It Never Rains in Colombia

by W. H. Benjamin

  Chapter 6 – The Girl That Fell in Love With Love

  “Our greatest glory is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall.”

  Confucius

  “Harlow, Harlow.” Fingers clicked in front of her face as she blinked wearily. “You had an accident. It's okay. You're okay now.”

  “What?” she asked groggily.

  “I'm taking you to the hospital,” Christian replied as he drove through the darkened streets, “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel fine,” she sat up straighter in the passenger seat, “I'm all right.”

  “That's what you said last time you fainted,” Sophia said.

  After a while, he turned the car down a lamp-lit road and parked at the bottom of a steep incline. Sophia got out and waited for Harlow, who stepped lightly on the pavement trying to avoid pressing down too hard on her throbbing ankle. Christian came around the front of the old green car to their side. Looking down at her feet, “You'll never make it.”

  She pretended that it didn't hurt. “Where is it?” Harlow asked.

  “Up there,” he nodded towards the top of the hill.

  “Seriously, then why did you park all the way down here?” Sophia asked in irritation.

  “The road is closed,” he replied, pointing to the yellow plastic barricades and the Men at Work sign a few metres ahead, cordoning off the entryway up the hill. “I don't know of a faster way to get there, do you?”

  Sophia grimaced, turning away from him, and stomped haughtily up the hill. She couldn't understand him.

  “Shall I carry you?” Christian asked Harlow jokingly, his eyes on Sophia's retreating back.

  “It's okay, I can make it,” she began to limp forward making the off-white bedraggled angel's wings shake.

  He crouched down.

  “I feel fine.”

  “Come on, piggyback.”

  She climbed on, wrapping her arms securely around his neck as he stood up to his full six feet. She winced in pain when he hooked his arms under her thighs to secure her, inadvertently agitating the swollen ankle. They slowly navigated the crooked pavements going up the hill and found Sophia sitting on a low wall that circumvented the garden of a large house. She jumped down and began walking with them.

  “There you are,” he said with a wry grin.

  She smiled faintly then looked away.

  “Harlow?” he asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “Just checking you're awake. Did I ever tell you the story of the girl who fell in love with love?”

  “What?” she laughed, “no.”

  “Good,” he continued, “Sophia, have you heard this one?”

  “How far is it?” Sophia asked in reply.

  “Not far,” he told her, “just up the hill.”

  “Tell me,” Harlow said.

  “Well, in Cartagena some time ago, there was a girl called Elle. She grew up in a rich household and when she was little she often played with her cousins, running down the maze of cobbled streets, in and out of the crowds that walked there, dodging the horses that pulled the fancy white carriages along the streets. On the weekends, during the long hot days, she would sit outside her aunt's bakery singing and playing on her guitar, her hair fluttering behind her in the warm breeze. A passing merchant heard her singing on the wind, her voice like an angel’s carried to him by a swift gust. He followed the voice until he found the sixteen-year-old girl sitting by an old woman on a thin wicker chair outside a café. The Merchant talked to the aunt and told her that he was producing a show in the neighbouring city of Medellín. They needed a singer and he was convinced that she was a star. After days of discussions, Elle's father and mother travelled to Medellín with her to begin filming. The show was a hit. Within months, Elle's face was the most well known in Colombia. By the time she was seventeen, she had become involved with a powerful drug baron.

  “This doesn't sound like a very happy story,” Harlow interrupted.

  “It is,” he insisted as they neared the top of the hill and the neon lights of the hospital shone in the distance like a lighthouse across a dark sea. Sophia looked at the blanket of stars twinkling above them, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

  “I can walk now,” Harlow said feeling herself slipping down his back more and more frequently.

  “Are you cold?” Christian asked, setting her down.

  “No, I'm fine,” Sophia said, looking around at the houses on either side of the road.

  Harlow was unsteady and Christian offered her his arm.

  “Carry on,” Harlow said as they began to walk and she limped toward the imposing building in the distance.

  “She became involved with the local drug baron,” he continued. “Before she knew it, she was trapped in an impossible situation. She couldn't leave him because he promised that if she ever did, he would follow her. She was known everywhere; slowly she came to feel that her fame had become a prison that she couldn't escape. What had once been her beautiful kingdom turned into a nightmare. When she ran away, he sent his men after her. They would abduct her from wherever she hid and return her in the boot of the car if she struggled.”

  “What the hell kind of story is this?” Harlow asked.

  “A love story,” Christian insisted.

  Sophia rolled her eyes.

  “Elle's only refuge was in the bookshop deep within the streets of Medellín, jammed in between pavement cafés and houses that had balconies draped with pink Bougainvillea. She would make her excuses every Saturday on the pretext of going to confession and hide there in that small old bookshop, lose herself in the aisles amongst the tall mahogany shelves. She would often sit in a large leather sofa in the corner of the shop and read, stopping only to talk with the old store owner. One day, she looked above the pages of her novel and saw a young man at the till where the elderly store owner was usually perched. The book that had covered her face now lowered, revealing her true beauty to the young man who found himself lost in her eyes. Elle, unable to read, got up as if to go. The handsome assistant became alarmed and, ignoring the queue of customers, hurried over to her.

