mi was trying fi keep up di mystery wid oonu [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70365-flirt.gif[/img] </div></div>
Yuh a fambly fi troo [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70459-hugs.gif[/img] </div></div>
mi wonda if is money cousin phattu want fram mi [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70402-thinking.gif[/img]
mi was trying fi keep up di mystery wid oonu [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70365-flirt.gif[/img] </div></div>
Yuh a fambly fi troo [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70459-hugs.gif[/img] </div></div>
mi wonda if is money cousin phattu want fram mi [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70402-thinking.gif[/img]
Yes [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/bubble.gif[/img] But it look all yuh go get is a lousy T-shirt [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/bubble.gif[/img]
<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Phatty</div><div class="ubbcode-body">
Yes [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/bubble.gif[/img] But it look all yuh go get is a lousy T-shirt [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/bubble.gif[/img] </div></div>
Sorry but we nuh gi weh nuh Pulitzer. [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/nahnahnay.gif[/img]
<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: MsP2U</div><div class="ubbcode-body">Seveen a wah wrang wid yu? I suggest yu go start a thread an call it "Seveen's writings" or some such ting and post away an stop mash up di ting...
</div></div>
MsPeePee... you are going to have to do better than this. This HARDLY qualifies as a short story. [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70388-shameonyou.gif[/img] Wheel and come again.
<span style='font-size: 17pt'>The Girl with the Red Shoes</span>
It was just after six when I stubbed out my last Belmont, took a final slug of cafe con leche and stumbled out of the grimy coffee bar onto the wide boulevard. There was no point in hanging around inside and whiling away the hours watching TV and waiting for news from Caracas. The generals had taken the state network off the air, and the private stations had imposed a news blackout. Besides, it was a glorious afternoon and the solitary bridge that connected Cuidad Bolivar to the remote settlements on the far side of the Orinoco River was silhouetted against the orange glow of the setting sun.
As I began walking slowly back towards the Hotel Colonial, I felt a hand tugging at my shirtsleeve. I turned and saw a slim mestizo girl dressed in a short black shirt and glossy red shoes. She was pretty, but in that slightly faded way that spoke of an empty fridge and too many late nights.
“Charma, I want to have your babies” said the girl, flicking back her dyed blond hair with her hand as she pushed her chest close up against me. I must have looked like what I was: a typical know-nothing gringo in spanking new Nikes with Raybans wrapped around my forehead like an aspiring Hollywood film star. No wonder she picked on me.
“No es possible para me” I lied. “Yo no tengo pinga. Un accidente terrible” I said, pointing at my flies and making a scissor motion with my fingers.
A second or two elapsed as the girl tried to judge the veracity of my outlandish claims. And then, inexplicably and without warning, she looked upwards and screamed.
***
The day before, on the hotel balcony overlooking the Orinoco, Helga was holding forth about the president. “The thing about Hugo Chavez is that he means business” she said earnestly, banging her beer glass down on the table for emphasis. “Venezuela is going through a revolution!” If it were not for the little crows feet still visible behind the disguise of her foundation, I would have put her at no more than forty. It’s always the eyes that betray a woman’s age.
“You think so?” I replied. “To me, he seems more like a typical Latin American caudillo. I’ve heard it all before. These guys talk about doing something for the poor, then as soon as they get elected they forget all about their promises and cosy up to the Americans just like all the rest.”
I stopped abruptly, realising that I was making a speech. And anyway, who was I to disabuse Helga of her illusions? She might be an idealist, but at least she was spending her time in Cuidad Bolivar learning something about the people. All I was doing was doing was using the place as a staging post whilst I waited for the next single engine Cesna to fly me to Angel Falls. Me and all the other dumb tourists.
“You think I’m naive, don’t you?” said Helga, reading my mind. “But I’ve spent the last couple of months teaching German in the barrios that surround this city. Something extraordinary is happening, except that nobody has noticed. The poor have gotten themselves organised and are taking control. Chavez has sent the army into the barrios, not to kill people, but to build houses for them. The upper classes are terrified that Venezuela is going to become another Cuba.”
“Well if what you’re saying is true, Chavez sounds more like an Allende than a Castro” I interjected. “And we all know what happens to Latin American leaders who rock the boat. Actually, that’s not quite true. How many yanks do know what their government did in Chile in ’73? Do you know the date of the coup? September the eleventh. About the same number of people killed too.” I was rambling again.
“So how long is this government going to last?” I asked, holding up two fingers to the waiter and pointing at the empty bottles of Polar.
