Siete minutos- the novel

 

SIETE MINUTOS

 

 

ISMAEL CAMACHO ARANGO

Translated and edited by Maria Camacho

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIETE MINUTOS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beginnings

The backyard looked dark with its muddy floor and shrubs growing by the wall. As the sun careered through the sky in its journey towards infinity, Homer played with his toys by the edge of a puddle, his paper boats sailing amidst the muck left by the rains.

“Hurrah,” he said.

Homer danced around the water, when a woman wearing a dressing gown and her hair tied in a bun appeared by his side, shivering in the breeze blowing through the garden.

“It’s time for lunch,” she said.

Those words brought Homer back to reality, after arriving from somewhere he couldn’t remember, even though he might have seen the end of time in the garden muck.

“Wash your hands now,” his mother said.

He washed himself in the sink as father appeared at the door. Middle aged, plump and with a round face, Mr. Homer had to fight the devils of the market in a daily basis in order to bring the food to the table.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

Mother stopped with a plate in her hands, as father never brought home anything out of the ordinary, even though one day he had taken a puppy he had found in the street to the dog shelter in spite of Homer’s complaints and his wife’s pleas of mercy for the little thing. A tall man interrupted them, his glasses shining under the light of the world.

“Uncle Hugh,” mother said. “We didn’t expect you today.”

He smiled. “I have to work in this country.”

“Your job must be exciting,” she said.

Mother poured some soup on another bowl, and Uncle Hugh recited his prayers, after seating at the table.

“We have to trust the almighty,” he said.

“How was your journey?” she asked.

“I felt sick all the time.”

“You should have taken an alka seltzer.”

“Nothing works for me.”

“New York must be missing you,” father said.

Uncle Hugh had to remain in his cabin with the curtains drawn in order to stop his ordeal, while suffering with sea sickness for most of his journey.

“Welcome to the world,” Homer said.

He did not know why he had said that, the remnants of a dream he had still in his mind, in his passage through the dimensions of reality.

“He’s funny,” Uncle Hugh said. “I remember the day he rescued a dollar bill.”

“He put it in his nappy, after flying up a tree” mother said.

Homer knew all the rest. A neighbour hanging the washing at that moment had dropped her husband’s pants in the mud, and he left her for the barmaid living next door. School children sang songs of glory, while Father Ricardo praised the qualities of the child during Sunday mass. Uncle Hugh found a black and white photograph in his bag.

“This is you,” he said. “I took this picture with my first camera.”

Homer saw a chubby baby with a bit of hair and a toothless smile, when Uncle Hugh had managed to snap that moment in time forever.

“I developed it in my studio,” he said.

“Those were the times,” mother said.

Homer had been born in the midst of a solar eclipse, and as doctors and nurses looked at the sun from the hospital roof, an old nurse who didn’t have good eyes had uttered those famous words after helping with the delivery.

“It’s a girl,” she said.

The sun came out of the moon’s shadow, mother thought she had a daughter, and father sulked but the nurse found her mistake a few minutes later.

“He had lots of hair,” father said.

Mrs. Homer held a baby in one of the pictures on the dinner table, while Homer stood next to his parents in another one of the snaps.

“We called him Homer,” Father said. “We thought it might bring him good luck.”

Uncle Hugh smiled. “He’s Homer Homer then.”

“That’s the idea.”

Uncle Hugh found a cent in one of his pockets, shinning under the light of the bulb mother had bought in the market.

“Put it in your money box,” he said. “It will bring you good luck.”

“He’s a good boy,” mother said.

Homer admired the coin as the adults spoke about nothing in particular, the brown marks on the wall turning into monsters amidst the buildings of New York in Homer’s imagination.

“Mum,” he said.

“You can have more soup,” she said.

Homer shook his head. “I want to play outside.”

“He’s full of beans,” Uncle Hugh said.

Homer had to get some fresh air before his life finished of boredom.

“He’ll get filthy,” mother said.

“Have fun,” his uncle said.

He had chased film stars in their limousines in a place called Broadway, where Marilyn Monroe showed her pants to the public, in one of those films his father had taken him on Saturday nights.

As Homer went outside, another universe welcomed him to his imagination, and a child standing by the tree, beckoned him to the eternity of his thoughts.

“Who are you?” Homer asked.

The stranger wiped his nose, leaving muddy streaks across his face but Homer wanted to be alone in the garden.

“Go away,” he said.

The child picked his nose with dirty fingers, putting lots of microbes in his face.

“I’ll call my mum,” Homer said.

The child had to be deaf, like his mother said when Homer didn’t listen to her on busy mornings, the noises of the market intruding in his world.

“You must remember,” the boy said.

“Remember what?” Homer asked.

The boy talked of the times they had seen each other in another universe, even though Homer did not remember any of it.