  “I must know your name,” he said unable to take his eyes off of her.

  She was accustomed to having admirers but not to being unknown, and in her surprise she forgot herself and said “Elle. What do they call you?” she asked.

  “I am Love,” he replied, enjoying the look of shock that passed over her face.

  “What do you mean?” Elle questioned him.

  “That's what my friends call me,” he replied seriously, sitting down next to her.

  The old store owner returned from the back room. The customers gave up on giving the young man's back reproachful looks and returned to contemplating their other problems. He took her hand in his and removed a red felt tip pen from his shirt pocket and gently wrote the letters A.M.O.R. on her palm.

  “What is this?” she asked, resting her hand peacefully in his.

  “A name you will never forget, I hope,” he replied, tracing a finger softly around each letter. “I am Alejandro Miguel Olivera–Ribero, but you can call me Love.”

  Elle laughed, taking a liking to him, then told him she had to go before the game was found out. Elle promised to come the next day. He waited for her outside the closed shop.

  They spent many happy months together arranging more and more secret meetings. She knew she had fallen for Love and was terrified by the thought. He struggled to sleep at night, restlessly seeing her face and running through every memory of her. Alejandro decided that he would leave his job and the next day, when he saw her again, they would run away together—leave Medellín, go far away where the baron could not get her. That Saturday when they met, he told her the plan and she decided to act on it immediately. She rushed back to her house to collect her clothes; when she arrived at the house, she learned that the baron had gone out and couldn't believe her luck. She returned to the bookshop triumphant. She found Love lying on the floor in a pool of b
lood, the baron standing over him with a gun. Elle screamed, rushing over to Alejandro only to be dragged back by the baron's men. She wrestled with them until the baron came over and said, “It's useless. He's dead.” Then he knocked her out with the butt of his gun.”

  “The end,” Sophia said as they went through the hospital's sliding doors.

  Christian laughed, “Not quite.”

  “Hi,” Sophia said, nearing the Accident and Emergency counter.

  The man looked up, “How can I help?”

  “My friend fell off of her bike, we think.”

  “Okay, take this form and fill it in. The doctor will be out to see her in a moment.”

  Sophia nodded, taking the clipboard back to the chair were they sat. The man next to them groaned, pressing a bloodied handkerchief to his head. It took a while for Harlow to be seen by the doctor. She sat on the hospital bed. The doctor nodded as Harlow counted the fingers she held up. Her pupils contracted as the doctor shone a torchlight into each eye.

  “No sign of concussion,” she said. “How do you feel, any headaches?”

  “No.”

  The doctor nodded, “You had a lucky escape then. Try to get some rest.”

  Harlow got up from the chair, “Thank you.” She grimaced as she walked.

  “Let me have a look at that ankle.”

  In the car, Harlow said, “I can't go back like this,” looking down at the crutches.

  Christian kept his eyes trained on the road, “Sophia, shall we?”

  “No,” she said cutting him off, “not today.”

  “Fine, do you mind coming back to mine?” Glancing up at the rear-view mirror, he saw her silhouette against the rear window.

  Sophia twisted her hands nervously, “Do what you want.”

  To Harlow, it sounded venomous.

  “Where are we going to sleep?” she asked as Christian unlocked the front door of his house.

  “You guys can share my room. I'll take the sofa,” he whispered.

  He showed them down the hall, then up the stairs, turning on the lights as he went revealing a worn red-carpeted hallway leading to a sparsely decorated bedroom that contained only a computer, a bed, a guitar, and a few posters of cars on the walls. She sat down gingerly on the double bed wincing in pain as she rested the crutches against the wall. Sophia walked idly around the room, touching one of the photographs on the far shelf. Christian rifled through his wardrobe and returned triumphantly with a giant T-shirt and a set of girls’ pyjamas.

  “Shotgun pyjamas,” Harlow cried, snatching them.

  He laughed.

  “Why do you have girls pyjamas?” she asked.

  “They were my girlfriend’s,” he said.

  “Eugh,” she dropped them on the bed. “You can have them, Sophia,” she said taking the T-shirt instead.

  When he was leaving, he said, “Worked like a charm. I prefer you in a T-shirt anyway.” Harlow threw the pyjamas at the door in the direction of his retreating head. He ducked back round the white door frame, calling, “missed me,” then ran away.

  She felt the throbbing in her ankle and felt a bit queasy that night, replaying the events of the party in her head. She tried to work out how she had gotten it so wrong. Once those sad thoughts floated away she drifted into sleep, but from time to time she was awoken by Sophia's tossing and turning.

