I'm sick to death of the grey desert
Spreading as far as the eye can see,
The wind that carries dusty eddies,
Oil puddles, piles of shavings.
Er Malak, "2010" (a Bulgarian song from the 1990s)
What is technological progress? Do we stride forward, or do we rather follow the principle "one step forward, two steps back"? Doesn't each new invention take us farther away from nature and harmony?
A mere 150 years after the beginning of the technological revolution, we are surrounded by all sorts of machines, and it is difficult to imagine our life without them. We are destroying things that we cannot create, without a thought of tomorrow, without a look at the future.
And tomorrow? When the day comes when we wouldn't be able to see even our own hands because of the constant smog, when London fog would seem the purest air and when every going out without a mask would be lethal. When "breathe" would have a double meaning. When the strip of clear sky would be a privilege of the rich only, living in their flying platform cities.
Is the time drawing near, when there will be paper money and coins only in the files of numismatists and collectors? When everyone will have their own bank card, and life will be impossible without it. And what if the machines do make a mistake? What if they erase just one account – a single electronic impulse turns the one into a zero and cancels out a human life. For in the new world, a bank card brings you the security of the next day. For without the card, you are nothing. You are left without electricity and communication, without home and food. Machines do not make mistakes? Well, even if they don't, they sometimes break. And each machine mistake costs a human life. The machine or the human?
Or consider the high radiation background, which makes the next generation mutate. Who want their child to be a freak they'd be ashamed to show to the world? A creature that bears the slightest resemblance to humankind and makes your skin crawl. Everyone will tell themselves, "It won't happen to my child", but it happens...
The 1970s were the years of the hippy movement. Young people had their goals and ideals. They rebelled, but sought contact with nature. They opposed violence and war... With every next generation, however, the zap seemed to fade away. And one fine day, the moment comes when youth has no more goals, the meaning of life gets lost sometime during driving with 240 km/h or in the constant drug abuse and the mindless parties. Well, why wonder then that on that day more and more young people begin looking forward to death and reaching out for it. It is the only meaning they see in this war-torn, ruined world. And while politicians seek ways to gain more power, it turns out there is no-one over whom they can exercise this power...
And yet there is a ray of hope – for one man to take the whole control over the world. To change the world so that everyone has their place, job, home, food... Does it matter that people work mechanically and their labour is often meaningless; the important thing is they are part of a system. Alone, a man is nothing, but together they can create everything. It is sad when one has got no choice, but it is sadder when one's choice is the lack of choice.
The last tramp on Earth forebodes his end. He walks tiredly from town to town. He is filthy and ragged, but he has nowhere to bathe, because the rivers are already closed. He has nowhere to lie down and rest, because with each year, green lawns vanish. Trees and flowers are useless, why should they take space? What does it matter that poppies no longer bloom when there is no-one to appreciate their beauty? The birds of heaven neither sow nor reap, so they too have no place in this world.
Freedom... Such a word simply does not exist, but does that matter, when everyone has his belly full and his tomorrow secured? Juan walks in resignation towards the capital – the place where his dreams end, where he will begin his new life and be happy, happy, happy.
Domingo Santos's short stories are forceful, and somehow prophetic. As I re-read "Futuro imperfecto" yet another time, I marvel at his foresight. I shop at a supermarket and pay cash, but most people hold out their plastic card with a plastic smile (they are happy). I go to a party, where the music is booming in my ears leaving no room for talking, and the only thought in my head is why I'm still staying, but the people around me are trying to take up the rhythm, helping themselves with various opiates (they are happy). I drag on my miserable existence in the dirty city and gaze at the mountain longingly, but the crowds sweep me along. They do not notice the filth around, the air that is already impossible to breathe, the water they drink, the chemicals in the food. But that is of no importance to them, as long as they are in the city (they are happy).
And was Don Santos happy, as he wrote these marvelous stories? Probably yes, because he knew he would find people who would understand him. My kudos to you, Domingo!
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Translated by Kalin Nenov