SIETE MINUTOS BY ISMAEL CAMACHO ARANGO: JARAMILLO

Homer imagined the money he might make with the heads, while the tree of life swayed in the breeze. The death of his parents ran through his mind, as the noises of the world intruded in this reality and the breeze caressed his face.

He must have dozed for a few moments, because the sun had gone behind the clouds when he opened his eyes. Homer didn’t notice a shadow moving through the garden.

At first the red bricks looked grubby but then a little boy with dirty clothes and picking his nose stood against the wall. Homer hoped the child might go away, but after moving along the path the apparition stopped by the tree.

“I must be dreaming,” Homer muttered to himself.

Having played with invisible companions during his childhood, he thought the child couldn’t be real, while looking at him under the rays of the sun.

“Hi,” Homer said.

That single phrase broke some of the ice, while the flies flew around them and Jose picked his nose.

“Where is your mother?” the child asked.

Homer shrugged. “She died.

“She died?”

“Yes.”

Looking at the kitchen window, Homer noticed the bottles he had left there a few days before, and the cloth Maria used to wipe the surfaces.

His mother had gone to the kingdom of the sky some time ago, but a mirage like Jose wouldn’t understand that. Even though Homer had grown into a tall man with green eyes and dirty hair, Jose had remained the same in the confines of the garden.

”I had to leave early yesterday,” he said.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Time doesn’t exist here,” Jose said.

“What do you mean?” Homer asked.

“You’ll understand one day.”

Jose caressed the tree full of brown patches, as Homer barked. Jose imitated him, their voices rising amidst the plants covering the wall, the nature of time and life itself dissolving into nothing.

“Do you still want to be invisible?” Jose asked.

“I don’t know.”

Jose had not aged at all since the last time he had appeared, his eyes keeping that light brown colour while his cheeks looked dirty.

“Where is your uncle?” the child asked.

“He’s a journalist in New York.”

“Good for him.”

Memories of that day flooded Homer’s mind, as he looked at a toy car rotting amidst the wild flowers, but the tricycle Uncle Hugh had given him had survived amidst the mud.

“Can you guess the future?” Homer asked.

“It’s all around you.”

“What do you mean?”

”I can’t tell you anymore.”

The sounds of the garden intruded in their silence. At first Jose talked of life, but now he mentioned the future. Ignoring his invisible friend, Homer touched his nose and Jose did the same thing.

“You seem to guess my thoughts,” Homer said.

Jose played with the lower branches of the tree, dislodging a few leaves and some of the seeds. They would bring more life to the garden one day. As Homer studied his friend, he remembered the invisibility cloak protecting him against the world.

“Shut your eyes,” Jose said.

Homer didn’t know what surprise the child had for him, but then the sound of voices intruded in his reality. On opening his eyes, he saw Maria accompanied by a tall man.

“He wanted to see you,” she said.

“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I’m Jaramillo.”

Wearing smart clothes, he kept away from the wall and the branches of the tree full of bird muck.

”I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” he said.

Brushing a few cobwebs sticking to his shirt, Jaramillo avoided the dirty patches in the garden.

“I’m a friend of your Uncle Hugh,” he said.

“He’s in New York.”

“I met him there.”

After rummaging in his bag, he showed Homer pictures of the shrunken head along some articles about the Amazonian jungle he must have cut from a magazine.

“A New York shop wants more heads,” he said.

Images of all the money he might make went through Homer’s mind, as he took the journalist back to the kitchen full of trash. He put a few things on the floor, as dust enveloped them like a mantle. Jaramillo coughed and Homer muttered apologies.

I’m sorry,” Homer said.

“When will you go to the jungle?” Jaramillo asked

“I must wait for the Indian to come back.”

While opening a map full of greasy spots, Homer looked for the mark the Indian had made with a pencil a few days before

“He must live by the Guaviare River,” he said.

“Your heads must be there,” Jaramillo said.

“I think so.”

Homer sipped some coffee Maria had brought them, while looking at Mitu, the capital of the Guaviare province. He didn’t care if he had to ride amidst the wild life.

“He wants coca leaves,” he said.

“Can’t they grow them in the jungle?” Jaramillo asked

“I don’t know.”

“It’s incredible.”

Jaramillo left a few greasy spots in the paper, while writing the conversation in his notebook. He must have touched something dirty when sitting at the table. Wiping his hands in his handkerchief, he examined them carefully before writing more things about the heads.

“I’ll take civilization to remote parts of the jungle,” Homer said.

“Well done.”

After writing Homer’s statements for future reference, Jaramillo spent a few moments wiping his hands in his handkerchief.

“You must come to my office next time,” Jaramillo said.

Having put his pen and paper in his bag, he got ready to go back to his office at the other end of town.

“Call me if the Indian comes again,” he said.

“I’ll do that.”

After making his way through all the boxes, papers and other things, he reached the shop, where Miguel served a customer.

“I’ll be in contact,” the journalist said, before
disappearing amidst the merchandise waiting to be sold to the public.

Avis Rental Car</div>

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