‘He dreamt he had a visit from a childhood friend in the night and she asked him to go with her.’
‘Where to?’
‘A troubled place,’ Arturo said.
‘Oh,’ Don Bosco said, not really understanding. ‘And you don’t want to go?’
‘I can’t,’ Arturo said. ‘That is the problem. I just don’t know where I should be. I see where she is heading and I can’t follow.’
‘I see,’ Don Bosco said. ‘No, you certainly don’t want to follow someone in life. If you go with them, you must go as equals.’
‘The problem is, I have nothing to offer you if I stay,’ Arturo said. ‘I’m a fraud. I’m not even a good doctor.’
‘I see,’ Don Bosco said again. ‘You don’t need to give us anything to be with us, you know. Do you want to go home?’
‘No,’ Arturo replied. ‘If I go home, what then? I will go back to my parents’ house and live my parents’ life, the life that I’ve only just broken free from. I will never be myself.’
‘You do have a dilemma,’ Don Bosco said. ‘Interestingly, it is similar to the one that I have recently faced.’
‘Oh,’ Arturo said. ‘What was that?’
‘Well,’ Don Bosco said. ‘When I first set out on my journey it did cross my mind that I was perhaps looking for a new life, a new beginning – even at my age it is possible to start again you know. Some people even change their name and create a whole new identity for themselves. It’s a thought, isn’t it? It is within our power to become somebody different, to become anybody we want to be.’ Don Bosco was silent for a minute. ‘And then I arrived quite by chance at your Aunt Dolores’s guest house, Ernesto. I have never been anywhere like it in my life. And I thought what better place to reinvent myself? And do you know what happened?’
‘What?’ Arturo and Ernesto asked, now intrigued by the story.
‘Nothing,’ Don Bosco said. ‘Absolutely nothing. I woke in the morning and found that I was still the same Don Pedro Bosco that I have always been. I still wanted my cup of strong sweet coffee. I still wanted my chat with Don Teofelo and Don Julio. I still needed my shirt to be ironed and my trousers pressed, and I hated all the noise and exuberance going on around me, even though your Aunt Dolores was extremely kind. They looked after me very well, someone knocked on my door every night to see whether I would like any company, but I was quite content to sit in my room on my own. And although I realised that I was just as dull as I have ever been, I felt comfortable with it. The truth is I realised that this is who I am, and who I will always be.’
‘Oh,’ said Ernesto, deflated by the unpromising trajectory of the tale.
‘So do you know what I thought next?’ Don Bosco asked. Ernesto looked at his watch, wondering how long it would take Don Bosco to get through this story, and whether they would make it back home in time for the procession. He had never heard Don Bosco so eloquent.
‘What?’ Arturo asked, before Ernesto could stop him.
‘I thought, well, I have come all this way and probably for the first and last time in my life. The least I can do is take a boat trip to Manola and visit my brother Aurelio as I planned to do over twenty years ago, just before I lost my heart and then my mind.’
‘So why didn’t you go?’ Arturo asked.
‘I very nearly did,’ Don Bosco replied. ‘I bought the boat ticket. I went with my bag packed to the quay and was about to board. Then I was struck by another thought – what will happen when I get there? I have not seen Aurelio in over thirty years and you know we never really did get on. I will always remain his younger brother no matter how many years there are between us and our childhood toys. After a day of hugs and kisses we would be arguing about the same things. Who really was the cleverest at school? Who was Mother’s favourite? And who put the toad in my father’s soup? And I would be straight back where I started, only having travelled many unnecessary miles to get there.’
‘And so what are you saying?’ Ernesto asked, trying to hide his irritation.
‘I am saying’, Don Bosco replied, ‘that when a man reaches a point in his life when he cannot go forward and does not want to go backward, there is only one thing for him to do.’
‘And what is that?’ Ernesto and Arturo asked.
‘Stay exactly where he is,’ Don Bosco said. ‘It means that he has found the right time and place to be, for the moment at least.’
The three men sat for some time in silence contemplating Don Bosco’s words. Then Ernesto turned the key of the engine, and the little pickup truck started its journey on the downward hill, taking them back home.
