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Go shoppingA bright chink of sunshine falls in through the open flap of a tepee onto two sleeping forms. The smaller one tosses and turns:
‘An early start godamnit… that’s what it is, hombre. Well who’s to say what’s early or what isn’t? One man’s early is another man’s… and godonlyknows what time it is in Karachi, say, or Kinshasa, or in Napoli where Mama is making pasta, hands all covered in flour, hair whipped up on top of her head…’
[private]All of a sudden the speaker lifts his head, looks around and lowers it. A bit of time passes till he raises himself on one arm with difficulty and begins again:
‘Now for the loveofchrist I’m awake! All I need is a good strong coffee and… Titán, hombre, wake up!’
And after a bit:
‘Goliat, heuvón, for christsake despiértate!’
And after a little more:
‘Gigante, levántate! Move your arse!’
And after a quite a bit more:
‘Monstruo, vamos, godamnit, let’s go!’
A huge roar cuts through the silence:
‘No, no, no. Titán, Goliat or Gigante I can live with, hombre. But Monstruo is too much. You make me angry, Ratón. Now I’m awake.’
‘Precioso – if I’d known it would have that effect on you I’d have said it earlier.’
‘Like you’re wide awake yourself! Look at you; eyes full of crusts… .’
‘Hey Gigante, don’t waste time talking all your bullshit, hombre, we got things to do today, places to go, people to see.’
Ratón busily fills a pot with coffee and water and sticks it on the gas ring.
‘Stop fooling around, heuvón, we don’t have anything to do today,’ groans Gigante.
‘You forget already?’
‘Forget what? I know what I need to do. I need coffee, I need marijuana, I need a woman.’
‘We have coffee and weed, hombre, but no women.’
‘What we doing wrong, man? The valley’s filled with them.’
‘We ain’t doing nothing, hombre. Speak for yourself.’
‘Eh? Eh? Eeeeeeeh? Like you had Venus de Milo in the sack last night. No, if you had, I’d have borrowed her.’
‘Can’t manage one every night, Gigante, I’m getting old – look at these grey hairs! Here, drink this godamn coffee, jilipollas.’
‘Eh, Italian bastard, you are my patron saint. San Ratón, the saint of caffeine and sinsemilla. But no, I don’t pray to you, you fail to bring me women.’
‘I’m not a sorcerer, godamnit, just a saint, you Belgian son of a whore.’
‘Careful or I crush you in my right hand.’
‘The one you wipe your backside with?’
‘Yes – the same one I….’
‘Then smoke this with your left, por favor.’
‘Mmm, smells sweet. The same as we smoke last night?’
‘Mas o menos. Vamos, hombre, must be almost eleven.’
‘Since when you started worrying about time, hermano?’
‘Since we got to get to Granada before siesta, godamnit.’
‘Eh? Eh? Eeeeeeeh? Today? We go today! I forget. OK, I’m ready.’
The two men get out of their sleeping bags fully dressed. Outside the tepee, embers still glow from last night’s fire. They pick their way through other eco-tents, yurts and rebuilt ruins scattered along the riverbed. The sounds of people waking up and making breakfast fill the air. A heavily-pierced guy sporting a Mohican is tapping out Arabic rhythms on his drum. Another, naked but for the tattoo of a snake at the base of his spine, is lost in meditation. An emaciated pale blonde woman with lips stained black holds a tricky yoga position. Grubby kids with long hair and loose shirts splash in the water. The Italian exchanges greetings with those who look up and the Belgian nods. Crossing the river they walk downstream till they come to a dirt road. An old and battered Citroën 2CV sits amongst a handful of vans and cars.
Gigante heads for the driver’s seat but Ratón calls:
‘Hey, Titán, can I drive?’
Gigante throws him the keys. He squeezes into the passenger seat, folds his knees up against his chest, broad back spilling over the backrest, head touching the ceiling. His mop of uncombed coarse dark hair hangs over his pock-marked, Flemish features. After a few tries, Ratón starts up. Slim, with a thick head of ginger dreads turning grey at the temple, he wears it tucked into a large knitted Rasta hat. His pleasant rodent features are lit by mischievous eyes and an easy smile. The car splutters its way up the mountain.
