THE LIFT OPERATOR
However, the lift operator isn’t surprised; he had seen the same
cloud, though a little darker and deep red in colour, in the mirror
of the elevator, when tiredness and sleep overtake him, pressing
the floor buttons, taking familiar faces of the high-rise offices
or their clients, con-artists, crafty, imaginative or simple-minded
villagers, lawyers with briefcases, tailors, book sellers, cigarette
sellers, unfortunate people who have slowly lost their last virtue
of loneliness, their last dignity of silence, ready to kneel, to beg,
to lie, to flatter, for a little more bread, for half a cigarette, for
a quarter of a kiss, for a thousandth of glory — always unready
for the whole of Eros, for the whole death, for the whole
sacrifice and glory.
And the café man is always there with his tray full of empty or
full cups and glasses
always minding his tray, not seeing the faces and the lift
operator observing nothing, though seen everything
responsible for the ascent or descent
responsible for every stop
responsible for the floor numbers
even the office numbers along the hallways
where the internal telephones are located…
Manolis Aligizakis 