“You’re a liar,” Homer said.

The boy kicked the mud. “I’m not.”

They fought in the dirt, disturbing a few birds looking for worms but then Homer barked.

“I’m a dog,” he said.

“You are not.”

After taking a deep breath, the child barked, interrupting the peace of the place.

“You must do like this,” Homer said.

He cupped his hands round his mouth, barking louder than the dog next door as his mother appeared at the door.

“That dog is noisy,” she said. “I’ll complain to the owner.”

Mother shut the door, leaving Homer alone with the stranger from another dimension, where they must have met before time began, like Father Ricardo reminded him during his bible class on Saturdays.

“You are invisible,” Homer said.

The child smiled. “That is one of my tricks.”

“What is the other one?”

“The stars are mine.”

“That’s not true,” Homer said.

The flow of time increased around them, time and space merging together into another dimension Homer didn’t comprehend, as the stars appeared above their heads.

“Two and two are seven,” the boy said.

Homer frowned. “No, it isn’t.”

“I say whatever I want.”

“It’s your mouth.”

Shadows spread around the tree of life, his mother had called it that name for some reason Homer didn’t know.

“You have to remember,” the child said.

“You said that before,” Homer said.

The boy shook his head. “You must have forgotten.”

Homer struggled with the meaning of those words, while stumbling on a few papers his mother must have dropped in the floor but the child grew fainter.

“Don’t go,” Homer said.

His friend disappeared in the darkness of the backyard, the mind of Homer trying to comprehend whatever thing had happened to his world.

“He must be magic,” Homer said.

The noise of a cricket calling the females in the garden stopped his thoughts of the extraordinary taking place in the garden that day, when he had to go back to the kitchen. The adults stopped talking as Homer appeared at the door.

“You look dirty,” mother said.

“I saw a boy,” Homer said.

“He’s imagines things,” father said.

Homer washed his hands, thinking of the child he had met by the tree, in another universe he knew nothing about, whilst Uncle Hugh told them about his life in the USA.

“Mum,” Homer interrupted.

“You must be tired,” she said.

“Don’t have bad dreams,” Uncle Hugh said.

Homer rushed upstairs after wishing them goodnight. Once in his room, he put the coin and the papers he had found on the floor in his wardrobe, before going to sleep, as the marks on the wall underwent some kind of transformation but he had to remember something...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maria

Jose’s last words didn’t make any sense as Homer studied the papers he had found in the floor, while remembering his uncle’s visit a few years ago. A pretty girl, wearing a blue dress interrupted his thoughts, in another episode of his life within the fractal path he had to follow through reality. She then moved, interrupting his dreams by the tree.

“You’re real,” he said.

The girl’s laughter frightened the shadows, waiting to do something nasty to the eternity around them.

“I’m Miguel’s daughter,” she said.

Homer thought of the man helping in his shop, but the dog from the house next door started to bark, interrupting the vision of her body.

“I don’t like dogs,” she said.

They ran back into a kitchen full of saucepans, the tricycle Uncle Hugh had given him on his first day on earth resting amidst the rubbish.

“I have to tidy this mess,” he said.

She shrugged. “You will be busy.”

Homer made a pile with the papers on the floor, until they had enough room to seat down, amidst a few chairs full of things and the newspapers of the last few days.

“My parents came here in a big ship,” he said.

She frowned. “They had to be rich.”

“It had many floors, and windows.”

Homer’s parents had bought the shop after borrowing money from his uncle, even though the business did not flourish much during their lifetime, thanks to a few debts they had in the market.

“Dad showed me the seagulls chasing the ship,” he said.

“Seagulls?”

“They catch flying fish.”

He showed her a few pictures of that trip to another land, when he wanted to see more of her body.

“The seagulls must be beautiful,” she said.

“They fly about the boat,” Homer said.

He showed her some more pictures, while she ate some of the biscuits on the table, the breadcrumbs falling in the infinity of her breasts and he explained all about the waves crashing against the sides of the boat.

“I was seasick the whole time,” he said.

“Poor you,” she said.

Homer offered her some more biscuits, plus a bit of wine he saved for special occasions, amidst the disorder of his world.

“Let’s toast to life,” he said.

She found a few crushed leaves without any smell, after rummaging in her back.

“Put them in your mouth,” she said.

Homer felt euphoric after chewing a few of them, the light of the sun coming through the window looking brighter than anything else he had seen.

“Father buys them in the central cordillera,” she interrupted.

He asked her more about the leaves bringing happiness to his life in a day he might never forget.

“Your life will end with the sun,” she said. “I see it in your hands.”

Her mother had taught her to read palms on quiet evenings, her teats trembling like jelly, as she talked of her brothers and sisters going to sleep on the muddy floor of their home. He showed her the papers Jose had left on the floor, but he wanted her teats.

