Siete minutos, Ismael Camacho Arango [read with me TXT] 📗

wait to tell Miguel the good news once he had arrived back in the shop.
“I’m getting married,” he said.
“Who is the lucky girl?” Miguel asked.
“I’m getting married to myself.”
“The doctor will give you medication,” Miguel said.
“I don’t need any medication,” Homer said. “I need a wife.”
“You are mad.”
Homer heard of the miracles doctors could perform on mad people while chewing coca leaves. Nobody married himself or herself unless they were crazy. He thought of the dark sun conspiring against him since his birth in the mist of time.
“Let’s go to the doctor,” Miguel said.
“We’ll go some other time.”
“It might be too late.”
Homer looked for Jaramillo’s telephone number in the phone book, his confidence having increased since he had started eating well. His friend’s voice answered at the other end of the line after a few moments.
“I’m getting married to myself,” Homer said.
“Is it to raise money?” the journalist asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s the best idea you have ever had,” Jaramillo said.
“Thank you.”
Homer phoned the hotel where the sailors stayed in the port to get more witnesses to his marriage and the best party he would have in his life. Homer congratulated himself for his plans to conquer the world, while waiting for the operator to connect him. He had to defeat the taxman at all costs.
“I’m getting married to myself,” Homer told Cesar.
“It’s a great idea,” Cesar said. “You can’t trust women.”
“How did you know?” Homer asked.
“You have just told me.”
Cesar seemed to know more about his life than anyone else in the world. At first he had been ready with the boats in the port but now he guessed his actions ahead of time. Homer imagined his friend’s predictions amidst scenes of devastation.
“My daughters are here,” Miguel interrupted his reverie.
Maria- looking more beautiful than ever- appeared with Amelia on tow. They brought rice pudding and other things their mother had prepared in the morning.
“Homer’s getting married to himself,” Miguel said.
“Stop joking,” Maria said.
“I’m not.”
She looked shocked, before regaining her composure. Homer had to be mad.
“I love you,” he said.
“But you marry yourself.”
Homer felt an erection while she fussed over him but women wanted food, clothes and toys for the children.
“I want to hang the balloons, Uncle Homer,” Amelia said.
It looked like a jungle after she had put a few decorations around the room, the clock in the wall keeping the pace of time in Homer’s most important day of his life.
“Why doesn’t he marry you?” Amelia asked her sister.
“Homer doesn’t want to,” Maria said.
The child shrugged. “You are pretty.”
Homer loved his money more than anything on earth but as she giggled, the sound of her voice made him hot under his trousers.
“Let’s talk,” he said.
“I’m busy.”
Amelia ran around them singing love songs, the sound of the door bell echoing in the air. Homer wished to be alone with Maria, before he had to love himself.
“That must be the other guests,” she moved along the hall, followed by Homer.
“Can I see you later?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
As he touched her teats as erects as his penis, Father Ricardo appeared holding a cross. The priest had shaved his head, a testimony to his sanctity.
“In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit,” he said.
“Amen,” Homer and Maria said in unison.
“Why is she here?” he gestured to the child.
“It’s Homer’s party,” Maria said.
Putting the cross on the floor, Father Ricardo surveyed the scene of sin, while opening his bible amidst the bags of confetti in the kitchen in order to exorcise their souls.
“I’ll give you money for the church tower,” Homer said.
Father Ricardo nodded. “The clock doesn’t work.”
“I’ll have it repaired.”
“What about the confessionary?”
“You can have a new one, father.”
“Our Lord’s picture by the altar is looking pale.”
“I’ll have it painted, father.”
“God bless you,” Father Ricardo said.
“Thank you.”
As Homer made a mental note of all the equipment he needed for Father Ricardo’s evangelical work, Cesar appeared in the shop with some of the sailors and stepped on the confetti Amelia had put on the floor.
“Are you getting married to yourself?” they asked.
Homer nodded.
“It’s a good idea,” they said.
“Hurray to Homer,” they chanted.
They looked for Homer’s bride behind the boxes of merchandise while passing a bottle of aguardiente around the room.
“Are you his girl?” they asked Maria.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Dear God,” Father Ricardo said.
Maria took a few slices of cake to the guests around the room under the sailor’s scrutiny.
“You are beautiful,” they said.
“She has a boyfriend,” Homer said.
“You love yourself.”
The sound of the door bell interrupted the party, when Homer moved along the corridor followed by Maria.
“Come to see me tonight,” he said.
“You have yourself.”
“I’ll give you money.”
On opening the door, Jaramillo appeared with his camera crew and their equipment. They had to find somewhere clean in order to film the wedding of the century.
“El Pais will pay you good money,” Jaramillo said. “And El Tiempo.”
“Hurrah to Homer,” everyone said.
They mixed the coca leaves with aguardiente before the ceremony started.
“We want Maria,” the sailors said.
“She’s mine,” Homer said.
Father Ricardo read parts of the bible, under the sounds of the wedding march from a gramophone Homer had bought in the market. Then the priest spoke of Homer’s commitment to himself until God called him to that place in the sky called heaven.
“I must join this man in matrimony to himself,” he said.
Homer held his own hands, as the priest read passages of the bible and the journalists took pictures for everyone to see. He had to show his love to the world.
“Do you accept yourself as your wife?” Father Ricardo asked.
Homer nodded. “I do.”
“I pronounce you husband and wife,” Father Ricardo said.
Jaramillo recorded the moment for posterity, while everyone congratulated Homer for choosing such a nice person to spend the rest of his days in harmony. It had been a nice party in the market.
“I want to marry you now,” Amelia said.
“Congratulations,” Maria said.
“Come to the cellar tonight,” Homer said.
“I don’t know.”
Homer had married himself, while Maria didn’t have a boyfriend, little Amelia’s dolls married each other and the festivities lasted until the morning when the cellar had confetti everywhere.
“It’s the happiest day of my life,” Homer said.
“You must start your honeymoon,” they said.
“You’ll be in the papers tomorrow,” Jaramillo said.
“Amen,” Father Ricardo said.
“Don’t you want more aguardiente?” Homer asked.
“Keep it for some other day.”
They left Homer alone with his hopes and thinking of his life up to that moment in time. He wanted more excitement in his shop in the middle of the market.
“I’m here,” a voice said.
Maria looked like an angel of mercy whilst her long hair covered her breasts.
“Are you real?” Homer asked.
“You chew too much coca,” she said.
He kissed her cunt, his lips savouring the pleasures of her flesh as shed moaned in ecstasy.
“I’m a virgin,” she said.
“This is not a dream,” he said.
Blood ran down her legs by the time he had finished making love to her, and the sheets had turned purple.
“You’ll have to marry me now,” she said.
“I have a wife.”
She had gone by the morning, leaving her fragrance of cheap perfume all around him. Businessman marries himself, said in big letters in El Pais and El Tiempo the next day, and people donated their money to the foreigner with the best ideas in the world.