The Chair
I was driving somewhat absent-mindedly along roads I used to travel every day but now, due to a move, I see much more rarely. Usually, out of habit, I don't get distracted and keep my eyes on the road, but today there were roadworks, so I stopped, waiting for the green light at a temporary construction traffic signal.
I looked to my right and realized I was right in front of the facility that I served with passion for a few years. The owner was a man I perceived as elderly at the time, though he was actually under 70. He was, however, worn out by a hard life that had taken its toll on his body, but not his spirit. His spirit was innovative; he looked ahead. He wanted Open Source software and wanted to contribute to development. Much in the same way that, for many years, he had contributed to the well-being of his employees.
All of them spoke highly of him and his family. There weren't many of them, and he knew their families too. When a worker's wife was about to give birth, he told him "not to show up at work until he came back as a father". When an employee's mother was on her deathbed and he showed up for work, he sent him home. "You have something more important to do these days". And every time a new employee was hired, he would organize a reception (with plenty of food) for everyone. Because it was a celebration for everyone.
Those were different times, different years. It was a different kind of entrepreneurship. He would arrive every morning in his old company Volkswagen Golf. It was sufficient. It was fine. He had no reason to desire anything else.
I was struck by how, when it was time to upgrade the internal network, many volunteered to help pull the cables. And it was like that for any internal activity: they collaborated with passion. Not everyone was like that, of course, but this gentleman was happy with his employees. He never called them a family: "Families are the people they choose to share their lives with. Here we can be colleagues, friends at most. But never enemies". There were issues, naturally. But they were always resolved serenely, thanks to his wise mediation.
When the earthquake struck in 2012, his headquarters was severely damaged. I passed by that morning and saw the scene: a large crack on one side, broken windows, debris on the ground. He was outside, looking at it all with his hands on his head. Motionless, silent. I decided not to disturb him and drove on, passing by again over half an hour later. He was still there, so I approached. He looked at me without saying a word, but I understood everything. In the meantime, the Firefighters arrived and began their checks, asking us to move away for safety reasons.
As we stepped back, some of his employees arrived. But he wanted to be alone, for the first time in over 50 years.
The damage was less severe than it appeared. Nothing structural, only aesthetic. Following a more thorough check, they could have returned to the building. Reassured, he still decided to keep his employees at home (paid, of course) for a few more days. "Your families need you in these complex days. We will resume production next week". And so it was.
There was another strong tremor, almost ten days later. And this time, the cracks were far greater than before. Everyone rushed out of the building and, at that very moment, they saw a chimney stack detach from the roof and crush the old Golf. Which is still there, almost 14 years later.
The Firefighters returned but, this time, the verdict was much harsher. Only the offices were usable - but not the production area.
The last time I entered the offices, I went to disconnect the servers and make a full copy of the data onto external drives. He was too old and too tired to start over. He had worked hard to ensure each of his employees found a job at least equal to the one they had with him. He had paid off all suppliers and declared the business closed. But the State insisted on taxes that, according to him, were not due. And this would have meant only one thing: the seizure of what the business still had, namely this now unproductive and useless structure.
He knew that the next day they would arrive to seal the building and he would never be able to set foot in that place again. And I accompanied him on this last journey. Rising for the last time from his chair, the same one he had used for over 50 years, he wanted to leave it in his favorite position: facing the large window from which he watched the cultivated fields, "recognizing the seasons by their colors, scents, and sounds". That chair deserved to stay there, almost waiting for his impossible return.
He died two years later. The building is still there - with seals now faded - and the chair is still in the same position. Waiting for his return. Waiting for its final destination.
Green. It’s time to move on.