Read Online The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos by Margaret Mascarenhas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Mascarenhas
Tags: FIC000000
Ads: Link
Coromoto. The store was crowded, and it took longer than expected to collect their supplies and
pay for them. The copper-skinned mestiza girl who was operating the cash register, and who Efraín thought was pretty, said
there was news that more Guajiro rebels had escaped across the border. El Negro Catire was reported to be with the rebels
and headed toward the Western provinces. Four rebels were accused of murdering twelve paramilitary troops in their beds, and
it was certain the trackers would try to hunt them down until they found them and killed them on the spot, without trial.
Then the rebels would retaliate. It was all about land.
“It is the gringos who are adding fuel to the fire,” opined the man in line behind Efraín and La Vieja Juanita.
“Those gringos,” said the mestiza girl, handing Efraín the change, and a piece of candy gratis, “who made them the policía
of the world?”
There were rumors that as a countermeasure to the anticipated cross-border posse activity, El Presidente had ordered the Guardia
Nacional to the Western provinces, that a curfew might be imposed. Everyone was in a hurry to make their purchases and get
home before dusk.
Night had fallen by the time the old woman and the boy reached the thatch-topped shack of their one room in the forest. But
the moon was bright and as Efraín pushed the door, he thought he could discern the shape of his mother in her hammock.
“Mamá, we’re home,” he said, lighting a candle, which went out almost instantly.
“We made a killing today,” said La Vieja Juanita, taking the matches from Efraín and lighting the oil lamp. “We will work
late tonight and all day tomorrow. I plan to sell three times the number of mobiles,” she said. “And tomorrow night, Coromoto,
you will become Maria Lionza and make an appearance in Sorte.”
“Guess what, Mamá,” said Efraín, “you were right; on the way home I remembered my dream. It was about you and me and Manolo,
about the time we went to Playa Azul and you taught me how to swim, remember?”
From the hammock there was no reply. There was no gentle rise and fall of the chest, no sigh of a breath. It was too still,
too quiet. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
Efraín ran toward the hammock in the corner of the hut, pushing the air in front of him as though it were water. In the hammock
there was only a blanket.
“Mamá!” Efraín shouted, running out of the hut. But his mother was gone, and the only sound he could hear was the sound of
his own breath quickening.
It was a bright summer day when they decided to take a trip to Playa Azul, a pristine stretch of sand on the Colombian coastline
that received an ocean the astonishing color of Mexican turquoise. Efraín was only five, but he still remembers that day in
particular because it was the day his mother taught him to swim. From the main beach, they walked along a narrow ledge on
the outer side of a hill to a wide cove with giant brown-gray rocks on either side. With the exception of a few skeletal stray
dogs and a lone fisherman, the cove was deserted.
They spread a blanket on the powdery sand and took off all their clothes, because Coromoto said there was no point to clothes
on a hot, deserted beach. She was different then, daring and dynamic, infecting everyone around her with playful enthusiasm.
She did not have two deep lines between her eyebrows. She laughed all the time.
“Don’t you think he might be a bit young for swimming?” asked Manolo, who could float but could not swim.
“Of course not,” said Coromoto, tossing her hair, bleached blond in places with agua oxigenada. When she tossed her hair that
way, it meant that she had truth on her side and didn’t give a damn who thought otherwise. “Before I met
you,
my love, and began this gypsy life, I lived in an apartment building that had a swimming pool and went to the beach every
weekend. I was
pay for them. The copper-skinned mestiza girl who was operating the cash register, and who Efraín thought was pretty, said
there was news that more Guajiro rebels had escaped across the border. El Negro Catire was reported to be with the rebels
and headed toward the Western provinces. Four rebels were accused of murdering twelve paramilitary troops in their beds, and
it was certain the trackers would try to hunt them down until they found them and killed them on the spot, without trial.
Then the rebels would retaliate. It was all about land.
“It is the gringos who are adding fuel to the fire,” opined the man in line behind Efraín and La Vieja Juanita.
“Those gringos,” said the mestiza girl, handing Efraín the change, and a piece of candy gratis, “who made them the policía
of the world?”
There were rumors that as a countermeasure to the anticipated cross-border posse activity, El Presidente had ordered the Guardia
Nacional to the Western provinces, that a curfew might be imposed. Everyone was in a hurry to make their purchases and get
home before dusk.
Night had fallen by the time the old woman and the boy reached the thatch-topped shack of their one room in the forest. But
the moon was bright and as Efraín pushed the door, he thought he could discern the shape of his mother in her hammock.
“Mamá, we’re home,” he said, lighting a candle, which went out almost instantly.
“We made a killing today,” said La Vieja Juanita, taking the matches from Efraín and lighting the oil lamp. “We will work
late tonight and all day tomorrow. I plan to sell three times the number of mobiles,” she said. “And tomorrow night, Coromoto,
you will become Maria Lionza and make an appearance in Sorte.”
“Guess what, Mamá,” said Efraín, “you were right; on the way home I remembered my dream. It was about you and me and Manolo,
about the time we went to Playa Azul and you taught me how to swim, remember?”
From the hammock there was no reply. There was no gentle rise and fall of the chest, no sigh of a breath. It was too still,
too quiet. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
Efraín ran toward the hammock in the corner of the hut, pushing the air in front of him as though it were water. In the hammock
there was only a blanket.
“Mamá!” Efraín shouted, running out of the hut. But his mother was gone, and the only sound he could hear was the sound of
his own breath quickening.
It was a bright summer day when they decided to take a trip to Playa Azul, a pristine stretch of sand on the Colombian coastline
that received an ocean the astonishing color of Mexican turquoise. Efraín was only five, but he still remembers that day in
particular because it was the day his mother taught him to swim. From the main beach, they walked along a narrow ledge on
the outer side of a hill to a wide cove with giant brown-gray rocks on either side. With the exception of a few skeletal stray
dogs and a lone fisherman, the cove was deserted.
They spread a blanket on the powdery sand and took off all their clothes, because Coromoto said there was no point to clothes
on a hot, deserted beach. She was different then, daring and dynamic, infecting everyone around her with playful enthusiasm.
She did not have two deep lines between her eyebrows. She laughed all the time.
“Don’t you think he might be a bit young for swimming?” asked Manolo, who could float but could not swim.
“Of course not,” said Coromoto, tossing her hair, bleached blond in places with agua oxigenada. When she tossed her hair that
way, it meant that she had truth on her side and didn’t give a damn who thought otherwise. “Before I met
you,
my love, and began this gypsy life, I lived in an apartment building that had a swimming pool and went to the beach every
weekend. I was
Similar Books