Helga leaned forward and put her hand on my knee. “Maybe a day, maybe a month, maybe twenty years. No one knows. But don’t underestimate the ordinary people. They are with Chavez”
“I can’t see them” I said, gesturing towards the TV set in the corner of the bar. As usual, the presenter was talking about Chavez. “Is the president insane?” she was asking a panel of military men. The waiter flicked over the channel. A camera unit was broadcasting live from the scene of a huge anti-government demonstration. People in designer clothing and expensive jewellery kept putting their white faces in front of the camera and screaming abuse: Chavez is a killer! Chavez, go and live in Cuba! Chavez, you must die like a dog! A few days ago I would have stared at the screen, open mouthed. Now it just seemed normal.
“Do you miss Germany?” I asked. “Which one?” Helga said. “There’s still two Germanys. We in the East wanted socialism and democracy. We lost the former, and when we got the latter, it turned out to be a sugar-coated lie. That’s why I’m here, slaving away for 80 dollars a week. It’s better than being unemployed back home, even if it doesn’t pay as well.”
Then, out of the blue, Helga asked me if I was married.
“Sort of” I replied.
“Seperated?”
I nodded and forced a smile. It had been nearly a year since we had split. It was the little things I missed, like the way she used to wake me up in the mornings with a cup of milky coffee and a kiss on my forehead. I thought of her with the lover she finally took, after suffering years of my infidelities. I wonder if they’re making love right now? I looked at my watch and tried to work out what time it was in London. Are they five hours ahead or five hours behind? I’d been away far too long.
Then there was silence. A nice comfortable understanding silence. We were both running away, Helga and I. She from the wall in her head that had never come down. And me? That was easy. I was running from every mid-life cliché ever invented, and in the process confirming them all.
We sat there for a few minutes more, watching TV and smoking. “We’re like a couple of overgrown gap-year students” I said finally. Helga laughed. “Yes, I suppose we are” she said.
“Nino” I said, raising my eyebrows at the waiter. “La cuenta, por favour”
***
That night Helga and I made love for the first time. As we caressed each another between the sheets and our bodies began to move in unison, the army began to move through the streets. When we were finished, Helga turned on the radio to listen to some jazz. Instead there was a public announcement. We had a new government. Chavez had been ousted in a coup.
I awoke at noon with a headache from oversleeping. Helga had left me a note saying that she was returning to the barrio to be with “her people”. I decided to skip breakfast and take a walk. The streets were tense with expectation and shopkeepers were boarding up their windows. The curfew was due to begin at six. Everyone felt that something was about to happen, but nobody knew quite what. After a couple of hours of strolling around aimlessly, I found the grimy little coffee bar. It was the sort of place you could spend all day in without annoying the owners. I ordered an arepa and coffee and settled down to read the papers.
***
By the time I stumbled out of the coffee bar, I had forgotten all about the curfew. When the girl with red shoes screamed and looked upwards, my eyes followed hers. Perched atop the roof of the building opposite was a sniper, his rifle trained on us. He was just a boy, no more than 19 or 20 years old. “Pare!” he shouted. Stop! I could sense the fear in his voice and wondered how a young British soldier must have felt in Belfast during the troubles. The girl panicked and started to run. “Pare!” the sniper shouted again. I put my hands up and shut my eyes.
When I opened them, the girl was lying slumped on the pavement, crumpled up like a discarded rag doll. There was a look of incomprehension on what was left of her face. I dragged her limp body over to a shop doorway and laid her down next to a small pile of garbage. I tore a strip off the back of her skirt, leaving her bottom partly exposed to the eyes of the sniper. As if to explain this act of defilement, I placed the ragged piece of cloth over her bloodied head and shoulders and said the only prayer I could remember from my schooldays.
I lit another Belmont and sat there in silence, counting the armoured cars and trucks as they made their way slowly across the Orinoco bridge like a little army of green ants. Charma, I wanna have your babies, the girl had said. The sounds of gunshots and breaking glass were getting louder and in the distance I could hear chanting: El pueblo unido, jamas sera vencido. I imagined Helga amongst the crowd, wearing a black bandana, her eyes lit up with fervour and anger. I suddenly understood that Helga and the sniper and girl no longer had to make a choice. I did. I picked myself up and began to walk.
<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Magic</div><div class="ubbcode-body"><div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Phatty</div><div class="ubbcode-body">
Yes [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/bubble.gif[/img] But it look all yuh go get is a lousy T-shirt [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/bubble.gif[/img] </div></div>
Sorry but we nuh gi weh nuh Pulitzer. [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/nahnahnay.gif[/img] </div></div>
Come on man chrow in one a di coffee cup an a Sweat shirt [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/bubble.gif[/img]
We process personal data about users of our site, through the use of cookies and other technologies, to deliver our services, personalize advertising, and to analyze site activity. We may share certain information about our users with our advertising and analytics partners. For additional details, refer to our Privacy Policy.
By clicking "I AGREE" below, you agree to our Privacy Policy and our personal data processing and cookie practices as described therein. You also acknowledge that this forum may be hosted outside your country and you consent to the collection, storage, and processing of your data in the country where this forum is hosted.
Tweet
Comment