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

metro that afternoon amidst the crowds of people doing their shopping or going to work. The train moved through the streets, the houses flying past their windows in a carriage with graffiti on the walls and despair on its floor. Homer didn’t care where Maria lived so long as she gave him money.
“I can’t remember the tragedy,” he said.
A few people came in the carriage, an inner calm invading his soul, when he kissed her amidst the noise, tasting her toothpaste and other things hiding in her mouth.
“You mustn’t blame yourself for the tragedy,” she said.
He felt her breasts through the blouse as they arrived at a grey station full of commuters in their way to somewhere.
“It’s our station,” she said.
Getting off the carriage amidst the people in their way to an important appointment in time, Homer didn’t like Brooklyn with its dirty streets but he had to endure anything for his money. The traffic roared past them, the city reminding him of hell until they stopped by a grey building, reaching for the clouds.
“It’s on the tenth floor,” Fifi said.
Homer had a taste of life in a rundown place, where God’s forgotten children lived in the middle of the metropolis while going up in the lift. He didn’t understand all the graffiti in the walls, telling him about life in another place in time, but they received him with due honours in Maria’s flat.
“Homer is here,” she said.
Leaving her mark on his lips, she took him to the sitting room where other people waited. They all loved him.
“I’ve cooked a nice chicken,” she said.
“And I’ve made the sprouts,” someone else said.
“We must feed our hero.”
“Thanks,” Homer said.
Then Uncle Hugh appeared at the door. Looking tall and gaunt, the man had aged since the last time Homer had seen him.
“Two and two are seven,” Homer said.
Uncle Hugh smiled. “I knew that.”
Homer needed more money for his future, while enduring their tales of bravery somewhere in the world. He signed their diaries and notebooks they would treasure all their lives, while a woman slipped a note in his lap: I love you, it said in big letters.
“You saved yourself,” she said. “That is enough for us.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you see monsters?” she asked.
“Big fish swam around me,” Homer said.
“You are a hero.”
Homer had defied nature and the hand of God, trying to liberate his countrymen from Hitler’s grasp.
“I should have died,” he said.
“Don’t say that,” everyone said.
On crying in Fifi’s arms, he remembered the sailors’ bodies consumed by the flames amidst scenes of panic and desperation.
“Hurrah to the Messiah,” they chanted.
“He’s our holly man,” Maria said.
They worshipped Homer, who had offered his life for his country.
“We’ll have his picture by the altar,” Maria gestured to the place where the candles burned all the time.
“I’m not God,” he said.
Homer thought of his life from the dawn of time, toasting to the liberation of their country. As Maria went around the room collecting money for their hero, he touched her bottom.
“Your girlfriend is here,” she said.
Homer took her to the toilet at the back of the room, where no one should hear their cries of joy.
“No,” she said.
“It’s all right,” he said.
On pushing her inside the darkness, he saw a candle in a corner- a good omen for a moment of passion. After opening his trousers, she followed the contour of his member along the foreskin and up to his balls, when he pushed hard inside her, the wall trembling and the voices of the other people floating in a place of shadows. He left her in the gloom, before making his way back to his admirers. It must have been a dream, Homer thought sitting next to Fifi.
“We have raised millions of pesos for Homer’s projects,” Maria interrupted his reverie. She must have left the toilet very quickly.
“Hurrah,” everyone said.
Homer still feared some kind of punishment for his actions, as Fifi muttered in his ear.
“Where were you,” she asked.
“I had to go to the toilet.”
“It must be the excitement, “she said.
The telephone rang and Maria answered it with that mouth he liked so much.
“The president of the United States wants to give you a medal,” she said.
“Hurrah to our hero,” everyone said.
It had been a good evening, even if the clock ran towards the end of time.


The Dark sun
They were in bed when the telephone rang.
“That was Uncle Hugh,” Fifi said. “The press is waiting in the hotel lobby.”
“What do they want?” Homer asked.
“You’re famous now.”
Homer got ready while she brushed her hair and wore her best dress for his moment of glory. He was a hero and the world wanted him. As they stood in front of the mirror hand in hand, she straightened her dress and pushed her hair out of her face. They had to look glamorous for the world. He tasted her lips, hungry for his soul, while practicing what to say to a room full of reporters who wanted to hear his story once more.
“I’m nervous,” she said.
He hugged her. “It’s only the press.”
They had to delay the moments when the cameras would take many pictures to put in their papers for the people to see in their homes and everywhere else. He led her through the corridors and down to the lifts, waiting to take them to their destiny. As they entered the hotel lobby holding hands, Fifi looked radiant, while Homer tried to look cool for the press.
“Hurrah to Homer,” they chanted.
They wanted to hear his words, while taking pictures.
“What are your plans for the future?” they asked.
“I want to travel the world and meet people in distant lands,” Homer said.
“Do you love her?”
“It’s my business,” Homer said.
“Tell us about it.”
“Not now,” Homer said.
“You are a hero.”
Homer imagined the newspaper headlines the next day, talking about his love for the woman who had saved his life after the tragedy in the sea.
“Did you see monsters?” they asked.
“What monsters?”
“Your girlfriend wrote about that in her essay,” they said.
Homer felt confused by the trauma of his adventure while they took pictures of the hero who had defied Hitler’s terror.
“The submarine is bombing us,” he said.
“It isn’t,” Fifi said.
Homer remembered the moment when death had taken his crew away, while feeling her body under her dress. The press went on with their interview without bothering with his feelings.
“Can you remember the tragedy?” they asked.
Homer shrugged. “I heard a noise before the flames erupted around us.”
“It must have been terrible.”
“I have nightmares about it,” Homer said.
He didn’t like the questions and the world looked fuzzy.
“I killed them,” he said.
The future had to learn about the young man’s revelations amidst his memories but homer seemed nervous. The cameras made him remember bad things happening in another time.
“He’s not feeling well,” Fifi said.
His world ended in a multitude of colours, while moving towards the stairs, followed by the cameras.
“I’m dizzy,” he said.
Fifi helped him through the foyer, his head spinning faster on thinking of his suffering aboard the boat, when his men had died for his country.
“It’s Armageddon,” he said.
“Can you tell us the meaning of that world?” the journalists asked.
“He wants to be alone,” Fifi said.
On helping Homer to the lift, she avoided a few journalists in their search for more questions about the tragedy.
“Did you see any sharks?” they asked.
“You must been frightened,” they said.
“We’ll pay you well.”
The mention of dollars stopped his behaviour, as the journalists offered large sums of money for his cooperation. Homer listened to the large amounts of capital if they told them their suffering amidst the storm.
“I can talk for a few minutes,” he said.
“You don’t feel well,” she said.
“We’ll give you millions of dollars,” they said.
Homer followed them to the lounge, where he sat in the sofas, the journalists organising their cameras and other instruments around him.
“I saw sharks,” he said.