Maria Teresa, hides the baton of beans!, yelled at him after removing the string and open the wooden door sealed with sheets of zinc oxide. He hugged her and kissed her cheek tenderly, like a mother. With the staff told him he would have gone on. He took her hand, watched his thin white hair, his eyes octogenarian behind the lens and felt the rhythm of his feeble steps. With your help and a boost was taken a step child, entered the house and settle in the chair exhausted complained of rheumatic pain in his knees. Invited him to sit in the small dining room and escaped his memory by compressing the space.
The breeze from the Tortuguero beach cooling the broad porch of the house, no fences or barriers. The only obstacle in the eyes was the red roof of the office. Front access to the steps of the pier overlooking the step of locals, the rise and fall of the guards, sailors accompanied by women euphoric happy to merchant ships, from chambered, drunk and unemployed. Discovered the dish of the day of the port families stocked up on meat and vegetables in the market contributes Dona Bernarda Pena, located down the stairs, behind the barracks of the guard.
Expectant enjoyed guayoleras of Tapalwas talks, the insistent demand for Masayita guarón drink, your favorite carpenter, without neglecting the barking of dogs that warned of intruders in the backyard stealing their prized " handle sugar." Listening to twenty-two caliber rifle took the counter stored in the room and shot out into the yard scaring. Once you shoot Patent, gave the wing half hat and cried Oh, Don Octavio and killed me!, Fainted from fright and never disappeared or handles chickens, kept in check.
In the room, Don Octavio, her husband, filled the air with his presence. Alto and thin, always dressed in neat, starched long sleeve shirt and khaki pants. They called him "Colonel" for his appearance and reliability. HIV-positive clients who made efforts in search of rings and permits for hog slaughter in the fiscal agency, housed in the same room where liquor sold sandpaper. In the morning his regular customers were Leonidas, Felipe Man, Victorian and African, all chambered in the spring. In each rise to the burden of the twenty five steps, rested, entered the room, they took a double shot and rushed to spit out. In both up and down, before noon they were drunk. The African was the only one who had to transport wagon load, called "I leave when I want" because drunk, shaking staring across the street, shouting that those who passed him.
At midday the room was filled with the customs office, customs agents, stevedores and ranking guards who took a small room of rum served with bird's mouth. It was a festive atmosphere regardless of occupation, race, class and even less political activism because they called each other "comrades." When quench their thirst alcohol, Don Octavio closed the business, taking a double shot of whiskey for good digestion, lunch with royal style and made the obligatory siesta. She proceeded to revive the ancestral fire oven, kneaded and baked flour pupusas, rosquetes, pudding, plain bread and toast, who finished sampled in the voyages of merchant ships in the Caribbean.
Coming from Bluefields, Pancho, Maria Teresa and Rosalind did her homework and helped with chores always accumulated in the big house, filling it with joy. In the evenings, went out into the hallway and settled into the same rocking chair where she now complained of knee pain. Listening to the incessant sound of typewriters, from the customs agency of Pedro Joaquin Bustamante, located on the left side of the house, watching the diligent employees travel to the offices of Colonel Peters, administrator of the office, anxious to finalize policies, statements, references and receipts of all types of goods loaded and unloaded ships in huge warehouses. Jimmy Wilson, a heavy smoker, went into the corridor expelling puffs of smoke imported cigarettes, listening to the prosecution of employees and the passing of his beloved Morcley cute.
the right side of the corridor, rented a house to the telegraph office. Frank watched the telegraph, assist the public in a piece of paper carrying their messages and then turned them into points, lines and dots, to convey greetings, congratulations, condolences, good and bad news. He was a strange and lonely night in a radio listening to tangos and laughed out loud, imagining a luxurious lounge dancing with some "Che."
asked about the nightlife and noted discomfort in his gestures. At night everything was quiet, all you heard was the noise of the longshoremen on the dock who worked until dawn. At about eight o'clock at night, sailors attending to women returning happy, they took a couple of drinks and went in a procession of bars, starting with Miss Lillian, Miss Pett, the Pachanga , Cabin, the Equestrian, until they were drunk at home, the nest of whores the Shirley , Vietnam. Do you remember Vietnam?
I'm tired, help me up, he said. Concerned by the cry that he saw him asked him fucking Ideay not remember anything!, You forgot the Vietnam and now the nights you came hungry to Pancho drink the first boil of the truncheon of beans!, Do you think I did not realize?, smoked insurance with Guerri, fox and black John Glenn this stinking weed, because it destroyed everything they could find in the kitchen. Come on, help me, I'm going to bed. When you go put it in the chain, lest they get the smoke stone. Go give your back, followed the road and if you see things better than before telling me to realize raisins. And the rifle twenty-two?, He asked. Look, there is still fear him, said lying in bed. He said goodbye kissing her forehead, crossed the road and did not pass by the house of Dona Juana Angulo.
Hill, New Guinea.
Monday, March 14, 2011.
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