“My invisible friend wrote them,” Homer said.

He told her all about his loneliness in a foreign country, where he had to invent a few friends in order to pass the time.

“What about school?” she asked.’

“My parents wanted me at home.”

His mother had taught him to read and write, amidst some other things useful for his life, as the girl studied the pages he had given her.

“It looks like Egyptian language,” she said.

It had to be a magical if she thought so.

“You can call me Maria,” she said.

“Maria,” he said. “Will you help me to translate the papers?”

“I’m busy at the moment.”

She lived in a small room with three beds and a cooker in the corner, her father sleeping on the sofa and some of her brothers on the floor.

“I have seen rats in the latrine,” she said.

“A latrine?”

“It’s a hole in the backyard.”

He had never heard of such a thing. They had to move over piles of rubbish strewn on the floor to go to the latrine by the shed, while the crucifix in her chest moved like a lost angel between her breasts.

“Would you sleep with me tonight?” he interrupted.

“I’d have to marry you first.”

She wouldn’t accept the offer of his bed, even though she had to sleep with her family in a cramped room full of rats.

“I’ll buy you a house when I’m a millionaire,” he said.

“You’ll forget me.”

“I won’t,” he said.

“It says in your hands.”

Homer wondered whatever she had seen in the palms of his hands, her thighs inviting him to sin amidst the boxes on the floor.

“These papers are important,” he said.

“You think so.”

“Come with me,” he led her to a corner of the shop without much furniture, tightening the grip on her hands.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“You.”

“That’s not available.”

He kissed her, his hands feeling under her blouse, inciting him to do bad things in between the boxes of merchandise he had bought for the shop.

“Stop it,” she said.

Her body felt soft, like in a dream where all things happen in the dimensions of time, as he kissed her teats.

“I’ll call my father,” she said.

Those words brought him back to reality, before the Gods punished him for his deeds in the present reality.

“Don’t do that” Homer said.

“You must be a good boy then.”

“I promise.”

Homer opened the album on the table, a few of the pictures of that journey across the ocean appearing amidst the pages, eaten by the insects.

“That is me,” he showed her a child in short trousers.

“You were cute,” she said.

He told her more of that journey at the beginning of time, while feeling that urgency to have her body.

“I miss my parents,” Homer said.

He had arrived at the world years ago, his uncle’s appearance from the shores of time interrupting his first impressions of life amidst the garden muck.

“They shouldn’t have died,” he said.

We bury you in the name of the father, of the son and the holy spirit, Father Ricardo had said, before sending the coffins into the bowels of the earth, the sound of thunder interrupting that journey back in time.

“It might rain,” she said.

Homer sighed. “I don’t trust Father Ricardo.”

“Why?”

“He’s deceitful.”

Homer showed her a few pictures of that city called New York, where people had built the tallest buildings on earth, like the statue of liberty raising its torch to the sky.

“It has all those floors,” she said.

“They have metal boxes inside the buildings,” he said. “They are called lifts.”

She looked at him, eyes full of wonder, as the sound of thunder echoed through the infinity of time.

“The Devil wants us,” he said.

“It’s only lighting,” she said.

Homer mentioned the things his mother had done for the children of the slums, when he had to play by himself in the backyard and he wanted to call his shop El Baratillo.

“El Baratillo?” she asked.

He nodded. “Everything will be cheaper than in the other shops.”

“Your mother was a good woman,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

His mother had helped the poor people, who didn’t have any water or toilets in the slums of the city..

“That building looks tall,” she interrupted his thoughts.

Homer nodded. “It reaches for the sky.”

Tiny people moved through the streets, in his dreams of that city he wanted to see, but he had to keep on talking to stop the universe dissolving into nothingness.

“My uncle takes pictures of Marilyn Monroe,” he said. “She’s the best actress in the world.”

Homer told her all about his uncle’s job, in that other country he wanted to visit, while awakening thinking of that universe he must have known somewhere in time.

“You are supposed to tidy the shop,” she said.

He nodded. “I know.”

Homer wanted to tell her more about his life, hoping to take her to bed whenever he could.

“I’m really from another universe,” he said.

“Stop joking,” she said.

He had to remember something that had happened amidst the ants in the foirst day pof his life.

“Tell me more about New York,” she said.

He showed some of the pictures his uncle had taken in that city, where men drove the latest cars and women posed in beautiful clothes from the best shops in town.

“My uncle lives there,” he said. “He has visited us a few times.”

“I have seen his films,” she said.

She thought of his uncle appearing in the movies, as she fiddled with her hands and he wanted to deflower her amidst the garden muck.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Don’t you want to hear about New York?” he asked.

“Not now.”

“I’m your boss,” he said.

