The sun had barely risen. It cut through some scattered clouds and
perched red and glaring in the morning sky. It was a Sunday, a lazy day when
most people stayed in bed preferring to sleep rather than to get up to face
another day. During the evening it had rained heavily, the drops pounding the
sidewalk and bouncing off the tin roofs of the town. The streets were now
filled with small puddles scattered here and there upon which reflected the
clouds in the sky.
As he worked his way down the
street he passed a small hotel. It was at the corner, one of those small places
owned by a local family and which had been in business for generations. It was
a cheap place but not as well-kept or managed as it could have been. The sign
over the entrance needed a painting and the windows could have benefited from
another downpour.
Next to the hotel was a
flower shop which had not yet opened and next to that was a cafeteria called
Los Pollos.EIts hard to say if this was really a cafeteria or a restaurant
or a fast food place. It had elements for each and pretensions for none. A simple sign near the door read EOPEN 24
HOURSE It was a cheerful place with the picture of a chicken painted on the
door. The chicken had a healthy look on its smiling face with one of its wings
open and extended as if begging people to enter.
Inside there were about twenty
tables with lots of space between them. The place could easily have absorbed
another twenty but there was really no need for more. They were all neatly
arranged in rows. The ceiling was very high which gave the place the feeling of
a church hall. The tables were covered with red linen tablecloths upon which
were folded napkins, salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of ketchup. Each
napkin had the chicken logo stamped at the corner with that same smile and
waving wing. A young girl perhaps a student working a part-time job and wearing
a company uniform was washing the floor with a damp mop and moving the chairs
around to get under the table. She didnt seem particularly happy with her job
and didnt really care if she missed a spot or two.
The restaurant served fast
foods and light meals, chicken dishes being the sociality of the house. All
kinds of chicken dishes were available. Most popular were the sandwiches of
sliced chicken breast with lettuce and mayonnaise. They also served eggs anyway you wanted them,
scrambled, fried, once-over-lightly, sunny-side up, boiled, poached. You name
it. Besides all this chicken there was also a wide selection of soups and
salads. Nothing coming out of the kitchen was served with much imagination.
Whatever one ordered was brought to the table on a white plastic dish or
deep-set bowl with fork, spoon and knife wrapped in a paper napkin. The chicken
logo of the restaurant smiled at you from the napkin. This logo lad a
Disneyesque appeal to it and gave to the place an image of innocence.
None of the waitresses though
seemed particularly happy with their work. Their rust-colored outfits with
matching caps made them look like hospital caterers. On the rim of the cap
there was an emblem of a smiling chicken. It had a cutesy look which extended
to the tip of its beak. The overall feeling of the place was that of
friendliness if not warmth, clean if not comfortable. The huge windows which
ran almost the full length from ceiling to floor welcomed in the rays of the
early sun now flooding generously from the outside on to the table tops
illuminating the paper mats and menus.
It was a lazy Sunday morning.
Church bells rang in the distance and beckoned worshippers to attend services.
One could somehow imagine old ladies wrapped in shawls with black veils following
the sound of the bell and being summoned to Mass. But not here. That scene was
the farthest from anyones mind who walked this part of the city.
Occasionally, a trickle of
people passed by the window of the cafeteria. Some would peer in or gaze at a
copy of the menu taped to the window near the entrance. Once every few minutes
or so a customer would enter to occupy a table of which there was a wide
selection. These customers appeared to be regulars who made it a habit to have
breakfast there as a set pattern of behavior.
They would come with a
newspaper under their arm, r a magazine curled in their hand or something and
sit to read while having coffee of the morning fare. Oddly enough they were
mostly men and came to be by themselves. At times one noticed couples or people
paired off together, but this was not that kind of place at this time of day.
Mot customers preferred to sit away from the windows, away from the suns rays
and the quisitive eyes of the passerby.
