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

something. His parent’s death had been preordained from across the abyss of time.
“Are you all right?” Maria asked.
“I want you,” he said.
His life had been filled with impossibilities from the moment his uncle had visited them and Jose had appeared in his life. On arriving at the cemetery, Homer saw the mourners gathering by the chapel of rest, drops of rain falling on the earth. Father Ricardo appeared by their side.
“The world will miss her,” he said.
“I know,” Homer said.
His mother had been a saint, following the right path during her life.
“God has her now,” the priest said, getting ready to deliver his message of love amidst the rain.
“Dear people,” he said. “We have lost an angel of mercy on this earth.”
Homer found some coca leaves in his pockets in order to forget his pain. After sprinkling holy water over the coffin, Father Ricardo muttered a few prayers to our lord, before shutting mother’s eyes forever.
“Ashes to ashes,” he said.
“Amen,” everyone said.
Homer remembered the day he had flown up to the tree of life with its branches searching for the sky. Then drops of rain fell around him, thunder exploding in his world.
“The Devil wants to interrupt this service,” Father Ricardo said.
He talked of the work mother had started in this world, helping poor souls go to the kingdom of heaven.
“She gave me a sum of money every week for helping the poor,” he said.
Homer heard all the things his mother had done, tears of frustration wetting his eyes.
“This woman devoted most of her existence to charity,” the priest said.
Thinking of all the money his mother had spent in the poor, Homer chewed some more coca leaves.
“She will be remembered by the meek,” Father Ricardo said.
A long line of children appeared along the path, before throwing roses on the grave.
“She gave them everything they needed,” father Ricardo said.
Homer cried on Maria’s chest for all the times he had wanted a toy or nice clothes while his mother gave everything to charity. Father Ricardo kept on talking of mother’s good work in the kingdom of God.
“She left a life insurance for a widow’s charity,” he said.
A few women dressed in black praised his mother’s work on this earth.
“She was a good woman,” Maria said.
“We didn’t have any money,” Homer said.
“God will thank her,” she said.
“I hope so.”
The crowd dispersed under the rain and before something else happened.
“Let’s go,” Maria said.
Homer had to start anew. His shop would be the best in town, even if mother had given her money to charity.
“I’ll call my shop, El Baratillo,” he said.
“El Baratillo?”
Homer nodded. “Everything will be cheaper than anywhere else.”
“She was a good woman.”
“I know.”
He led her to the darkest part of the cemetery, where Jose’s face appeared amongst the graves and he touched her body.
“You shouldn’t trick me like that,” she said.
Homer remembered that world he had just glimpsed amidst the clouds of time, as he kissed her, tasting the coffee she had that morning.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.
Maria frowned. “You want to frighten me.”
He touched her teats, before rolling with her through the graves.
“The service has finished,” father Ricardo said.
Homer saw him by the mausoleum on his right, while Maria escaped his grasp and thunder echoed around them.
“You’ll never go to New York,” the priest said.
The visitor
El Baratillo became an institution: a neck tie that cost ten pesos, Homer sold for eight pesos and the same with everything else. One day something happened that changed his life. It started in a simple way like all the great things in the world, when an Indian with high cheek bones, a long black skirt and his hair in a pony tail had come in the shop. He waited by the dirty walls while Homer sold to the customers. Miguel had gone to sort out a consignment of coca leaves and Maria had stayed at home, helping her mother to tidy the house.
Homer thought the man had gone to sleep in a corner as he summoned enough courage to get closer, his eyes flickering in the shadows.
“Can I help you?” Homer asked.
Then the man showed him a packet. It could be a bomb or something else.
“I want you to go,” Homer said.
The Indian remained by the counter, his hands fiddling with the bag he held with care. The policemen patrolling the market during the day could get rid of him but something in the man’s face made him wait.
“I’ll call the police,” Homer said.
As the Indian opened the box, Homer crouched by the boxes of coca, expecting the man to burst in flames as a small head surrounded by black hair, its eyes shut and its lips sewn appeared out of the bag. Memories of all the people in the cages came back to Homer’s mind on looking at the head.
“Is it real?” he asked.
The Indian checked the bags of coca by his feet, while muttering to himself.
“Mmm,” the man said.
Homer understood why the Indian had brought the head to his shop: the fame of his coca leaves must have spread amongst the inhabitants of the jungle, while the little man sniffed the contents of the bags with pleasure.
“Do you want it?” Homer asked.
“Mmmm,” the man said.
“You have to bring me more heads.”
The Indian chewed coca leaves, as Homer thought he had discovered something 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 pay any attention to him, coca leaves had to be his favourite thing. Homer marvelled at the similarity between the man and the small head while boiling some water in the stove. Children should play with shrunken men instead of artificial toys, he thought.
“No heads,” Homer said pointing at the bags. “No coca.”
On looking in a wardrobe, he found a map of the country his father had kept amidst some papers. Opening it on the floor, the capital and big cities of the cordillera appeared next to the jungle.
“This is Florencia,” he said. “Where do you live?”
The Indian looked at the map, while Homer talked of piranhas and giant snakes eating men alive.
“This is the Guaviare River,” he said.
“River,” the Indian said.
Then the man pointed at a place in the jungle, lost amidst the trees and other things.
“That must be your home.” Homer said.
He jumped around the boxes littering the floor, interrupting the man’s scrutiny of the map.
“Do you go there by horse?” he asked.
He galloped around the room, jumping around the furniture while the man looked on.
"I want to know where you live," Homer said.
Indifferent to the question, the Indian sniffed the coca leaves inside the boxes. Homer showed him a few pictures he had found in a book, where the women washed their clothes by a river and a puma hid behind some trees.
“Jungle,” the Indian said.
Homer nodded. “You understand me.”
The Indian got ready to go back home, wherever that was.
“Wait a minute,” Homer said.
The Indian moved along the corridor, cradling one of the boxes in his hands.
“Remember to bring me more heads,” Homer said.
The Indian put the box in his satchel, before opening the door to the outside world. Homer watched the little man disappearing around the corner as the head waited on the table. On approaching his trophy, he noticed the black hair surrounding the small face where the lips had been sewn together. Someone must have died for the head to be in his possession or it might be a forgery. Then Maria appeared at the door.
“Something is on the floor,” she said.
The head must have fallen amidst the boxes, as she got ready to attack the thing with the mop.
“It’s a head,” he said.
“It’s horrible,” she said.
“I like it.”
“You are weird.”
“I know.”
Maria washed the plates piling in the sink without looking at the head but Homer didn’t know why she cared. It seemed like a toy head with its hard skin and shut eyes.