Maria stopped her journey through the furniture, muttering a few things while avoiding his hands.

“You don’t own me,” she said.

“I’ll give you money.”

The visitor

The death of Homer’s parents sent him to the depths of despair, amidst the pressures of his job in the market. He had to sort out his life, before conquering the world, like they wanted him to do since the beginning of time, Homer thought, while taking the merchandise out of the boxes, waiting by the counter.

That is why El Baratillo became an institution, where everything was cheaper than anywhere else in the city, even though he might lose some money, before increasing the prices once more.

“I’m clever,” Homer said.

He tidied the boxes of coca Miguel had left by the counter, hoping to sell something to his customers at that time of the day and thinking of his life up to that moment in time.

but something changed his existence beyond anything he had envisaged. An Indian with high cheek bones, a black skirt and his hair in a pony tail came in the shop.

“Can I help you?” Homer asked.

The Indian waited for Homer to serve one of his customers, while fiddling with a bag in his hands, the look of innocence in his face betraying his thoughts. Homer pondered about the man’s intentions, the noise of the traffic going on outside the window bringing him back to reality.

“Who are you?” Homer asked.

The Indian held the bag to his chest, like some gift he had brought to the shop, but Homer thought of a bomb exploding in the confines of his world.

“Go away,” he said.

Homer had to deal with that emergency by himself, instead of waiting for Miguel to save his life, as the man fumbled with the contents of the bag, bringing the meaning of eternity closer to his mind. A small head surrounded by black hair, with its eyes shut and lips sewn together, appeared out of the bag.

Homer looked at it with distrust. “What is it?”

“Mmm,” the Indian touched at the bags of coca piling at his feet.

Homer thought the small head could have been his twin, shrinking in size with the help of the herbs they had somewhere in the jungle.

“Mmmm,” the Indian said.

He kept on touching the coca bags Miguel had brought that morning, with the marks of the place where they had grown in the mountains.

“You must like coca,” Homer said.

“Mmm,” the Indian said.

“I want more heads then.”

Homer had discovered something he had never imagined. Balboa must have felt like that on setting eyes on the Pacific Ocean or Columbus when he shouted “Land” for the first time.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked.

The Indian didn’t seem to understand anything, but coca leaves had to be his favourite thing in the universe.

“No heads,” Homer pointed at the bags. “No coca.”

He found a map of the country his father had kept amidst some papers in the wardrobe, the capital and big cities of the cordillera appearing next to a jungle painted in green.

“This is Florencia,” he said. “Where do you live?”

The Indian looked at the map, listening to the stories of piranhas and giant snakes eating men alive in a land no one had conquered yet.

“This is the Guaviare River,” Homer said.

“River,” the Indian said.

He pointed at a place in the jungle, lost amidst the trees and other things, hard to imagine.

“That must be your home,” Homer said.

He interrupted the man’s scrutiny of the map, by jumping around the boxes littering the floor.

“Do you go there by horse?” Homer asked.

He imitated a horse riding through the jungle in another plane of existence.

"I want to know where you live," he said.

The Indian sniffed the coca leaves inside the boxes, while Homer showed him a puma hoping to catch his dinner from behind the trees.

“This is the jungle,” Homer said.

“Jungle,” the Indian said.

Homer nodded. “You understand me.”

The Indian looked at him, dark eyes scrutinizing his soul, as Homer talked of the treasures he might find in a land he had never seen.

“We’ll be partners,” he said.

The Indian sipped his tea, showing no understanding of whatever thing Homer wanted to tell him.

“I’ll give you lots of coca bags,” he said. “If you bring me more heads.”

The Indian closed his mochila, while muttering something, and ignoring Homer’s words.

“Wait a minute,” Homer said.

After giving one of the coca boxes to the Indian, he went on to explain how he wanted more heads.

“Mmm,” the Indian said.

He cradled the box in his arms before opening the door to the outside world, as the head waited on the table, its eyes shut and lips sewn together like some kind of monster.

“Something is on the floor,” Maria interrupted the silence.

The girl tried to kill the head with her mop, uttering a few prayers to her God living in heaven.

“It’s horrible,” she said.

“An Indian brought it to me,” Homer said.

“He must hate you,” she said.

“I don’t think so.”

She put the mop by the door, her dark eyes looking at everything with distrust, while he studied the head the Indian had brought from the forest, the best investment policy he had for some time. Homer thought of the Indians keeping thousands of heads somewhere in the jungle, where no one would find them.

“Would you come with me to the jungle?” he asked her.

The girl dropped the saucepan she had been washing, the noise awakening the dog guarding the patio next door.

“I will ask father,” she said.

The thought of them making love amidst the trees, made him shudder with desire: this girl would kill him one day with her charms.