At this time of day there were
now about ten customers in all. In spite of this early hour, two of them sat in
a corner drinking beer. Their table already had several empty bottles with the
labels peeled off. They had been sitting there for four hours having arrived
somewhere in the dark hours after
A jukebox was standing against
the wall in the far corner of the cafeteria propped against the simple
white-washed wall. It looked like one of those found in bars and poolrooms in
small towns around
Next to the jukebox sat a
young woman, well-groomed and very attractive. How long she had been sitting
thee and at what time she arrived no one knew for sure. She was not a regular
customer. The waitresses had never seen her before. She wore a light pink
dress, very plain with a flower design and a thin black belt cinctured around
her waist. Her hair was neatly combed and caressed her face softly enshrined
her features. Two very large circular earrings which seemed much too large for
her to be wearing were party hidden by the folds of her tresses. Her face was
made up with her eyes heavily laden with mascara. There appeared to be no need
for such a heavy use of cosmetics at such an early hour and in such a common
place. One wonders where she had come from or where she was going. There was a
deep and penetrating sadness in her eyes, a haunting sadness which was hard to
describe, difficult to ignore and which would not easily go away.
She was not alone. With her
was a small child no older than four or five years old. Whether the child was
her own was not easy to determine. Looking more closely
at their features, it
would be difficult to deny that there was a blood relationship, but one could
not be absolutely sure. They could have been mother and child or aunt and
nephew, or even an older sister and her younger brother. Thats how young she
looked.
The young boy sat calmly next to her. He
was playing with the napkin on the table drawing circles around the figure of
the chicken logo wishing he were somewhere else.
When can we go home?Ehe pleaded.
At first the woman did not answer. She
seemed caught in a web of her own sadness and not in what he was asking. Her eyes
were focused at a point somewhere beyond the room. In her imagination the walls
of the room had faded away and she was mystically transported elsewhere. She
moved the napkin away from the boy.
Dont play with the napkin like that.EShe
reprimanded.
Then taking a cigarette from her purse she
lit it and placed it in her mouth. It hung loosely from one corner of her mouth
making her look tougher and older than she had seemed before.
I want to go home,Ethe boy insisted.
Be good. Well stay here just a bit
longer. Be a good boy.EHer voice no softened its tone. It was the voice a
mother uses to control a child, a caring voice with maternal authority.
I think you should eat something before he
comes,EShe picked up the menu which lay between the salt and pepper shakers.
A waitress passed briskly by the table on
her way to serve some other customers in the corner of the restaurant. The lady
caught her attention and signaled her to accept the order.
Oh, waitress, could you take our order?E
The womans hands were small and coarse. Somehow they didnt seem to be the
hands which could belong to a woman so carefully dressed. They certainly didnt
seem to be the hands which belonged to this particular woman. They would have
fit better on a scrubber woman, a porter or a dishwasher. There was something
very strange between the reality and the illusion, between what was visible to
the eye and what lay deep below the surface.
The waitress came to their table with a
pen and pad in hand ready to jot down the order. Yes, what can I get for you?E
She looked at the woman briefly wondering perhaps why she was wearing so much
makeup on an early Sunday morning.
Could you bring the boy a glass of milk with some cereal?E#060;o:p>
The woman ordered for the boy without
taking into account what he really wanted or if he wanted anything at all.
Thats milk and cereal.EThe waitress repeated mechanically without bothering to jot the order down on the pad. Thats for the boy? Anything for yourself?E#060;o:p>
The woman hesitated at first, then quickly added. A beer. Ill have a cold beer.E#060;o:p>
The waitress gave a
curious stare at the young woman thinking to herself that a cold beer so early
in the morning was a peculiar request for a woman with a child.
As the waitress went off to get the order,
around the womans head swirls of smoke circled to the top of the room. At
times her smoking was deliberate and forced. She puffed with a sense of
controlled anger. At other times she let it escape from the sides of her mouth
like a dragon in fury or at rest. She rested her cheek on the palm of her hand
and dangled the lit cigarette from her fingers. With the other hand she played
with a matchbox flipping it with the tip of her finger. She paid no attention
to the child at her side who was becoming restless.
