The sugar mill's whistle pierced the cold morning air, announcing the shift change.
Hundreds of sugar beet slid along the conveyor belts like an earthy river that smelled of damp sweetness. Carmelo waited to one side, with his cap in his hands and the dust from the road still clinging to his boots. He had returned the next day, convinced not to leave without an agreement.
The engineer, Don Álvaro Salcedo —so read the little plaque on his office door—, received him without ceremony. The mosaic floor gave off a metallic echo beneath their footsteps, and hanging on the walls were production charts with lines that rose and fell like roller coasters.
—Good morning, Rodero —Don Álvaro greeted, adjusting his tie—. I’ve reviewed your figures and your… method. He says he can pack fifteen tonnes a day.
—That, or more, if the weather's on our side —Carmelo replied, standing straight—, and without a scrap wasted.
The engineer frowned, flicked through a report and slid a contract across the table.
We need efficiency and cleanliness. Every well-pressed kilo saves us space and moisture. I can offer you 1.60 pesetas a kilo of dry pulp.
Carmelo swallowed hard. He thought about the sunrises it would take to make up for such a price cut, the parts he would have to fix with wire if the baler broke down. He took a deep breath, like when he was about to hurtle down a hill on his childhood bicycle.
"Mr Salcedo, I haven't come all this way to settle for less than my work is worth," he said, soft but firm. "I guarantee the pulp clean, compact and ready before the siren sounds.". Two pesetas a kilo. Not one woman less.
The engineer pursed his lips. On the other side of the large window, two workers were pushing carts overflowing with beet; the steam rising from the chimneys drew columns that dissolved into a leaden sky.
—Two pesetas is more than the hauliers in Valladolid pay —he replied, spinning the pen between his fingers.
—But none of them knows these fields like I do —replied Carmelo—. I've spent a thousand mornings smelling the earth before the sun is up. And if I lose an hour, I make up for it at dusk; my machine and I don't look at the clock.
A thick silence fell. The ticking of the wall clock resonated like a hammer. Don Álvaro got up, walked over to the large window and looked out at the chimneys. Then, without turning round, he asked:
- Can you start the day after tomorrow?
—Tomorrow at dawn —Carmelo replied—. That way you'll see the first wagon ready before that whistle blows.
The engineer returned to the desk, crossed out the figure of 1.60 with a firm stroke and wrote 2,00. He signed. He handed over the pen.
Carmelo's pulse barely trembled as he signed his full name: Carmelo Rodero .
When he finished, he looked up; in Don Álvaro's eyes there was no longer distrust, but a spark of curiosity, perhaps respect.
—Rodero —said the engineer as they shook hands—. Don't let me down.
—I won't do it. And if I do, it'll be when hell freezes over —replied Carmelo with a half-smile.
On stepping outside, the air felt cleaner, although it smelled of molasses and smoke. In his inner pocket he kept the folded contract like a talisman. He paused for a moment to listen to the heartbeat of the place: pulleys, belts, distant voices. It was a new world, industrial, strident; even so, it reminded him of the old packing plant wheezing at dawn.
He thought of Pedro and the hectares of wheat; he thought of his mother counting out the centimes on the kitchen table. Two pesetas a kilo. It sounded like the promise of a future.
As it started up, the grey sky gave way to an oblique ray of sunlight that illuminated, for a second, the main nave. Carmelo narrowed his eyes: he saw golden glints on the rails, on the piles of beet, on the wheels of the carts. As if the entire field — wheat, straw and dew — had followed his steps right here.
—Come on, old girl —he whispered, patting the dashboard—. Tomorrow we’ve got a really early start.
He set off towards Pedrosa, the hum of the engine mixing with the new hum of a dream just signed off at a fair price: two pesetas for every kilo of trust.