“The Indian lives by the Guaviare River,” he said.

“He told you that?”

Homer showed her the map of the Amazon jungle, hoping to awaken her imagination, before letting him touch her body.

“The jungle is dangerous,” she said.

“He wants coca leaves,” he said.

She left a red mark on his cheek, after kissing him with the lipstick her father must have given her.

“That means I love and respect you,” she said.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Homer told her everything they might do in that jungle, far away from their lives at that important day in his life, as he had to find more heads amidst the trees growing all over the place.

“I’ll give you lots of money to go to the jungle with me,” he said.

“How much?”

“One hundred pesos.”

“That’s not enough,” she said.

Homer had to send the head to his uncle in New York, hoping he might sell it to the rich people in that city.

“No one likes small heads,” she said.

“I’ll marry you when I am a millionaire.”

“That will never happen.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jaramillo

Homer imagined the money he might make with the heads, the noises of the world intruding in this reality, as he opened his eyes to the light of the sun. At first the red bricks looked grubby but then a little boy with dirty clothes and picking his nose stood against the wall, after moving along the path the apparition stopped by the tree.

“I must be dreaming,” Homer said.

The boy looked at him for some time, the wall behind him visible through his clothes, while Homer felt faint, nausea arising in his throat.

“Where is your mother?” the boy interrupted.

Homer understood the stranger’s identity like many other things in his life.

“She’s gone,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

The bottles he had left by the kitchen window and the cloth Maria used to wipe the surfaces, appeared like witnesses of that moment in time, but a mirage like the boy wouldn’t understand that his mother had gone to the kingdom of the sky.

“Time doesn’t exist,” the child said.

“What do you mean?” Homer asked.

“You’ll realize it one day.”

Homer barked, the nature of time and space dissolving into the nothingness of other realities in the time continuum.

“Can you guess the future?” he asked.

“It’s all around you,” the child said.

Homer shrugged. “I don’t understand.”

“Two and two are seven.”

The sounds of the garden interrupted his words, but as Homer touched his nose, the child did the same thing. He had to be dreaming, like the characters he had read in Father Ricardo’s bible, hearing God’s voice in their minds.

“Shut your eyes,” the child said.

Homer closed his eyes, the noises of eternity filling his soul, before the sound of footsteps stopped filled his world.

“He wanted to see you,” Maria’s voice brought him back to reality.

A tall man with curly hair, bushy eyebrows and an aquiline nose stood by her side.

“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” he said.

“I am Jaramillo.”

“Jaramillo?” Homer asked.

“I know your Uncle Hugh.”

“He’s in New York.”

“I met him there.”

Jaramillo showed him pictures of the shrunken head along with a few things about the Amazonian jungle.

“A shop wants more heads,” he said.

Homer took the journalist to a kitchen full of dust, thinking in the money he might make with the heads.

“I have to wait for the Indian to come back,” he said. “He lives by the Guaviare River.”

“Your heads might be there,” Jaramillo said.

“I hope so.”

“It’s incredible.”

Jaramillo must have touched something dirty while writing in his notebook, because he left greasy spots in the paper.

“I want to take civilization to the jungle,” Homer said.

Jaramillo smiled. “Well done.”

Homer told him how the Indian needed coca leaves in order to survive his journeys in search of civilisation.

“Are you sure the Indian exists?” Jaramillo asked.

“He gave me the head,” Homer said.

“You could have bought it somewhere.”

“I’m not a liar,” Homer said.

Jaramillo wrote everything in his notebook for the country to read on a Sunday morning, after going to the church.

“Do you know the tribe’s name?” he asked.

“No,” Homer said.

“You just got the head then.”

After noting everything for future reference, Jaramillo spent a few moments cleaning his clothes, full of cobwebs and other things.

“I must have a tarantula in my clothes,” he said.

“I don’t have any tarantulas.”

“The Indian must have left you one.”

Homer cleaned the journalist’s clothes with a brush he found in the kitchen, listening to his stories about the jungle.

“You must come to my office the next time,” Jaramillo said.

Homer nodded. “It’s a good idea.”

Jaramillo had to go back to his suburb at the other end of the town, far from the poverty corrupting the city, as Homer told him about his birth at the beginning of time.

“I don’t believe in the supernatural,” the journalist said.

“But it happened.”

Someone like Jaramillo would not understand the path his life had taken in order to arrive at that moment in time.

“Ghosts can be funny,” Homer said.

“First you tell me the dark sun and now you talk of ghosts,” Jaramillo said.

“It’s called an eclipse,” Homer said.

He showed Jaramillo the papers he had found on the floor on his first day on earth some time ago.

“An invisible boy gave them to me,” he said.

Jaramillo looked at the papers, changing Homer’s path through reality every time he blinked.