The waitress returned quickly and placed
the order in front of them. The boy was not particularly hungry and was in no
mood to eat. He just wanted to go home. The lady poured the milk over the cereal
which was nothing more than a bowl of cornflakes. Then she poured for herself a
glass of beer. The waitress felt strangely uncomfortable and moved on to
another table leaving the woman and child alone.
The woman had a pretty face, the kind of
features that won beauty pageants that made young men give a second look. It
was her eyes though that was strangely sad. They were haunted eyes that never
sparkled but stared. The longer they stared the glassier they became as if a
shield of protective glass covered them robbing them of their softness. She
would sit and fidget with the label of the beer bottle and restlessly begin to
teach it off wet with moisture. The boy played with the cereal separating it
into two mounds making a small river between the two mounds with the milk.
Together they were a portrait of loneliness. Madonna and child, youth and
innocence. What brought them to this restaurant was a mystery they both shared,
what made them stay so long was even more of an enigma.
As she listened to the music emanating from
the jukebox, the young womans body swayed slowly to the Latin rhythms. Her
table was very close to the music and the speakers bellowed their sound with
power as she was swallowed up in her own self-contained isolation.
Lets go home!Ethe boy pleaded a third
time showing little interest in the milk and cereal placed before him. He had
even become wery of the game he played with the soggy mounds of cornflakes
resting in the dish.
Just a little longer. Dont ask mommy so many questions.E#060;o:p>
So now the relationship was established, a
mother and child.
Daddy, should be here soon. Eat your cereal.E#060;o:p>
There was a note of tragedy in her voice, a
hope beyond expectation, a sense of isolation from all the things which existed
around her; alone and not together, the pieces of a puzzle falling apart, a
jigsaw with a juggernaut.
The rhythms of the jukebox. Heavy drums.
Heavy beat. Not a peaceful chant for hymns of praise. It was a nervous melody
with a syncopated beat. It was the same song repeating itself over and over
again. It was the same song being played for the past hour or so. She had
selected the song and fed the jukebox with coins. Could one possible love a
song so much? She had monopolized the push buttons on the box. They were hers.
No one felt at ease well enough to ask her to stop.
Nor for that matter did anyone complain.
The other customers were scattered around the room lost in their own thoughts
and the rhythms of their own conversation became more important than the
repeated song emanating from the jukebox.
The song she played was pleasant enough and
had a catchy refrain. It was one of those many songs one often hears but cannot
always remember the name of long after the song is finished. The female vocalist
who intoned the melody had a husky voice with a dark lamenting tone. At first,
her voice took on the tone of a whine, a spoiled, lost child crying over a
broken toy, abandoned and banished form its home. At other times, it sounded
like an old matronly has, a rejected love enveloped in smokescreens and hard
drink. It was precisely this feeling of unrelieved sadness which struck a
tender softness into the heart of the young woman.
Her eyes became misty as she identified her
inner feelings with the words. Her focus was still lost in space somewhere in
the intangible distances between earth and sky. The little boy asked her
another question, a plaintive request to return home, but she did not seem to
hear.
The words to the song were repeated again
and again. Her supply of coins was inexhaustible. She put two or three in at
the same time. What could this song which merited such repetition be about?
Sin dolorE con esta peccadoE non mi olvidesE These words had for the young woman some
symbolic meaning or deeply impressed association of a time past when life was
kinder perhaps. Her hands and head moved to the music. She danced with an image
held within her imagination as though she herself had no name. She had lost her
identity finding a deeper meaning within the melody which had no end. No one
else really seemed to care either. Even the young boy paid her no attention.
Suddenly and seemingly on impulse she got
up and swayed her hips in sensuous gyrating contortions. She was like Salome
ready to shed her seven veils. Her eyes were closed and she tossed back her
head exposing the whiteness of her neck and throat. It was the sort of dance
which had no steps, no rules, no name. It grew more impassioned and emerged
from her imagination as though an hypnotic thread between the music and the
woman bound them together in a dance of death. As she began to move around the
table others in the cafeteria started to take notice of her, but no one
objected to her extroverted contortions. If anything, they were entertained in
a bizarre sort of way. Her son remained completely indifferent having witnessed
he dance as common daily fare. One could imagine her hat home wearing nothing
but a simple bra and slip revolving around a coffee table while Latin rhythms of
a familiar song urged her to dance out her fantasy.