‘No music?’ Ratón asks.
‘I did… but it fell through the fucking dashboard on my way here.’
‘This is terrible. If there’s no music I sing.’
‘OK, Ratón, I block my ears.’
‘Ah, mira, a hitch-hiker. She’s cute.’
The car skids to a halt. A young woman leans down and peers in. ‘Hola, chica!’
‘Para Granada?’ she asks in a soft accent. Her Andalusian face is framed in soft sand-coloured curls. She’s wearing a very brightly coloured shirt over faded jeans. She carries no bag.
‘Si, pero, cerca.’
She nods and calls to her son who’s playing in the dirt at the edge of the road:
‘Almendra?’
He comes, dragging his feet. She starts to get in, Ratón’s foot slips off the brake pedal and the car jerks a little forward. Gigante throws him a dirty look.
‘You wanna drive, hombre?’
‘No, Ratón, the road is yours.’
The car starts, stops a little and starts again. The woman’s world shrinks from the open road to this small space filled by the men. For ten minutes there is silence. Then she asks:
‘Where are you from?’
‘Beneficio, and you?’ replies the Italian.
‘Above… Casa del Viento, you know it?’
‘Yeah, sure I do. Beautiful.’
‘You’re from Italy?’
‘Napoli.’
‘How long have you been in Spain?’
‘Three months… but I lived here several years ago, before I lived in South America.’
‘South America? Where?’
‘All over, from Mexico to Brazil.’
‘You worked there?’
‘I wanted to chef my way across the continent. But no one would give me a job. I took my knives, my whites, my hat… and left them with a friend in Caracas. He wore them to cook dinner for his girlfriend!’ Ratón throws up his hands in a gesture of despair. The car coasts effortlessly.
‘Hey, Ratón, keep your hands on the wheel. You were in South America, fortheloveofchrist – when you were younger?’ The Belgian asks.
‘Of course I was younger – I was younger yesterday, hombre!’
‘What the hell did you do there, then?’
‘Artisan stuff, you know, making jewellery that sort of thing. To eat and drink is dead cheap out there. Ahhh, Colombia, it was turbo, hombre, pure turbo!’ He laughs loudly.
The boy is whispering to his mother in the back.
‘Almendra needs to go for a pee. Can we stop a moment?’
‘Sure,’ the Italian swerves onto the hard shoulder suddenly and slams on the brakes. The mother and child get out, closing the door behind them.
‘Gorgeous,’ whispers Gigante.
‘Mmmmm.’
‘Graçias, we’re done, vamos.’
‘And you, where are you from?’ asks Ratón.
‘From Sevilla. Just getting away for a bit.’
‘Good place for it. You should visit Beneficio.’
‘Is it in the valley?’
‘It’s the free settlement down by the river.’
‘What’s a free settlement?’
‘Where people just hang out…’
‘And do?’
‘Anything. Nothing. Whatever they want.’
‘How do you survive?’
‘Doing this and that. Some work the land, others make things… ‘
‘Most, forchristsake,’ the Belgian twists with difficulty in his seat, ‘Most do absolutely fuck all. They’re a bunch of drug addicts. There are two types of people that smoke. The sort that do things, like us, and those that have nothing but fucking air behind their eyeballs.’
She giggles:
‘Doesn’t sound so bad.’
‘Oh Titán, hombre, you make us sound like a bunch of derelicts. But we are the same as any other village. There are good folk and bad, ginger ones, like me, and giants like you… we could do with a few more beautiful ones like you… ‘. The Italian’s narrow blue eyes catch the Spaniard’s large brown ones in the mirror and hold them for a moment. He adds:
‘… the perfect spot to forget your family.’
‘If only it was that easy,’ she stares out the window, addressing the valley below. ‘Where are you going?’
‘In life?’
‘No, I mean right now.’
‘Oh. To… I forget what it’s called… the place to get parts for a car?’
‘A garage?’
‘No, where old cars die.’
‘Ahh, un deshuesadero.’
‘Yeah, that’s it. To get a part for Coloso’s car. And you?’
‘To Granada. I wanted to take Almendra to see the processions. Not that I’m Catholic, but we need to get out.’
‘It’s a cool name, Almendra, I like it.’