“I can’t understand the language,” he said.

Homer explained his childhood amidst his father’s books, the pictures of the galaxies and some other things, helping him to understand time.

“I taught myself to read and write,” he said. “And the secrets of the universe might be here.”

“You can believe in anything you want,” Jaramillo said.

He made his way back to the street, avoiding the dirty things in the house.

“Call me if the Indian comes back,” he said.

Homer nodded. “I’ll do that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The trip

The Indian resembled one of those statues of San Agustin with its plaited hair, olive skin and high cheek bones, while waiting amidst the coca boxes Miguel had brought that morning.

“He’s from the jungle,” Homer told a woman looking at the merchandise.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Homer,” she said.

He showed her a dress with golden buttons around the waist, after putting a few things on the floor.

“It came from Paris yesterday,” he said. “I have my contacts there.”

The woman looked at her reflection in the mirror by the counter, holding the dress against her body: anything good in Paris had to look nice on her.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Homer found some more clothes in different colours and sizes, their buttons shining under the light of the lamp.

“This blouse might suit you,” he said.

She turned it around, inspecting the front and back, her eyebrows rising in admiration, but frowned on looking at the price.

“I’ll give you eighty pesos,” she said.

He shrugged. “I’d be losing money.”

“Eighty pesos,” she said.

“One hundred is my last offer.”

“You will lose a customer, Mr. Homer.”

Everything seemed to stop, as she moved towards the door, the souls of his ancestors reminding him of all the money he had promised to have in his life.

“You can have it for ninety pesos,” Homer said.

“Eighty pesos.”

He shrugged. “Ninety.”

A satisfied customer might bring more business, Homer thought, as her long nails caressed the material she loved, before handing him the crisp notes she had must have withdrawn from the bank that morning, with the water mark and the signature of the vice-president of the country.

“You’ll look like a princess,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Homer.”

“And it’s a good price.”

“I hope so.”

Homer wrote a receipt, hoping she would buy something else to go with the blouse, amongst the merchandise in the counter.

“I’ll have nice clothes next week,” he said.

“Fine, Mr. Homer.”

Waves of cheap perfume wafted through the air, as she marched towards the door and disappeared in the street afterwards. He had to see to the Indian first, even though he might invite her behind the counter next time she came to the shop.

“Here is your bag of coca,” Homer put one of the boxes by the man’s feet.

“Ummm,” the Indian said.

“I want my payment.”

“Mmmm,” the Indian said.

“I’ll take it away then.”

The man didn’t react. On opening his drawer, Homer found his gun but then he remembered the heads in the jungle, as Miguel appeared at the door.

“I don’t like him, Mr. Homer,” he said.

“He’s harmless.”

“I don’t know.”

Homer put a few tins of food in his bag, while the Indian’s eyes followed his actions from across the room.

“He’s taking me to the jungle,” he said.

“Mr. Homer..”

“I’ll be OK.”

Homer checked the merchandise in the shop, hoping Miguel wouldn’t damage anything during his absence, while looking for the mosquito lotion he had somewhere in the wardrobe.

“I thought the journalist might come,” Miguel interrupted.

Homer shook his head. “He’s afraid of wild animals.”

“You won’t come back,” Miguel said.

Homer looked at the Indian, examining the bags of coca by the counter.

“I’ll have my heads,” he said.

“Let’s hope so.”

Miguel found a small bottle amidst the disorder in the shop, where Homer kept the merchandise he got from the dealers coming to the market every week.

“It’s holy water,” he said. “I get it from the church.”

He prayed for Homer to be fine in a jungle full of animals, where anything might happen.

“Your mother wouldn’t have approved,” Miguel said.

Homer shrugged. “She’s not here anymore.”

He had to find his heads, in order to get lots of money, the future welcoming him to whatever riches he might have, after his latest enterprise.

“Take the gun,” Miguel interrupted his reverie.

Homer took the pistol his father had kept in the shop, in case someone tried to rob them in the recession, while Miguel spoke of horrible things happening in the jungle.

“The Indians practice black magic,” he said.

Homer listened to his employee’s tales of zombies wandering between the trees of a land he might have seen in his dreams.

Miguel stopped talking, the sound of a fly buzzing about, disturbing the peace of the moment, when Homer had to get ready for his adventure, and Homer made sure he took the fly spray, plus a bottle of aguardiente in order to keep sane during his ordeal.

“I’ve got a map of the region,” Miguel said.

Homer showed him the map he had inherited from his father, the jungle looking like a green mass, amidst some other parts of the country, while explaining the route they might take to the Indian’s home.

“You don’t know anything about it,” Miguel said.

“I imagine,” Homer said.

Miguel told him how imagining something is not the same, as experiencing it first hand, as the Indian looked at the fly tormenting his life.

