla insólita de tripulación, pero hoy solo hay un autobús. Vamos entrando y nos vamos apretando, todos de pie, hombro con hombro, con espalda, con brazo y con tórax. Nos hacinamos mientras el conductor, desesperado, grita, ¡pasad para atrás! Y no cabemos más, y una fila inquieta sigue esperando ante la puerta. El conductor se vuelve ¡Si no pasáis para atrás, no pueden subir estos! Algunos murmuran nerviosos, en español, en árabe, en inglés. Nos va inundando un olor acre a humanidad y miseria. Finalmente, el autobús parte dejando a alguna gente en la parada ¡Ahora viene otro! les grita el conductor a modo de consuelo y arranca brusco, haciendo bambolear todo el autobús.
Frente a mí —aunque a escasos centímetros—, un hombre bajo le murmura a otro por encima del hombro:
—This is not allowed, we travel here packed as pigs. In France the police would stop the bus and shout: ¡everybody out! This is not allowed!
Y… sí, somos unos 60 cerdos apretados. Miro directo sus ojos azules y le digo:
—You’re right, this is probably not allowed. This is well above the limit.
Queda, por un momento, confundido.
—Where did you learn English? —me pregunta.
—I’ve been to Germany.
—Yes, I thought you had a bit of a German accent.
—Where are you from?
—I come from France but I’m originally from Scotland, even though I haven’t been there for thirty years. I was expelled from the UK and after that I’ve lived in many countries.
Mientras me habla, clava en mí sus serenos y punzantes ojos azules, enmarcados por finas arrugas en una cara curtida por el tiempo.
—And how long have you been in Spain?
—Well, I went to Barcelona three weeks ago and there they robbed me and hit me; I had to be sent to hospital. But now I want to get out of this shit. This is not life; we are given free bad meals and free bad linen. People stink there.
—It must be difficult; it's a strange mix of cultures.
—It’s not that. They are just not responsible; they are not mature, not prepared for the responsibility. They like to go and create a mess and then have a woman clean everything. They don’t wash themselves, they stink like shit. It’s four people in a room and they are loud the whole night long and stink like shit, they just don’t show any respect for humanity.
—They must be used to something very different in their countries.
—They are just not prepared for living in a society; they want to be given everything for free. They want to go and shit anywhere. If you want to be a part of the society you need a lot of money, you need to pay a rent, you need to pay for the electricity bill, to pay two months caution... They are outsiders; they are always going to be. But not me, I’m out of this shit tomorrow. I’m going back to France.
—How are you getting back there?
—By train, I’ve got a train ticket and a lot of food, tomorrow I’m out of this shit. But it’s been good experience, you know? If you just watch it on the TV, you don’t know what is really going on here, because they just show you what they want you to know, but you need to go to the place and to live there to see reality. It’s been good experience.
—But you had enough of it, right?
—Yes, I was robbed and attacked, I was sent to the hospital in Barcelona and they didn’t heal me properly, you see my finger?
Me muestra sus manos con los dedos estirados, el dedo anular de su mano izquierda está claramente hinchado y torcido en una articulación.
—They didn’t cure it, you see? Then I was out of hospital and I lost my head, I came down to Murcia and I’ve been living in shit for two weeks. But tomorrow I go back!
Otro hombre, mucho más joven, se inclina hacia nosotros.
—Will you stop complaining? If you are in Siberia you can complain, with minus forty grados, but here... You are going to miss this.
—I will not complain anymore, I’m travelling back to France tomorrow, I have everything there.
—What you have there? Nobody knows what you have there.
—I have a nice girlfriend and good food and I can have a quiet life.
—Good food? This food is better than France!
—But in France I eat Murcia! I go into a shop and see where the food is coming from: Murcia, Valencia, Andalusia… In France we eat Spain.
—I’m sure you are going to miss this bus.
—I’m not taking the bus anymore!
—And what are you going to do?
—Driving! My friend has a car there!
Hace con las manos el gesto de coger el volante.
—Here I was attacked, stolen, and the police took my two knives away. They said they were too big, you know? Two French knives for eating bread, they said they were too big, they said I could just carry a small knife like this.
Separa sus manos como si sostuviera una nuez entre ellas.
—And you know what the best part of it is? The British government is paying.
—The British? You mean the French?
—No, no, because I’m not a French citizen. I’m a British citizen. So I go to the woman and she rings the French government, with my social security number and everything, but they say I’m not French. So she then rings England, and they want to keep me happy, you know? They pay for a big bag of food and a train ticket.
Señala una bolsa de comida a sus pies.
—This is calidad, you know? ¡Calidad español!
Un hombre a su espalda se gira y susurra:
—Could you press the bell?
Estamos llegando a Jesús Abandonado. La marea se precipita hacia la puerta y yo quedo inmóvil, rodeado por ese maremágnum de cuerpos que fluye, sumergido en sus olores, en sus conversaciones, pero infinitamente lejos de ellos, de sus sueños. Mi amigo se agacha, recoge satisfecho su gran bolsa de comida. Le toco en el hombro:
—Good luck for your trip tomorrow!
Me mira, confundido un instante.
—Aren’t you coming down? Why? Where are you getting off?
—Further ahead.
—Oh…
Se baja del autobús y se cierran las puertas tras él y tras todos los que, como él, van a pasar la noche en ese espacio de miseria. El autobús queda semivacío y en silencio y sigue su trayecto noctámbulo hacia La Alberca.