‘It’s just what I call him, on account of his eyes. His friends call him Pepe.’
‘How old are you, Pepe?’
‘More than five.’
‘More than five! So am I, so am I! How much more, hombre?’
The child shrugs.
‘Almost a month more,’ she says.
‘Man, you just had a birthday. That’s cool. And your name?’
‘Eva.’
‘Mucho gusto, Eva. I’m… .’
The car heads straight for some striped bollards, Gigante hollers,
‘Eh? Eh? Eeeeeeeh?’ Ratón turns the car deftly back on course.
‘This is Ratón. And I’m Gigante. Or Coloso. Or Titán… but never Monstruo. Where should we drop you, Eva? We need to turn off soon. Would the petrol station do? You’ll probably get a lift from here.’
‘Almendra, which would you rather see, the procession or go to el deshuesadero?’
‘El deshuesadero, Mama.’
‘Well that settles it… if that’s OK with you guys.’
‘Of course,’ the Italian says with a broad grin. He realises Gigante hasn’t been listening; he elbows him,
‘Hey, Gigante, it’s fine if they come with us, isn’t it?’
‘Sure! If you don’t mind an exhaust pipe in your lap on the way home.’
‘No, it would make Almendra’s day, wouldn’t it?’
The boy nods.
‘Best to go with the flow,’ she adds, to herself.
They follow hand-painted signs to the deshuesadero. Its four walls are brightly graffitied, making it stand out against the rugged landscape. They pull up inside the gate. Pile after pile of spares are arranged, like with like. Mountains of bumpers lie beside hills of hubcaps and plateaux of windscreens. The Italian honks loudly several times and, pulling a tin box from his pocket, starts to roll a joint. By the time a wizened old man with long hair and beard shows up, with a boy a fraction smaller than Almendra following, he’s already passed it back to Eva. He hops out of the car:
‘Hey, Francisco,’ he exhales and smiles, ‘how you doing, hombre?’
The men shake hands, the old boy pulls his pipe from his mouth and they kiss on both cheeks.
‘Been a while, Pelirrojo. Haven’t seen you for years… almost Peligris like me! Must have been before Antonio was born.’
‘Hey, he’s your son? Handsome, like his dad. Well I ain’t got a car these days, but my amigo, Coloso,’ Gigante shakes Francisco’s hand through the open window, ‘needs an exhaust pipe.’
The old man scratches his head, then his chin. He takes a walk around the rear of the car puffing on his pipe. He jiggles some bits and returning says:
‘Drive straight down this path, take the second left by the níspero and wait by the exhausts.’
Francisco and his son are already waiting for them when they get there. Almendra starts climbing up a stack of car doors and Antonio is there in a flash. They disappear together. Gigante and Francisco fish through the exhausts till they find one that looks about right and the old boy pulls himself beneath the undercarriage, getting Gigante to pass him what he needs. Ratón and Eva sit a few yards away, smoking.
‘He’s a lucky boy, your son.’
‘Why?’
‘To have you as a mother.’
‘But really, you don’t know anything.’
‘Perhaps I don’t. But I think he’s lucky.’
‘He’d be luckier if I was at home with my husband.’
‘Why?’
‘Your criteria for a woman are not the same as his are for a mother.’
‘And what are my criteria?’
‘Well, if I was fat with a moustache, would you say he was lucky?’
‘It depends.’
‘I don’t think so. You mean you wish I was your mother or, better still, your lover. But Almendra doesn’t care that I’m attractive, he just wants stability. And I’m not giving him that right now. Think of your mother, how do you picture her?’
‘Making pasta.’
‘You see? A nice earthy, maternal image. Would you want her running off to the countryside to find herself?’
‘It would probably do her a world of good. And you’re wrong – my mother is extremely beautiful and I like her like that. Whatever Almendra wants, he has to accept that you have your own life… and so do you.’
‘Easy to say when you’re not a parent.’
‘I am.’
‘Really!’ She’s silent for a bit. ‘Where’s your child?’
‘With their mother in Brazil.’
‘You left her?’
‘She didn’t want me around. Said she was better off without me – she probably was.’
‘Have you seen them since?’
‘No – it’s too expensive. And she’s got a new man, so I’d be a spare wheel. Better I stay away.’
