Dona Nicanora's Hat Shop (37 page)

‘I think it will take more than beer and fireworks to bring Don Bosco back,' Arturo said, and then he checked himself. ‘I'm sorry, Ernesto, if you feel that will help, then that is what you must do. But I need you Ernesto. I have a sick patient.'

It took Arturo some time to persuade Ernesto to walk back into the forest clearing with him. ‘It's an old friend of mine, from my childhood. She came to me in the middle of the night. She's in trouble. She's very sick,' Arturo said by way of an explanation. When he looked at Ernesto he saw a look of concerned incomprehension on his face. It was the same look that Arturo had so often shown to Ernesto in their first weeks together. Arturo led the way down the little grass track from where he had just come. When they reached the clearing there was no sign that any human form had been lying there only an hour ago. Arturo stood at the spot where Claudia had lain.

‘Do you think I could have dreamt it, Ernesto?' he asked at last. ‘Do you think I could have been drawn here by some apparition from my mind?'

‘The forest can play tricks on all of us, doctor,' was all that Ernesto would say.

‘She was here, Ernesto,' Arturo said at last. ‘It was no dream. She came to offer me a choice, a way forward. And I couldn't take it.'

‘I'm sure she did,' Ernesto said and he laid his hand on Arturo's shoulder. ‘What do you want to do now?' he asked.

‘Come with you,' Arturo replied. He did not tell Ernesto that he had all his worldly possessions packed in his little bag. One thing was certain. Whether he had been lured into the forest by a wayward ghost or not, Claudia had been right. He was a weak man and he had nothing to offer the town or the young woman who now owned his heart.

The road started its journey as a gentle track. As it climbed upwards, the tangle of forest gave way to small orderly clearings of banana groves. Young children scrambled down hidden paths to greet the little pickup as it edged its way slowly up the hill. The plan was to follow the road to the top of the valley, where it then divided. The most dangerous stretch, Ernesto assured Arturo, was the upward fork that wound its way to the city. The gentler route, which they would take, carved a path along the other side of the valley into the steamy depths of the lowlands where Puerta de la Coruña lay. Arturo closed his eyes and allowed the freshness of the morning air to fill his lungs. He felt a deep pang of guilt as he thought about Isabela, and wondered what Ernesto would think of him if he knew what he was running away from. This is for the best, he told himself; Claudia is right, I can never belong there. What happiness could I possibly bring to her? It is best for everyone that I end it now. As they continued upwards the whirring noise of a helicopter grew louder, ebbing and flowing across the forest.

‘What is it?' Arturo asked.

‘The army I think,' Ernesto replied.

‘What are they doing flying over here?' Arturo said.

‘Looking for coca crops,' Ernesto said, pointing to the green terraces they were now approaching. The men working the fields stood alert as the pickup passed them by. The truck continued to climb, holding tenaciously to the side of the mountain. Occasionally it halted and slid a few yards backwards before gathering control again and forging another small path onwards. The steeper the incline, the narrower its path became, until the pickup was finally edging its way along a precipice so narrow that when Arturo glanced out of the window he was unable to see any road beneath them. Instead, he looked over a mist-filled ravine so deep that it was impossible to see the bottom. ‘It gets much steeper soon,' Ernesto said. ‘That's why we have to reach the brow of the hill before night fall.'

Arturo shut his eyes and crossed himself. The tiny figure of a plastic Virgin with a posy of flowers in her hands bobbed on the windscreen. The radio that Arturo had brought with him picked up a stray signal and crackled into life. ‘We have intelligence of a terrorist camp close to the border,' a man said. ‘We believe they are a group of peasant communists who are receiving training from outside sources. We understand there is a connection to the recent riots and the People's Liberation Front. We cannot reveal our sources, but suffice it to say that we have the situation under surveillance.'

Arturo felt a cold chill wash over him as he strained his ears to listen. The commentators were arguing about whether insurgents were supporting the terrorist group and if so what the government should do about it. So that was where Claudia was heading. One thing at least was reassuring about the news: Arturo was now certain that Claudia's visit had not been a creation of his imagination. The problems that the country was facing all seemed insignificant to him in the light of the troubles of the little town that he was leaving
behind. He wondered why the newsreaders were not discussing how a barber could become lost in a swamp in which he had lived all his life. But of course they did not know that Don Bosco was lost, and nor, he suspected, would they ever find out.

The band in the plaza played the national anthem for the tenth and final time. The clock on the town hall struck five, which meant it was six o'clock, and exactly on cue the light began to fade. Within half an hour the town would be lost in darkness again. The computer sat on the podium drenched in a pool of water. The slow drizzle of the afternoon had ensured that the flag was entirely covered with an even coat of red paint.

‘I don't think they're coming,' someone from the crowd said at last, breaking the tension that had been building for the past few hours.

‘Just give it ten more minutes,' the mayor pleaded to the wet and agitated crowd. ‘They must have been delayed. The letter from the district officer clearly states that they will be here by noon.'

‘Well, they clearly weren't here by noon, were they?' the man shouted back.

‘Show us the letter,' another demanded. ‘How do we even know that you are telling the truth?'