Suddenly from the street a young man entered the cafeteria. Everyone
took notice. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, an age which is both
awkward and confident for those who had passed through it. He had dark black
hair combed straight back. Some kind of greasy pomade gave it a slick shine. He
wore a dark flannel shirt and tight jeans which hugged his thighs and calves
giving him an erotic aura of exoticism. His hands were strong and his back straight
like that of a construction worker or truck driver. He stopped near the cash
register and gave the room a quick scan with his penetrating black eyes.
The
woman stopped her dancing. A sober pale passed through her body as if the
messenger of death had come to call her to her final resting place. She sat
down next to her son being herself like a defiant child waiting to be scolded
for an offense she had not even committed.
The young man scanned the room quickly with a searching eye and had no
difficulty in locating his prey. He knew she would be here. It was one of three
places she had hinted at where she would be. The other two places were too
obvious and had been used before in prior escapes. She always found refuge in
public places where others could become witnesses in case of violence and could
hear whatever words transpired between them. Whatever happened, she wanted
witnesses who could emerge from their passive silence and point an accusing and
threatening finger should she be harmed in any way. Confronted with witnesses
he was always on his best behavior.
The young man though did not appear to be angry. He looked like a gentle
giant. His gentle face gave the appearance of boyish innocence. He walked
slowly over the where she was sitting and sat down beside her. All eyes
watched. The repeated song on the jukebox had played its last turn and she had
run out of her supply of pesos. All was silent.
He put his massive hand on top of hers and in a voice filled with
resolution he whispered. Have you been her long?Ethe whisper was heard
throughout the room. Everyones eyes were riveted on the two expecting some
ominous drama to unfold, yet no one gave any indication of eavesdropping as
they continued with what they were doing. Everyone had somehow pieced together
his own story of what was about to unfold.
The woman said nothing at first. She cast her eyes down trying to hold
back tears which had begun to well up inside her. All the customers now became
very interested in this young man who had approached the young woman with her
child, yet they pretended to be reading a newspaper or engaged in private
conversation. In truth, their full attention was riveted on the drama taking
place before them. They would catch a quick glimpse and then proceed to act as
though engaged in some other kind of activity.
Come on,Ehe said in a gentle but urgent voice,Elets get out of this place.E#060;o:p>
I dont know if Im doing the right thing,Eshe said to him hardly
lifting her eyes,
Let me sit here a little longer.E#060;o:p>
Its better to leave now while its still early.EHe insisted.
Lets talk here. I feel safer with you when there are people around.E
She begged.
He pressed her hand and felt her weakening. She made no attempt to
resist his grip on her hand. Instead she found herself giving in to him slowly.
She could never quite understand the power he had over her. She dropped her
head and began to cry softly. The by at her side drew closer to her and he put
his arm around her waist. Together the three seemed united by fate in an
intangible bond that was about to alter their lives. Now, there was a moment of
silent reconciliation, a washing of the soul with salt tears, a cleansing of
the heart by means of a simple touch.
The
patrons did not know what to make of this encounter. They began to feel
uncomfortable looking into their own lives for a moment of grace and
reconciliation, their own unhealed wounds begging for a similar touch. The
silence which ensued was that which one encounters in an empty cathedral in the
middle of the night.
The little boy broke the silence. Mommy, when is daddy coming?E
She did not hear her son but rose to her feet slowly taking his hand.
She gathered up her purse and belongings and wiped the moisture form her face.
Two thin black streaks flowing from her mascara had stained her cheeks. She
wiped them with a soft tissue and followed the young man to the door. Her son
followed behind her as the song echoed in her mind.