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

The widows
Miguel had to go home to solve a family crisis, leaving Homer all alone with his customers. A beautiful girl had come in the shop, her breasts trembling under her blouse every time she breathed.
“Can I help you?” Homer asked.
She didn’t reply as she looked at the clothes in the corner, the light of the sun showing her curves through her dress. Homer gestured to a dark blouse in the counter.
“It’s nice,” she said.
Her voice brought memories of that other world of trees and hammocks where Kam had gone forever. Homer looked for a few things she might like to see while muttering to himself.
“These dresses would suit you,” he said.
She admired the material of the skirts Homer had taken out of the wardrobe.
“I have a nice bed inside the shop,” he said.
“I don’t want to know.”
They looked at each other, as the clock kept its pace and Homer crashed with a display by the door. She had to be an angel sent from heaven to enlighten his days in the market.
“I have some merchandise from Paris,” he said.
“That’s a long way away, Mr. Homer.”
“But it’s nice.”
Homer put a few more clothes on the table, hoping she might buy something in the shop, apart from his soul. He had silk tights the sailors had found somewhere in the Caribbean Sea amidst the crabs, women and rum.
“The paramilitaries killed my husband,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
This woman disserved some happiness after a life of suffering in the hands of the government, according to the reports he had seen in the papers during the last few months.
“You remind me of someone,” he said.
“Stop making fun of me,” she said.
“I’m not.”
Homer tidied the clothes in the counter, hoping to sell her something. Women looked more beautiful amidst the ruins of their lives.
“I have been hungry many times,” she said.
Unable to understand how she could go hungry, he showed her his arms as a sign of solidarity.
“I have anorexia,” he said.
“What is that?”
“I want to starve myself to death.”
“You are rich,” she said
“The tights are a present,” he said.
“I don’t want them.”
“Why?”
She pushed her hair back, her hips swaying at the rhythm of imaginary music while heading for the door.
“I have to go back to my children,” she said.
“What children?” he asked.
“I have lots of them.”
She opened the door with delicate hands made rough by scrubbing her children’s clothes- a beautiful soul, lost amongst her poverty.
“Bye,” she said.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
On hurrying after her, Homer crashed with a woman standing by the counter. He had not heard her come in the shop a few minutes before.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The woman held a pink dress with sequels in her hands.
“I like it,” she said.
“It costs fifty pesos,” he said.
“It’s nice.”
Homer saw the girl disappearing amidst the crowd of shoppers at that time of the morning. She must have been in a hurry to get to her family.
“She won’t come back,” the woman said.
“Do you know where she lives?” he asked.
“In the slums, I suppose.”
As the woman checked some other blouses, Homer thought he had to find the girl, even if she lived at the end of time. Widows with many children had lots of debts and misery in their lives.
“I’ll give you one hundred pesos for the dress,” the woman interrupted his reverie.
“It costs more money.”
She looked at a few more things in the counter, while Homer studied a map of the slums.
“I’ll take her out of the gutter,” he said.
“I believe you, Mr. Homer,” she said.
“Thank you.”
He wrote down the prices of the clothes in the notebook Maria had given him for his birthday. He had to earn his money, even if the world played funny tricks sometimes.
“I want eighty pesos for the blouse,” he said.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Homer.”
Homer thought of the young widow, while wrapping the clothes in a nice paper for the woman to give someone else.
“My neighbour was attacked last night,” she interrupted his reverie.
She showed him a newspaper full of terrible stories of love and death under the cover of the shadows. Every day men, women and children appeared dead in the country and nobody cared, genocide becoming a national industry just as football and politics. Widows with lots of children were numerous, but no one would help them. Homer’s eyes filled with tears as he had another ingenious idea.
“We need a miracle to stop the violence,” she said.
“Would you give money to this miracle?” he asked.
The widow and her family had to suffer because of a mad world.
“I’ll see you some other day, Mr. Homer,” the woman said.
She left him alone with his thoughts of revenge and after getting a bicycle he kept in the garden shed, he found an air pump Miguel had in the cellar. He couldn’t afford an accident in the slums.


Homer builds houses
Homer cycled through the poor parts of the city until he found an empty plot of land to build his houses, the smell of the sewage assaulting his senses. It might look different once he had transformed the mess into houses for the poor, although he didn’t notice that a shadow looked at him from the bushes.
As he debated within himself whether a few houses could share a toilet in order to save money, a child appeared by his side. He had dirty hair and held a bag in his hands, while looking at him with dark eyes. Homer must have seen the urchin begging for money in the city centre or in the market.
“Can I have a coin, mister?” the child asked.
Putting the bag against his nose, he took a deep breath while looking at Homer.
“This is good stuff,” he said.
“Is it?” Homer asked.
“You can try it, mister.”
Shaking his head, Homer looked for any lose change he might have after buying the newspaper that morning. Then he found five cents amidst the remains of a chewing gum and some coca leaves he had put there earlier.
“Thank you, Mister,” the boy said.
After examining the coins with dirty hands, the child put them in his pocket. He had to be ten or eleven years old, difficult to tell with the dirty rags on his body.
“Where is your mother?” Homer asked.
“She died,” the child said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Look mister,” the child said. “I want some more money.”
Homer didn’t have anything else to give the poor orphan, but he might be helpful in his enterprise.
“Do you know of any builders around here?” Homer asked.
The boy gestured at the trash, where a few gamines played with a dirty ball while a dog chased them around the place.
“It’s behind those trees, mister” he said.
Homer’s shoes splashed in the water but the rainy season had not come yet. He didn’t know where the child could take him, as the other children looked in his pockets.
“Leave me alone,” Homer said.
The first boy imitated his accent and his friends laughed.
“Go away,” Homer said.
He hurt his legs with a few planks of wood someone had thrown in the garbage but they wouldn’t leave him alone.
“I’ll give you lots of money,” he said.
“We don’t believe you.”
Homer had to think fast, before they did something nasty. Straightening his clothes, he looked for his bicycle behind the bushes, even if he had not found his widow in the slums. He failed to notice a group of men gathering by his side.
“You should have brought aguardiente,” they said.
“I’ll call the police,” Homer said.
“Don’t you want your houses?”
They took him to an empty plot full of rubbish, where broken toys mixed with dirty nappies. Homer didn’t know what they wanted in such a horrible place.
“We can build your houses,” they said.
“You are not builders,” Homer said.