Ramon and the mayor both put their hands in their pockets and looked at each other, each convinced that the other was the last to have seen the document.

‘I've had enough of this,' someone said. ‘You've completely wasted our time.'

‘And our money. Why would the visitors want to come all this way to see an old television anyway?'

‘It isn't a television. It's a computer,' the mayor said, for the twentieth time.

‘What are we going to do with a computer?' someone asked.

‘Travel the superhighway,' Ramon said, but the crowd was not listening any more. No longer were the townsfolk standing as one united group drawn together by the anticipation of the honour of receiving foreign guests. People had broken off into small clusters, murmuring and arguing amongst themselves as to why the mayor would play such a trick on them and make them stand in the rain for six hours looking ridiculous. Scuffles began to break out as neighbour accused neighbour of spreading false rumours and wasting each other's time. As the townsfolk stood there in the plaza, wounds that had healed over years ago slowly began to reopen. Friends turned on friends, neighbours on neighbours, each blaming the other for the disappointment of the afternoon, the previous week, month and year, and finally for all the mistakes they had made in their lives. The mayor, having lost control of the situation, took refuge with Ramon under the eucalyptus tree, ready to make a break from the plaza should a riot erupt. Nicanora stood watching the scene from the barber's shop. The time has come, she said to herself, and with her last remaining drop of courage, she made her way through the crowd and mounted the podium, taking her place beside the drowned computer.

‘Shame on you,' she shouted, ‘shame on you all.' The crowd continued with their arguments, oblivious to her. ‘Shame on you,' she shouted again, and this time her voice resounded around the plaza. ‘What would our friend Don Bosco say if he could see you all now?' and as she spoke a quiet descended on the agitated crowd.
‘I believe that our mayor was acting in good faith, even if he was misguided. He truly believed we would have visitors today,' she continued.

‘You know, we should listen to what she says,' Don Amelio said to his neighbour, ‘she gave me some excellent advice about my chickens.'

‘After all,' Don Arsenio agreed, ‘she is looking after Don Bosco's shop until he returns.'

‘I believe that for too long we have neglected our duties to each other,' Nicanora said, now with the full attention of the crowd. A clap of thunder sounded overhead and the sky darkened as if a curtain was being drawn across the town. ‘I believe', Nicanora continued, ‘that Our Lady of the Swamp will help us. She will reunite us as the friends we all once were before money, greed and personal ambition started to take over our lives. I stand here before you to ask you the honour to host the fiesta of the Virgin. It has been too long since we have held the fiesta for the Virgin, and I now wish to ask her blessing to return our lost friends to us. I know you may be thinking that I have no right to be saying this to you. I am nobody. I am not from one of our wealthy families. But times and fortunes are changing. I have had the pleasure of having a foreign guest in my house for some months now, and due to his generosity, I am able to pay the tribute required of the host,' and Nicanora looked in the direction of the bedraggled and dejected mayor as she spoke.

‘The procession', she continued, ‘will leave from Don Bosco's barber's shop on Sunday evening. It will not be the grandest procession the town has ever seen. But it will be the people's procession and I hope that is how it will remain in our hearts and in our memories for ever.' The crowd drew in a breath as she spoke. People started to brush stray tears from their eyes, and then in one corner
of the plaza somebody began to clap. ‘She's good. I'll give her that,' a man said to his neighbour. And then another joined in with the clapping, and another, and soon the whole crowd were cheering and stamping their feet.

‘People's procession?' the mayor grumbled to Ramon. ‘Where the hell did she get that from? She sounds like some bloody third-rate politician.'

In the deserted town hall the silence was broken by the ringing of a telephone. At the other end of the newly restored line the district officer was trying to get a message to the mayor to tell him that the visitors had been unavoidably delayed due to inclement weather conditions. The telephone rang intermittently in the empty office for over an hour, until a small landslide in a far-away part of the province cut it off again, for months to come.

It was just before midnight when Arturo and Ernesto finally reached Puerta de la Coruña. Arturo, curled up in a deep sleep in the passenger's seat, was suddenly shaken into life.

‘We're here,' Ernesto said, ‘we've made it.' Arturo opened his eyes. Lights winked on the hill in front of him, seductively welcoming him to the town. The pickup made its way down the steamy backstreets that led towards the town centre. The smell of stale urine mixed with rotting food rose from the gutters to welcome them. As they turned a corner into a side street, the darkness was lifted by a bright light streaming from a house, from which also spilled the sounds of salsa and shouting.

‘Where are we?' Arturo asked

‘This is my aunt's guest house,' Ernesto replied. ‘We can stay here
for the night.' Arturo read the lettering in pink lights above the door:
Dolores's Karaoke Bar. The Hottest Hot Spot in Town
. Before he could gather his thoughts to protest, a large woman ran out to greet them, shouting with delight at the sight of Ernesto.

‘Well if it isn't my favourite nephew,' she said as she scooped Ernesto up in her arms in a bear hug and then placed him back on the path next to Arturo.

‘And who is this?' she said, touching Arturo gently on the arm.

‘This is my esteemed friend and colleague, Dr Arturo Aguilar,' Ernesto replied, his voice puffed up with self-importance. ‘Doctor, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to my Aunt Dolores.'