THE TRIP

Wearing a gown and with his long hair in a pony tail, the Indian stood next to the tins of soup and bags of rice in the corner, while waiting for Homer to serve his customers. He resembled one of those statues of San Agustin in the Huila province, as a woman bumped into him.


“He’s from the jungle,” Homer said.

She smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Homer.”

“I have a few things you might like to see,” he said.

Homer put boxes on the floor, before holding a nice dress with golden buttons around the waist. It would look beautiful on the woman’s slender body with big breasts.

“It came from Paris yesterday,” he said. “I have my contacts there.”

Anything good in Paris had to look well in Homer’s shop. Holding it against her body, she looked at her reflection in the mirror by the counter, the fabric tagging her body.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Fiddling inside a drawer, he found some more clothes in different colours and sizes, their buttons shining under the light of the lamp.

“This red blouse must suit you,” he said.

She turned it around, inspecting the front and back, her eyebrows rising in admiration. After twirling in front of the mirror a few times, she seemed satisfied with the garment, but frowned on looking at the price.

“I’ll give you eighty pesos for this one,” she said.

He shrugged. “I’d be losing money.”

“Eighty pesos,” she said.

“One hundred is my last offer.”

“You will lose a customer, Mr. Homer.”

Everything seemed to stop, as she moved along the shop. He couldn’t let her go without buying anything or his universe might crumble.

“You can have it for ninety pesos,” Homer said.

“Eighty pesos.”

He shrugged. “Ninety.”

On handing it to her, he saw her hands running through the fabric, long nails caressing the material. A satisfied customer will bring more business, Homer thought. As she looked in her handbag, coins fell on the counter, disturbing the peace with their noise.

Then she handed him crisp notes she had must have withdrawn from the bank that morning, with the water mark and the signature of the vice-president of the country.

“You’ll look like a princess,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Homer.”

“And it’s a good price.”

“I hope so.”

She looked at the other dresses in the counter, while waiting for Homer to write a receipt. He hoped she would buy something else to go with the blouse.

“Do you want to see some other things?” he asked.

“I’ll come some other time.”

“I’ll have nice clothes next week,” he said.

“Fine, Mr. Homer.”

Waves of cheap perfume wafted in the air, as she moved towards the door, her hips waving with each step she took. Homer saw her moving along the street, before disappearing by the coffee shop in the corner. Next time he might even invite her to have a cup of tea. Going back to the counter, he saw the Indian in the shadows.

“Here is your bag of coca,” Homer said.

“Ummm,” the Indian said.

“I want my payment.”

“No,” the man said.

“You won’t haven it then.”

The man didn’t react or he had not understood one word. On opening his drawer, Homer found his gun, useful for settling any kind of dispute, but then he remembered the promise the Indian had made.

“Are we going to the jungle?” Homer asked.

The Indian nodded, as Miguel appeared at the door.

“I don’t like him, Mr. Homer,” he said.

“He’s harmless.”

“He wants you to believe that.”

Taking a few tins of food from the cellar, Homer put them in his bag, while the Indian’s dark eyes followed his actions.

“Where are you going?” Miguel asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You have to have some idea, Mr. Homer.”

“I’ll come back in a few days,” Homer said.

Straightening the bags of coca by the counter, Homer checked them for any holes or other imperfections. He didn’t want to find a nightmare of debts and angry customers on his return. Leaving his diary on the counter, he made sure the cash machine worked properly, before counting the clothes in the corner.

“You must write a receipt every time someone buys something,” Homer said.

Miguel nodded. “I know, Mr. Homer.”

Having had a last look at his merchandise, Homer put a few more things in his bag. He had bought a mosquito lotion and had a good watch to tell the time in the jungle, where he planned to offer the Indian lots of coca for many heads.

“I thought the journalist might come,” Miguel said.

Homer shook his head. “I want to go on my own.”

“He might kill you.”

“He won’t.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Homer.”

With the gun in his pocket, Homer thought the Indian might have a rough time if he tried anything funny during their journey. Jaramillo would be useless with his notebooks and the wild animals of the undergrowth.

Homer saw a shadow standing by the tree, his figure outlined against the grass and the plants. Thinking an intruder had gone in the backyard, he opened the back door, its handle falling on the floor. He had to repair it when he had some time. The backyard looked empty, as a squirrel stood on the wall and the tree overshadowed the floor. It had to be his imagination, triggered by his journey to the unknown.

On touching the tree branches, he remembered Uncle Hugh visiting them long ago. Miguel would keep his customers satisfied while he looked for his heads in the jungle.

Then Jose appeared by his side. Shutting his eyes, Homer hoped the apparition might go away, by the time he opened them again. The child had to be made of fantasy like many other things in his life.

“I thought you had gone,” Homer said.

“I never left you,” Jose said. “You’ll understand one day.”

He had gone as the Indian waited in the shadows. It had to be a miracle, like everything else in his life.

“Two and two are seven,” Homer said to himself.


<div align="center">
<small>Nordstrom Coupons</small></div>




<br />This work is licenced under a
Creative Commons Licence.