‘I don’t think so. Almendra misses his father terribly. He doesn’t say so, but he does. But perhaps it’s easier for men to take a step back.’
‘I don’t find it easy. But I couldn’t tear the kids away from their mother. Stability is seeing the same face every day. I never did. So you see, I think Almendra is lucky.’
Gigante sticks his cabbage head out from behind the car:
‘He’s inviting us back to his oficina – for a beer.’
Ratón looks at Eva. When she nods he leans into the car and blows the horn a few times to get the boys’ attention. Almendra shows up covered in as much grease as his new friend:
‘Mama, let’s stay a little.’
‘Sure; we’re stopping for beer, climb in or follow behind.’
The two boys run behind, one dragging a rusty bumper, the other rolling a tire. Ratón pulls up in front of a cement shack. Inside a desk is covered in newspaper and empty bottles. The men leave the only chair for Eva and sit down on a couple of old batteries.
‘He wants to show you a couple of cars he’s put together,’ Ratón translates Francisco for Goliat’s benefit.
‘Do I look like I could afford a new car, heuvón?’
‘Just to look, hombre.’
The old boy opens an icebox and hands everyone a warm beer. Then he beckons Gigante out back. The boys follow.
‘You are right, though, I’d like to be your lover,’ says Ratón, softly.
‘Why?’
‘Because you are beautiful, gentle, wise… I like your spirit. I suspect your old love is tired. They should have deshuesaderos for people when their love has broken down… Then they could come find new loves, or perhaps just bits of ones, to fix the first.’
‘People aren’t like cars, though, they have histories. You don’t know me.’
‘I’d like to.’
‘Sex is not how to know someone. It would mean nothing to you after all the women you’ve had. And it would cost me too much.’
‘What makes you think I’ve been with lots of women? And cost you, how?’
‘I would feel dirty. I’m not one of these hippie women with no pride.’
‘Does it make you feel dirty to speak to me?’
‘No, that’s different.’
‘Or to let me drive you here?’
‘No.’
‘Or to kiss me? You’ve kissed hundreds of cheeks, you’re Castilian after all.’
‘No, but…’
‘C’mon, is it such a big step to make love to someone? Especially someone you find attractive? Do you find me attractive?’
‘Yes! No! I do… but it’s one thing to find someone attractive and another to jump into bed with them.’
‘I am not just someone. Are you?’
‘No, but we are strangers.’
‘Then let’s make love and we won’t be any more.’
‘You are crazy.’
‘No, I’m in love.’
‘In love! You have no idea what the word means!’ her voice is raised and she turns red as Francisco and Gigante walk back into the shack, talking about cars. They fall silent. Francisco tells Ratón about his other two kids. He complains about the drought and about the English pushing up land prices.
All four are quiet on the drive back; they’d missed the scenery on the way over: the charming Andaluz villages, the winding road cut through rock, the windmills’ spinning paddles, the ruined fort on an outcrop of rocks. Just as they reach Lanjarón, the sun drops behind the mountain. As they cross the river Eva says:
‘Here, the turning is just here. Thank you for the lift and el deshuesadero… ‘
The Italian says nothing and swerves left, up the mountain road.
‘Please, don’t go out of your way… we can walk.’
‘It’s so easy to drive, though.’
And then:
‘Will you come and visit us in Beneficio?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I’d like to see you again, Eva.’
Near Casa Viejo’s gate a middle-aged man leans against the stone wall, his suitcase on the dirt. He is wearing city clothes, and his pasty, pockmarked face wears an expression of exasperation.
‘Papa. It’s Papa!’
The mother and boy get out of the car. Almendra runs towards his father without a backward glance. Ratón sticks his head out of his window. Eva bends down and kisses his cheek. And passes her hand through the window to shake the Belgian’s huge paw.
‘Adios Gigante. Adios Ratoncita!’
She turns and walks slowly up the path.[/private]
Cassandra Passarelli has run a bakery, a charity and sub-edited; travelled in the Middle East and Africa and studied literature, journalism and creative writing. These days she runs a library in a Guatemalan rainforest village (caldopiedra.blogspot.com). She has been published in Cinnamon Press, Pulp.net, Salt River Review and by Skrev Press.
