Siete minutos by Ismael Camacho Arango (the little red hen read aloud TXT) 📖

SIETE MINUTOS

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ISMAEL CAMACHO ARANGO
Translated and edited by Maria Camacho
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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, where his paper boats sailed towards infinity before capsizing in the mud.
“Hurrah,” he said.
Homer danced around the water, as a woman wearing a dressing gown and her hair tied in a bun, stood by the puddles Homer had made amidst the mud. Mother pushed a few strands of hair back while shivering in the breeze blowing through the garden.
“It’s time for lunch,” she said.
Those words brought Homer back to reality. He had to eat before conquering the world. Mother waited as he put his cars on a ledge by the door and away from
“Wash your hands now,” she said.
Leaving a trail of mud on the floor, 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 as mother brought the food to the table.
“I have a surprise for you,” father said.
Mother stopped with a plate in her hands, smoke rising to the ceiling like a staircase to heaven. Father didn’t bring surprises very often, apart from a day when he had found a puppy in the street but she had taken it to the dog shelter in spite of Homer’s complaints. A tall man interrupted the silence, his glasses shining under the light as silence filled everything.
“Uncle Hugh,” mother said. “We didn’t expect you today.”
“I have to work in the country.”
“Your job must be exciting,” she said.
Mother poured soup on another bowl as Uncle Hugh sat at the table.
“How was your journey?” she asked.
He shrugged. “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 not enjoyed the fresh Caribbean sun amidst his bouts of sickness, while his stomach hurt. Then the man put a large hand on Homer’s shoulders.
“I remember the day you rescued a dollar bill,” he said.
“After flying up the branches of a tree, he put it in his wet nappy,” mother said.
Homer knew all the rest. A neighbour who happened to be 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, as Father Ricardo praised the qualities of the child during Sunday mass because he was a star. Then 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 without much hair and a toothless smile, sitting in a chair. The man waited for the reaction to that moment in time when he had snapped reality forever.
“I developed it in my studio,” Uncle Hugh said.
“I remember those times,” mother said.
Mother served lunch in his plate, while talking of Homer’s birth in the mist of time. Born during a solar eclipse, he had cried with the retreating shadows while the doctors and nurses looked at the sun from the hospital roof. An old nurse who didn’t have good eyes had helped with the delivery, when she muttered those famous words:
“You have a girl,” she said.
The sun hid behind the moon as mother thought she had a daughter and father sulked. The nurse found her mistake a few minutes later.
“He was full of hair,” father said.
Mrs. Homer held a baby in one of the pictures in the wall, while Homer stood next to his parents in another one.
“Why did you call him Homer?” Uncle Hugh asked.
“We thought it might bring him luck.”
“He’s Homer Homer then.”
“That’s the idea.”
Uncle Hugh found a shiny cent in one of his pockets but Homer wanted to go back to the backyard, where his paper boats had battled against the ants invading the world.
“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 and the brown marks on the wall turned into monsters, fighting amidst the buildings of New York.
“Mum,” he said.
“You can have more soup,” she said.
Homer shook his head. “I want to play outside.”
“Silly child,” she said.
“He’s full of beans,” Uncle Hugh said.
Homer had to get some fresh air before his life finished once more but the adults didn’t care.
“He’ll get filthy,” mother said.
Uncle Hugh spoke of chasing film stars in their limousines in a place called Broadway, where Marilyn Monroe showed her pants forever on a day lost in time. Homer left the room as the adults discussed the value of the dollar in the world market and the backyard looked different. A boy appeared amidst the mud and Homer had a sense of déjà vu, while studying the child.
“Hello,” he said.
The stranger wiped his nose, leaving muddy streaks across his face as he didn’t have any manners.
“Would you like to play with my cars?” Homer asked.
The child ran one of the trucks along the dirt leading to the fence before picking his nose.
“I come from the jungle,” he said.
Those words broke the spell in Homer’s world.
“You’re a liar,” he said.
“I’m not.”
They fought amidst the dirt, disturbing a few birds looking for worms but as Homer barked, the child stopped his attack.
“I’m a dog,” Homer said.
“You are not.”
Jose took a deep breath and barked as Homer clapped his hands.
“Yes,” he said.
They barked while the dog next door howled and Homer’s mother appeared at the door.
“That dog is noisy,” she said. “I’ll complain to the owner.”
Homer must have met the boy under the dark sun or in another universe where time didn’t exist. The child gestured at the stars that had appeared in the sky.
“They’re mine,” he said.