‘Ernesto,’ Don Bosco said after some time, ‘is Dolores really your aunt?’
The pickup reached the town by night fall on Saturday, just as Ernesto had promised. An unusual light covered the plaza, spreading like a warm blanket from the barber’s. Candles had been set in rows outside the shop and the square was covered with fronds of the forest, laid like a carpet for the Lady to walk on, should she come to life. Offerings had been placed outside the barber’s: sweets and flowers from the children, little dolls made from woven strips of banana leaves. The scent of warm berries, mangoes, oranges, coconut milk and bread lingered over the plaza, making a feast of the night air.
‘It looks like a shrine. You don’t think somebody has died, do you?’ Don Bosco said.
‘You have,’ Arturo replied.
‘Oh dear, I feared as much. How very inconvenient.’
‘We must be careful that nobody sees you,’ Ernesto said, as Don Bosco made his way across the plaza to peer into the barber’s.
‘She has done all this for me?’ Don Bosco asked, and his voice cracked slightly with tears seeing his hat perched on the barber’s pole.
‘She has been looking after the shop until you come back,’ Ernesto said.
‘She is a dear, kind woman,’ Don Bosco said.
In the dim candlelight Don Bosco could make out the figure of the Virgin, Doña Nicanora asleep beside her. Don Bosco suddenly froze to the spot.
‘The Virgin,’ he said to Ernesto and Arturo. ‘I had quite forgotten. When does the procession start?’
‘Tomorrow evening. I will prepare the truck tonight. My mother will be the guardian of the Virgin until then,’ Ernesto said proudly.
‘It is all too late. There is nothing I can do now,’ Don Bosco mumbled to himself.
‘Do you think it will be all right if we drive her in the pickup, rather than my mother having to carry her in the traditional way?’
‘Of course,’ Don Bosco said, ‘why not? Times are certainly changing and I am sure that if our ancestors had had a pickup truck at their disposal, they would have done exactly the same thing.’
The townsfolk woke in the morning to the vision of the Lady, standing on a bed of petals and banana fronds in the back of the pickup truck, parked in the middle of the plaza. She was covered from head to foot in a fine shroud, so that nobody could glimpse her face. The pickup had been decorated to look as if the Virgin were standing on a hill of flowers.
Nicanora looked proudly out of the window at her fine work. The soft drizzle gently moistened the town, filling the air with the perfume of damp petals. The mayor lay, as he had for the past few days, asleep under the eucalyptus tree. As Nicanora approached him he moved uncomfortably in his sleep and groaned. She gently shook him and placed a cup of hot coffee beside him. ‘Drink this,’ she said. ‘It will do you good.’ He opened his eyes, bringing into focus first Nicanora and then the covered statue.
‘What are we going to do?’ he asked. ‘If they discover that she has been stolen, and that this is an impostor, they will drive me out of town. And you as well,’ he added, ‘once they find out that you knew it was a fake and went ahead with the procession.’
‘If Our Lady really is missing,’ Nicanora said, ‘that is even more reason for us to hold a fiesta in her honour. Let’s think of this as a fiesta to bring back not only lost souls but also stolen statues. If she knows
we are genuine, she will come to us.’
‘And if she doesn’t come back?’ the mayor said.
‘Then we are both in serious trouble,’ Nicanora agreed.
The tension had been building all day. The townsfolk gathered in the plaza in anticipation of the long-awaited fiesta. As the sun began to fade Nicanora walked out of the barber’s shop ready to lead the procession into the night. She was dressed in her finest silk shawl, the one her mother had been married in and which Nicanora had been promised for her own wedding day. Nicanora had come across it after her mother’s death, when sorting through her possessions. It had been wrapped in paper and attached to it was a note saying: For Nicanora, to wear when she finally sees sense. Nicanora knew that day had come. On her head she wore the straw boater the travelling salesman had tricked her with. She had kept it for all these years as a trophy of her naive youth. The salesman’s fake plastic flower had now been replaced with a delicate tiara of fine wild blossoms that Doña Gloria had threaded round it. In her hand, Nicanora was holding Don Bosco’s hat.
