The impostor and the yellow butterfly (Time travel, Chapter 2)
It's been two hours since I paid for the standard time travel package and I'm still sitting here alone in this deserted room with only an Ipad for company. It contains a plethora of documents to sign in which I release Time Travel Services Inc. from any liability, agree to have my image used to promote the Egg model time machine on social media and undertake to give a free interview about my experience as soon as I return. So my status on this trip is that of a guinea pig!
When I start talking about how silly it is to dwell on the past instead of the present and that perhaps it would be better to cancel my trip back in time because of these unreasonable demands, they quickly bring in four employees to give me VIP treatment. Standing in the center of the room, I am examined, cleaned, dressed in period clothing, made up and perfumed with products similar to those used at the beginning of the 19th century. When I finally admire myself in the mirror, I have serious doubts about the success of this trip. The beet powder didn't work well as a blush and the smell of this mixture of coconut fat, paraffin and cinnabar on my lips is poisonous! What's more, my skin is very tanned, as I've just returned from my vacation in the Caribbean. This will certainly be frowned upon by my ancestors.
Although skeptical, I submit to the whole process peacefully, while a fifth woman takes care of teaching me basic rules of etiquette from the 1816s and some commonly used terms. I'm getting dizzy with so many details. Shouldn't I have started preparing earlier? The linguist suggests that I don't introduce myself as a Brazilian relative, but as someone from Galicia, to disguise the cultural differences and the way of speaking.
After all, they ask me where in the city I want to materialize and on what day and time. I give them the coordinates and the time of my great-great-grandfather's grandfather's birthday party. I am then led back to the shopping center corridor where the time machine rests imposingly. The panache of the skirts and petticoats I'm wearing gets in the way a bit when I try to get inside the machine, but the acrylic shield finally closes over me. While the equipment operator makes the final adjustments, I observe all the people around me, pointing, commenting and posting on social media. The repulsion I feel at all this attention takes some of the joy out of the moment, I almost forget that I'm about to meet my great-great-grandfather's grandfather. When the machine's lights turn on and a deafening buzz begins to sound, I wake up from my lost trance and panic. Surely there was a reason for so many clauses in that contract I signed? Is it really safe?
"What is this? Have I been given some kind of psychedelic drug?" I say to myself as I watch my hands being repeatedly swatted by a yellow butterfly that flies peacefully along the dirt road I'm on. My body slowly materializes again. At last I pick up my skirts a little above the ground and start walking towards the house of my ancestors. The arrival point I've chosen is in a deserted corner of the street where they live. From here I have at least half a kilometer to walk to their house. But what I hadn't anticipated was that these tight shoes and long skirts I'm wearing weren't made for walking on a dirt track, and soon I'm covered in brown dust from head to toe. What a sorry state to be in at a party where you weren't even invited!
The slave who opens the door of the house is puzzled by my appearance and doesn't seem to understand when I tell her that I'm a distant relative from Galicia, and that I'd like to congratulate the master of the house on his birthday. But a relative soon approaches me, curious, and when I introduce myself, she hugs me full of excitement and takes me to join the others. I'm welcomed with open arms and lots of hair strokes. "Poor thing, all dusty! This is no way for a family girl to travel! Even more so without a maid!" The ladies surround me full of interest and hug me tenderly. The men watch the scene attentively, with their cigars in hand and a glass of port. I feel exhilarated by the success of my trip back in time.
Between bowls of ovos moles and sweets from Pelotas, the women complain about how thin I am. The conversation turns animatedly to the recent arrival of Auguste Saint-Hilaire in Porto Alegre. "Ah, that Frenchman with strange habits and full of questions who goes around collecting plant samples. They say he's amazed by the beauty of the city." I listen to all this talk as I recall the travelogue he published after his return to France, above all the bad impression made by the filth in the streets and the work of the tiger slaves, who went from house to house to collect the excrement in the barrels they carried on their backs. Ah, the gauchos and their eternal mania for greatness!
I realize that the time window of my trip to 1816 is ending and that I will soon dematerialize again. I'd better hurry back to the crossroads where I arrived earlier. In my haste, I get up to go to the toilet and end up dropping my smartphone, which I had hidden in the folds of my skirt, in the vain illusion of taking a photo of the city, the house and the people without being noticed.
With the shock, the screen of my smartphone lights up and everyone can clearly see the image I've chosen for the background: me, dressed in a tiny bikini, in front of the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. The women try to understand what they are seeing, while the men stand back in shock, covering their eyes. Before long, there's a huge commotion and everyone starts shouting in my direction, calling me a shameless imposter. I quickly pick up my smartphone and run back to the place where I arrived on the time travel, chased by the house slave, who throws stones at me, while my relatives follow the scene screaming.
The next thing I know, I'm back in the mall corridor. People stare at me in astonishment as a group of Time Travel Services Inc. employees quickly pull me away, my head and hands bleeding from the stones, my hair disheveled and my clothes filthy with dust. "Didn't you want my photos on social media?" I shout in hysterical laughter, "Go ahead! It's good to let everyone know that we shouldn't waste time dreaming about the past. Let's live in the present!"
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