There are airplane trips that last forty minutes but have the psychological density of a Russian novel. Some time ago, on a flight between Lisbon and Porto, I experienced an episode that would fit perfectly into a dark chapter by Dostoevsky — if Dostoevsky had written about small men with big egos, diminished by ingratitude.
The setting for this episode was row 17, middle seat, that ungrateful position where one loses the autonomy of their arms and the dignity of their legs. I sat down resignedly, ready for a peaceful flight, when fate, always possessing an inopportune sense of humor, decided to offer me company.
To my right, by the aisle, sat an old acquaintance. One of those creatures that life hands back to us every now and then, neither to honor nor to torment us — just to collect the toll for past mistakes.
I recognized him and said hello. I immediately noticed that he took no pleasure in seeing me and felt highly uncomfortable with the incidental proximity of the journey. Years had passed, but his gestures retained that trembling of someone carrying an undefined, unresolved burden.
I, who was carrying nothing, offered an urbane smile, ready for friendly pleasantries, because if it really has to happen, let it be without friction… Visibly bothered, my fortuitous row companion looked back and forth in every direction, searching for an alternative spot to rest his bones without having to brush up against a ghost from his past.
And he succeeded. As soon as the safety instructions concluded and the cabin lights dimmed, he took off with the stealth of a tiger toward a vacant seat a few rows ahead, leaving me sitting in silence.
I was left watching the maneuver in sincere perplexity. Had it been a gaffe on my part, a lapse in memory, a social slip? No. None of that. The enigma was something else, deeper and certainly more serious.
The fugitive hadn’t fled from me. He had merely distanced himself from the memory of what, in a shared past, I had done for him. About twenty years ago, professional decisions I had made—legitimately, but based on trust in him—had been highly beneficial to this creature’s business.
Apparently, the unexpected confrontation with this past of friendship and personal favor was unbearable for him, a feeling that I recognize as human and do not even hold against him. But I confess that, even today, it intrigues and fascinates me.
I came to the conclusion — right there, amidst mild turbulence and in-flight coffee announcements — that the imbecile still hadn’t forgiven me for the favors I did him. To him, I was a living reminder of his dependency, and nothing bothers certain brutes as much as running into, years later, the silent spectator of one of their less glorious phases.
The plane landed in Porto as always: with jolts and in a rush. My “friend” vanished among the passengers, so swiftly I didn’t even notice his disappearance.
I remained seated in my row 17 spot, watching everyone leave while philosophizing over an old authorless aphorism: there are favors that manufacture enemies more efficiently than any dispute.
Forty minutes of travel, zero words exchanged, and a complete thesis on “the panic of gratitude” discreetly drafted on a flight from Lisbon to Porto.
Paulo Fidalgo
CEO of Marketividade