Don Bosco stood watching from his hiding place at the corner of the barber’s shop, his boxes of supplies now lined up against the wall and covered by a large cloth. As Nicanora made her way towards the Virgin and the pickup, the crowd stood in silence. Don Bosco drew in his breath as he watched Nicanora mount the truck, astonished by her radiance. She looked more beautiful to him in her ageing years than in her youth. Nicanora stood beside the Virgin and poured the contents of a bottle of beer on the ground, asking the Virgin to bless the town once again and bring back lost souls. She then placed Don Bosco’s hat at the feet of the statue. Don Bosco felt tears of humility stream from his eyes. The engine started up and the pickup began making its journey around the plaza, the townsfolk following, the school band playing, everyone singing, shouting and banging drums.
After fourteen turns of the plaza the pickup drew to a halt. The townsfolk lined up once again, each placing their small gifts and offerings beside the truck. When the last gift had been given, Nicanora beckoned the mayor so that he could place his personal offering to the Virgin. ‘This gift’, Nicanora announced as the mayor and Ramon stepped forward carrying the dripping computer, ‘represents our mistakes of the past and our hopes for the future, and is presented today to Our Lady to do with as she wishes. I now hereby invite all gathered to take part in our people’s fiesta.’ Ernesto, on his mother’s command, lit the fireworks to mark the start of the party. One by one they whizzed over the Virgin’s head and were extinguished in a series of sharp explosions.
It seemed to everyone who spoke about it in the months to come that there was a momentary pause in which all thoughts and action were held in abeyance. As the last firework lit the sky, it was answered by a shot from the forest, as if the spirits of the swamp were replying with their own firework display. Arturo was the only one among them to understand – too late to warn anyone what was taking place. In that second, he realised exactly why Claudia had visited him in the night, and to where she had led her pursuers.
At the moment the shots from the forest were fired, Nena, who was standing beside her mother, looked across at the barber’s shop and saw a familiar face in the crowd. ‘He’s here, he’s here, he’s come back!’ she shouted. As Nicanora looked up, she too saw the hatless figure of Don Bosco appear from round the corner of the shop. Nena let go of her mother’s hand and ran to meet him. She did not make it past the feet of the Virgin.
As Don Bosco stepped forward, his face beaming with delight at the expression of joy that covered Nicanora’s, the computer screen burst into life. According to the onlookers, it first flickered and then shimmered, as if it had collided with another world, before it shattered into tiny pieces. The shroud fell from the Virgin, lights momentarily flashed around her head before she, too, disappeared in a shower of minute fragments. Nena fell to the ground at the Virgin’s feet, a small pool forming under her that slowly trickled across the plaza in a delicate red stream. Bottles of beer smashed to the ground, their contents mixing with the debris now filling the plaza as the sound of explosions echoed across the town. Don Bosco tried to make his way through the chaos to the place where Nena had fallen, grabbing at people as they ran in panic-driven circles and pushing them in the direction of safety and cover. He saw the doctor running into the centre of the crowd, tears streaming from his eyes, waving a white handkerchief above his head, oblivious to the risk he was taking. When Don Bosco finally reached the spot where the broken Virgin had stood, he found the Gringito kneeling, weeping, holding Nena in his arms.
As the mortars hit their target, the boxes at the side of the barber’s shop flew into the air and then fell apart above the spot where the impostor Virgin had stood. Those who remained in the plaza stood still, watching, as a cloud of feather-plumed hats gently floated down, covering the destruction beneath.
Twenty-seven
The town was filled with visitors, more visitors than had ever been thought possible, visitors who were fast outstaying their welcome. Word quickly reached the city through the commander, who radioed to the general to report that the carefully planned assault on the rebel town had been executed, a mistake had been made, and then a miracle had occurred.
‘It seems’, the commander informed the general, ‘that we have the wrong location.’