“He is not dangerous,” Homer said.

“You know nothing about him,” Miguel said.

He found an article in the paper, talking of black magic and some other tricks, used by the witches to subjugate people.

“The papers lie,” Homer said.

“Listen to me,” Miguel said.

Homer did as few more checks on the coca boxes, giving Miguel instruction of what to do in case of a fire, when he had to save his papers in the safe.

“If I have some time,” Miguel said.

Homer had a last look at some of his parents’ picture, before putting a few more things in his bag.

“The shop will be yours if I don’t come back,” he said.

“Mr. Homer.”

“That’s an order.”

“Thanks Mr, Homer.”

 

 

The savannah

A grey station loomed amidst the buildings, like a sentinel in space: Espresso Palmira, said in big letters by the door, as passengers sat on the benches and a girl painted her nails behind the counter. Homer interrupted her concentration by knocking on the desk.

“I want two tickets to Villavicencio,” he said.

She checked a notebook, full of the names and numbers in the midst of time.

“It’s four hundred pesos,” she said.

He studied her breasts under her frock, forgetting his mission for a few moments of ecstasy, before putting his money on the counter.

“I’m going to the Amazon jungle,” he said.

“That’s good.”

“Can I suck your teats behind the door?”

“Your friend is waiting,” she said.

“I’ll give you a hundred pesos,” he said.

“Pervert.”

The heads cost more than her virginity, he thought as the Indian looked at him with eyes darker than the night.

“We can go behind the counter,” Homer said.

“I’ll call the police,” she said.

“Don’t you want some money?” he asked.

He touched her teats, before she could react, while thinking of her family living in a world they didn’t understand.

“Give me two thousand pesos,” she said.

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You must pay before touching me.”

Homer gave her a few more pesos, touching her teats under the bra she must have bought by selling herself at the station.

“Let’s go into that room,” he said.

“This money is not enough,” she said.

“I have more in my bag.”

“Prove it.”

Then the Indian ran after one of the buses along the street, dragging his bags through the dirt and other things no one had cleaned for some time.

“I’ve been robbed,” Homer said. “That man is taking my things.”

“You owe me money,” she said.

“Shut up.”

Homer rushed after the bus with his luggage in one hand, his bag in another and the tickets in his mouth, no one caring about the fact that he had to find his heads in the jungle. The vehicle stopped by the corner, as Homer pounded on the door.

“Let me in,” he said.

The bus driver shrugged. “No.”

Homer put a few pesos by the bus windows, hoping to soften the man’s heart, as the driver asked them to step inside the aisle.

“I’ll kill you,” a fat woman said.

Homer shrugged. “I’m sorry, Madam.”

“You’ve broken my leg,” she said.

She gestured somewhere, where her legs had to be, two empty seats beckoning him at the back of the bus next to a cage full of chickens and shit. God had kept those places empty for a reason no one else seemed to know.

“I want one hundred pesos,” a voice said under the cage.

A woman with feathers on her face looked at him from another dimension of time, while the birds cried.

“You can’t sit next to me,” she said.

“Bad luck then,” Homer said.

The birds looked at him through pink eyes, the place smelling of misery.

“Mmmm,” the Indian said, sitting at the other side of the cage.

“Tell him to go away,” she said.

“Not your business,” Homer said.

The bus drove along the countryside, a rain of feathers and shit falling amidst the mayhem somewhere in the universe. Then he dozed, the movement of the bus making him forget the smell of the woman sitting by his side, as his parents appeared to him from wherever they had gone after their death.

I’ll conquer the world, he told them, time and space dissolving into the nothingness of the limbo before his existence, until he saw his future amidst all the things he had to accomplish in his life.

“Empanadas,” someone interrupted his dreams.

A woman lifted a plate full of flies and food, towards the bus window, making him feel anxious for the fate of the world.

“Tamales,” someone else said.

They tempted Homer with their concoctions harbouring zillion of illnesses.

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“He eats shit,” the woman under the cage said.

She had to be the biggest fucker in the world, greeting him in his way to hell.

“Your friend is gone,” she said.

Homer saw empty space where the Indian had been snoring before, as if he had never existed.

“Have you seen my friend?” he asked.

“No,” everyone said.

“He wore a gown,” Homer said.

He squashed bits of humanity on their journeys to other universes, while moving towards the front of the vehicle.

“Your friend is outside,” the bus driver interrupted.

Homer noticed the Indian by some mules, he must have found amidst the vendors selling their concoctions to the public.

“I have to go,” he said.

“I’ll kill him,” the woman under the cage said.

“Let’s get him,” someone else said.

Homer struggled to get outside, feeling afraid of his life under the pressure of the people around him.

“I’ll give you money,” he said.

“How much?” they asked.

