On Manolo Millares Avenue in Arrecife, there stands a tall gray knight, with three vertical eyes, slumped shoulders, somewhat dilapidated and surrounded by asphalt and concrete. His job as a traffic regulator has been prevented for the last five years.
Romualdo has since looked out on an uncertain panorama. Next to him are endless works. His hazy gaze of three lenses observes bulldozers, concrete mixers, mud, and grumpy workers every morning.
He doesn't understand humans.
When John Peak Knight called him to tell him his name, Romualdo thought he had chosen the ugliest name in the world. Then he got used to it. He lived in Spain, he lived on an island, he lived in Lanzarote. He was lucky.
Next to him lived many more companions on the avenue. He was lucky enough to share the sidewalk. Others had been assigned to narrow and desolate streets; but he could share his sensations. He only missed the presence of a nearby tree, especially the Framboyán, because he had been told that they were the friendliest trees and apparently woke up in a very good mood.
It is true that the views were not the most beautiful and from there he could not see the sea, but if he made an effort he could smell it and feel it. From the perpendicular Idelfonso Valls de la Torre, he could talk to Ricard, his best friend, although due to their distance and the noise of engines they sometimes couldn't hear each other well and decided to play by talking with the colors of their lenses. They always joked about launching simultaneous flashes of reds, oranges, and greens, but they feared causing an accident.
When the eternal works did not permeate the avenue, Romualdo enjoyed his work. He loved the winter days, where the hustle and bustle of people was continuous: Offices, jobs, schools, academies, ladies going to buy bread, friends arm in arm, parents scolding children at the exit of the school. Everyday conversations of a beautiful crosswalk - that of Mrs. Trais, who was now also faded - while pedestrians prepared to cross.
Everything seemed like a beautiful urban choreography. Everything flowed and let itself be. Romualdo didn't want to be a party pooper, but it didn't seem like there was a return to his function. He thought of Xenophon, he thought of utility and beauty, he thought of his companions. He did not understand human destruction for the new construction. Was development and urban improvements synonymous with his alienation and the impediment of his work?