‘The wrong location?’ the general replied. ‘How can you have the wrong location? You’ve been watching it for weeks. I thought you said they had the rebel flag flying.’
‘It seems it was meant to be the national flag,’ the commander said. ‘Apparently they didn’t have any yellow paint.’
‘What about the communications equipment?’
‘A computer. Some idiot had the idea of starting an Internet café.’
‘But the rebels? You told me a few days ago you had tracked the group to a camp outside the town. What about the foreigner who’s leading them?’
‘Turns out he’s the wrong one,’ the commander said languidly.
‘Wrong one? How can he be the wrong one? Who is he? What’s he doing there?’
‘Nobody seems to know. Just hanging out apparently.’
‘Hanging out?’ the general said. ‘Why would anybody want to hang out in a place like that?’
‘Beats me,’ the commander said.
‘And the van? The man you saw leaving the town, followed by the van a few days later? I thought you had them under surveillance.’
‘We did,’ the commander said. ‘According to the locals in the villages it was most unusual to have all that coming and going. The van was carrying suspicious packages.’
‘So,’ the general shouted through the crackling radio, ‘have you found any of the weapons of destruction that they were transporting?’
‘We made a direct hit on the target,’ the commander replied.
‘I told you not to fire unless absolutely necessary,’ the general said. ‘Why did you mortar?’
‘It was self-defence,’ the commander said. ‘They fired rockets.’
‘Rockets,’ the general confirmed. ‘So they did have weapons stockpiled then?’
‘Not really,’ the commander said. ‘Turns out they were letting off fireworks. They made a hell of a bang.’
‘So what was in the packages?’
‘Hats,’ the commander replied.
‘Hats?’ the general said.
‘Yes, hats,’ the commander confirmed. ‘Hundreds of the bloody things.’
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
‘What a total fuck-up,’ the general said at last. ‘The media will love this.’
‘Quite,’ the commander replied.
Helicopters had been arriving all day and the plaza had turned into an impromptu landing pad. Television crews sat drinking coffee at the little tables outside the barber’s shop, preparing for the day’s filming. Doña Nicanora and Doña Gloria rushed back and forth trying to keep up with the orders.
‘Do you do banana pancak
es, love?’ one of the crew asked Nicanora as he walked into the barber’s to set up the scene for the interview. Large cables criss-crossed the plaza as the satellite equipment was installed for the live broadcast. Don Bosco stood waiting patiently to tell his story. The barber, it seemed, had the most interesting tale of all and everyone wanted their share of it to sell. He had saved the lives of many of the townsfolk as he pulled them out of the range of the mortar fire. He had also been, apparently quite by chance, the first person to witness the reappearance of the Virgin.
The preparations for the broadcast had been going on for some hours. Every time the television interviewer began to speak into the microphone he was stopped by a man with a set of headphones, who kept repeating the words, ‘Alpha-brava, alpha-brava, testing, testing,’ before bursting into a stream of swear words. ‘The bloody rain isn’t helping,’ he grumbled to the interviewer, who was also fast losing patience with the stubborn equipment.
‘I wonder what has happened to that foreigner,’ Don Bosco heard one of the journalists say to his colleague as they sat at the little tables.
‘According to the people I’ve spoken to he was staying with that waitress,’ his friend said, pointing at Nicanora, and he called her over. ‘Any chance of another coffee, love?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, that’s what I heard,’ his colleague replied. ‘Nobody seems to know where he’s gone. Bloody annoying he’s just disappeared like that, the day we get here. Would have been good to get his side of the story – put an interesting angle on things having it from the mouth of a foreigner. It would give the story that extra bit of credibility.’
‘Yes, bloody annoying, a lost opportunity,’ the other journalist agreed. ‘I wonder what he was doing here.’
The mayor sat under the eucalyptus tree, watching the visitors. Ramon was running around trying to make himself useful to the camera crews, fiddling with cables and any stray piece of equipment he could get his hands on. ‘Will somebody get rid of this bloody annoying little man,’ the sound recordist shouted to nobody in particular, as Ramon helpfully started to play with the buttons on the sound mixer.
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