I went to the cell to train. It's not that training after eating was a good idea, but it was one of the few times when no one was there, and I had to take advantage of it. I did what needed to be done. What was necessary. I started my workout routine. Stretches, push ups, sit ups ... Working every part of the body independently and together. Then I continued with the blows in the air, first punches, then kicks, finally, knees and elbows like I saw the prisoners training in the yard. As Channarong said, the eight-armed warrior. As no one spoke to me for fear of also becoming the target of those who beat me, I had a lot of time to think. In one of my daily reflections, I had considered that, apart from building up my body and trying to improve my technique and my speed, I should also condition my body to blows. Which is why I added to my routine a series of punches with fists, elbows, tibia and back of the hand to the wall covering myself first with pieces of fabric and starting gently. Sometimes I exaggerated with the blows and I had some part of my body inflamed for a couple of days, but I considered it necessary to teach my body to overcome pain. When I was messing up in training, I only had to remember one of my antagonistic enemies from youth or any of the beatings received; me on the ground being the target of kicks and punches, crouched like an animal and waiting for it to all to end. Like this I increased the momentum of my blows, the effort of training drawing forces from fury, fear, and the intensity of despair.
I also had to greatly increase my stamina, so I spent my time running non-stop in the yard; which my stalkers celebrated with taunts and laughter because they must have thought I was training to run away from them. At the same time, it served me as therapy. I didn't always like running. Shortly after I started boxing in Madrid, I had to add running routines to gain endurance and to be able to stand up through a full fight. It was exhausting, but necessary. In the end, running half an hour every day turned out to be a forged balm to indoctrinate my body and mind.
Soon it would be my time and the situation would change completely. Soon that laughter would turn into screams. Screams of pain. Or at least that’s what I wanted to believe. It was that or death.
There were no other alternatives.
Singapore 4
At last Monday. First day of work. I got up at six-thirty in the morning, had coffee with cereal and a glass of juice. A full breakfast. In the meantime, my roommates told me that what they used to do, and also a lot of people, was to have breakfast at work in the company cafeteria, where there were free drinks, fruit and pastries, or in the places in the building if they wanted something different. This way they could chat with their co-workers before they started the day. Sometimes there were people having for breakfast, especially the foreigners from Asia, things like noodles, soups, stir fried vegetables... It was very strange to see them eat that for breakfast. I got dressed and waited ten minutes for the others to be ready.
We were a bit disorganized and decided to take a taxi to go to work. For just ten Singapore dollars, paid by Josele, we were at the door of our building in fifteen minutes, an entrance like that of hotels where the cars stop to unload the bags.
The area was a complex of four white octagonal skyscrapers called Raffles City Tower. Apparently, it had a giant shopping mall, offices, convention centre, restaurants and two hotels occupying two of the towers. Each skyscraper had to be forty or forty-five storeys. It was impressive. To the right of the entrance where we were there was a bar called Salt Tapas & Bar, a premonitory name for the Spaniards, like those back home. Fate, in which I did not believe, seemed to tell me that I was where I needed to be.
Our offices were on the 36th floor of the Raffles City Tower office tower. The views must be spectacular. At the entrance, since it was my first day, they had to identify me and give me an access card. Once I had it, we took the elevator to the office. Our floor was diaphanous, with almost no walls except for the meeting rooms. On the way to my supervisor, I ran into Teresa and Diego. We greeted each other quickly and said we will meet later in the cafeteria on our floor. Afterwards, Damaso went to his desk and Josele took me to Amit Dabrai, the Indian who was my new boss.
Amit was a very dry and smug person. He told me broadly what the project was about as if he was doing me a favour and showed me to my desk, where my laptop was already waiting for me. I signed all the laptop and cell phone papers and settled in my spot. Amit shared with me a cloud folder with all the documentation and told me that Jerome, who was my partner in the project, would tell me what was most important to read first. He insisted that I had to catch up very quickly and that he wanted me to start working at full speed that very week. What a serious and stiff boss I had! It reminded me a lot of one that I had in a project in Spain.
Jerome, who was French, turned out to be completely different then Amit. He was like a goat, crazy as a goat. To define him as an extrovert was falling short. In addition, he had a contagious enthusiasm and vitality and seemed to always be in a good mood. He spoke English with a very strong French accent that I had a hard time getting used to listening without laughing. He told me what main documents to read and gave me a presentation of the project for almost an hour, emphasizing its really important aspects: what it was, what was expected of us, where we were at and what were the next steps we had to take. All that after going to the cafeteria and chatting with Tere and Diego.
Later Josele accompanied me to a branch of POSB bank to open an account. He had his with the same bank, which was a state one that worked very well. As I was told, being a tax haven, opening accounts was a very simple process. I was asked for the FIN number, which was the equivalent of the Spanish ID card. The company had provided me with the work permit, but apparently you could open an account without it, and you could show it once you had it. It was all formalities. I was given a debit card right away and my online and phone credentials.
Nearby was an exclusive office for private banking.
“Here, with a nice wad of cash, you don’t even need to identify yourself,” said Josele with a mischievous expression. “Although they won't say it openly, of course. These people are all facilities to receive money.”
“Well, I hope I can become their client,” I said.
Once all was set, we went back to the office.
Singapore 5
Josele came up smiling to my desk.
“Guess what, guess what.”
“I don't know, do you have any brown ones to give me that you need to finish before the end of the week? I'm up to my ears trying to catch up on this, but I'll help you in any way I can.”
“No! Even better.”
“Tell me.”
“This Saturday we have a party at Avalon, one of the trendy nightclubs. The one I told you that it’s on the other side of the river, by the Museum of Arts and Sciences.”
“Well, not too surprising. I’m under the impression that every Saturday we have a party.”
“This one it’s special. It's a tribute to the Spanish expats. It’s going to be full of Spaniards and expats from other countries. This is your chance to meet people of all kinds and all places!”
“I already know you guys. I don't think I need to meet any more people for the next five years...” I smiled glad to be with them.
“Yes, but we need to get rid of you from time to time. You're like one of those hindrances that sharks carry. It's okay to take them out, but sometimes you need freedom. If you know what I mean.”
“If you want me to leave you alone, you just have to tell me, you bastards.”
“Just kidding! You know that. But it won't hurt to meet new people and get waisted.”
“Yes, man, I know. I'm tired of whining around the corners like a prick. Let's see if we find a trio of beautiful Australians in need of affection. Because of Spanish women I had enough for a long