“It’s in my friend’s sack,” Homer said.

“Call him then,” they said.

Homer managed to get to the door, the breeze bringing him some respite from the heat of the day, as the sellers accosted him with their wares.

“I must get to my friend,” he said.

Homer crossed the road, hoping the Indian wouldn’t ask him to climb on the mules, by the time he had avoided a few trucks and other vehicles.

“Can’t we take a bus?” Homer asked him.

“Mmmm,” the Indian said.

“You won’t have any coca.”

The Indian didn’t seem to care, stroking the head of his mule without bothering to think of Homer’s fate in the world.

“Tamales,” someone said.

Homer ignored the mass wrapped in some leaves a woman put by his side, his heart urging him to follow the Indian carrying his bags all the way to eternity.

“Thief,” he said.

After climbing in one of the mules, he made his way behind the Indian, thinking of the money the heads might bring him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The jungle

They galloped towards the edge of the universe, the trees reaching for the sky in a beautiful display of nature, before the Indian stopped by a river running towards oblivion.

“I can’t swim,” Homer said.

“Mmmm.”

The Indian found a fishing rod in his bags after tying his donkey to some bushes, the sound of drums echoing around them in a concert of nature.

“Is someone having a party?” Homer asked.

The Indian fished for some time, his eyes fixed on the water flowing through the jungle, unaware of anything else happening around him.

“I want the heads,” Homer said.

The Indian did not seem to care about his emotions or the fact that he had come to the jungle in order to get his heads, as a fish struggled to get away from his fate some moments later.

“Bravo,” Homer said.

The Indian smiled. “Mmmmm.”

“You must learn my language,” Homer said.

“Mmm.”

“That is called a fish.”

“Mmmm.”

“Fish,” Homer said.

The Indian cleaned it with his knife, the scales mixing with the grass where small animals would take them to their homes within the undergrowth, while smoke rose to the sky from the fire he had started with some matches.

“How many heads do you have?” Homer asked.

They could be under the foliage or inside a hole in the ground. Homer looked behind the bushes, expecting to find his heads to sell to Uncle Hugh for a few hundred dollars, the sound of the drums going on forever.

“We have to talk,” he said.

The Indian served the food in a few palm leaves he had found, a sacrifice to the god of hunger looking at them from the heavens.

“I want my heads,” Homer said.

“Mmm,” the Indian said.

“Does it mean yes?”

“Mmm.”

Homer ate the fish he had seen alive, thinking of all the money he might make with the heads.

“Hurray to our business,” he said.

The Indian opened a tent he had in his bag, the sun turning into a ball of fire before disappearing behind the trees in a beautiful display of colours at the end of the day.

“We must drink to this,” Homer said.

He found a bottle of aguardiente Miguel had put in his bag, while the Indian knocked on the ground with a stone and the mosquitoes sucked his blood.

“Do you want an aguardiente?” Homer asked.

“Mmm.”

“I thought so.”

The Indian gulped the liquid Homer offered him in a cup, before going back to his task of erecting the tent for the night, small animals running through the undergrowth interrupting the scene.

“We must wake up early tomorrow,” Homer said.

The Indian went to sleep in the tent, while Homer jotted down the things he had done since leaving his shop a few hours ago. They had gone in the mules through the mountains of the central cordillera, before arriving at the edge of the jungle, within the heart of the continent.

He drew the camp with the tent the Indian had erected, after banging on the floor with a stone he must have found somewhere, ignoring the animals threatening to eat them in the forest.

A beautiful girl joined him by the fire in his reality, when he hoped to find the heads the Indian had promised.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You can’t be real.”

He imagined the pleasures of her body in that other land some people might call a dream, while the Indian snored by his side, the noises of the jungle interacting with the mysteries of the night.

“I want the heads,” he said.

“Mmmm,” she said.

“I’ll pay you well.”

She showed him another universe outside the plane of his existence, the light of the moon leading him to an alternative reality, within his journey of discovery.

“I want to wake up,” he said.

His voice echoed around him in a night he might never forget, the sound of the jungle bringing him back to some other place he had never imagined.

“I have to go home,” he said.

She led him along a path she must have found, talking in that tongue she had learned during her childhood, outside the realm of time.

“The Indian must have sent you,” Homer said.

She smiled, the darkness of her hair getting lost within the gloom of the night, as she ran along the field and getting lost between the trees rising to the sky. She must have tricked him, after the Indian had taken him to oblivion.

“Where are you?” Homer said. “I’ll give you lots

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Maria Camacho
Bildmaterialien: Maria Camacho
Lektorat: Maria Camacho
Übersetzung: Maria Camacho
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 24.03.2013
ISBN: 978-3-7309-1629-2

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Widmung:
To my father, who died 15 years ago in Colombia