  That night, Harlow's dreams were settled and comforting, leaving her with a feeling that she hadn't experienced in months—peacefulness.

  In the morning, she woke up feeling the dull ache in her ankle and was reminded of her antics the night before. Unable to remember what she had dreamed, she found herself alone in the large, well-decorated room. Throwing the ivory-coloured, gold-lined, duvet covers off of her. The memory of Christian came rushing back to her like the sea meeting the shore, and with it came a sense of relief. She left the room, and when she returned from her shower she donned an oversize shirt and some jeans she found neatly folded on the mahogany desk next to the door. She put on the slippers and hobbled down the bright sunlit hallway with the aid of her crutches, expecting to hear the sounds of lively chatter downstairs. She descended the staircase and through trial and error found an empty study, living room, and a locked door until finally she discovered Christian and Sophia in the kitchen with an older woman she didn't recognize.

  “Morning,” Harlow said politely as the crutches clicked into the room. Seeing Christian's face, she felt emboldened.

  “Hey,” Sophia greeted her, “I didn't want to wake you. I honestly didn't think I could,” she continued with a sly smile.

  “Harlow, this is my mum,” Christian explained as she took a seat at the dinner table.

  “Hello,” the woman said, smiling politely at her from the other end of the table. Harlow got the impression from the stern look in her eyes that she had not been expecting visitors.

  “Have something to eat,” he said, getting up from his chair and heading over to the fridge, “Toast?”

  “Sure,” she said, immediately feeling the impropriety of her situation. She cringed when she thought of the impression she had created on the woman and got up to join him at the fridge, clicking as she went.

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  His mother left the room.

  Sophia crunched quietly on the crisps, watching Harlow eat her breakfast. From time to time, she would glance at Christian and then look away quickly.

  “What's wrong?” Harlow asked.

  Christian looked up from his sandwich.

  Under his gaze, Sophia shut down, feeling the anger she had felt that morning rise up and threaten to erupt. She gave Harlow a tight smile, “It's nothing. I just have some stuff to do.” She paused. “When are we going?”

  “I can drop you guys off, if you want?” Christian offered.

  “No, it’s fine,” Sophia said coldly.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” once she'd said it, Sophia gave her the strangest look.

  “Let me know when you're ready,” Christian said uncertainly. He seemed subdued by the odd atmosphere that had settled over the table.

  Harlow began to feel uncomfortable. She realised that it had been there all along. “What about my bike?”

  “It's a write-off,” he said, “you totalled that thing with your BMX stunts.”

  “Oh no,” she cringed, “I can't just leave it there, my granddad got it for me.”

  “No, it's fine. Mei said she'd take care of it,” Sophia reassured her.

  Silence descended upon them. When Harlow had first come into the kitchen she had confronted a silent tension that had increased under the strain of their forced chatter. She was so preoccupied with her own problems that she hadn't noticed. All the time she had been eating, she had sensed that he was restraining himself and felt that he was colder to her than before. Her mind was so consumed with trying to work out what had happened to her bike and why Roberto had been so awful to her that she had forgotten she had a home to go to. Sophia excused herself from the table and Christian followed to show her to the bathroom. She could hear them arguing in Spanish; raised voices and harsh tones that carried downstairs.

  When he returned, he avoided her eyes.

  “Do you want some dessert?” he asked, clearing away the plates before she even had a chance to answer.

  “Let me help?” she insisted, springing up from her seat, using the crutches, as he leaned past her to reach for a plate. He gathered the four plates up, putting three of the glasses, some still partly filled with orange juice, on top of each other. As he stacked them, Harlow noticed the food on Sophia's plate was untouched.

  He lifted the plates, “It's okay. Relax.”

  She watched his back as he walked to the large sink across the room on the wall to her left. He began clearing the food off the plates. She started making her way over to him when a loud beeping sound emanated from the table. Turning back, she saw her phone light up: 1 message, Sophia. “Can't stand him let’s take the train
please! I'll tell you later xx.”

  She was simultaneously crestfallen and curious watching the back of his curly brown hair, wondering what was going on. He seemed really nice. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to help her.

  “Hey,” Sophia appeared in the doorway. “Ready to go?” She asked brightly.

  “Uh, yeah,” Harlow replied, feeling disorientated by the sudden shift in her friend's mood. “Hey, Christian, where's the nearest train station?”

  He turned around looking surprised. “I get car sick. So don't worry about dropping us, I would prefer the train anyway,” Harlow explained.

  He washed the soap off his hands and began wiping them on a dish cloth. “It's not far. Just go all the way down the road, turn right, walk until you see the bus stop. Then you'll see the station across the road.”

  “Thanks,” she said, getting up and pocketing her phone. “I'll get my stuff.”

  “Oh, ok,” he nodded.

  As she left the room with Sophia, she wasn't sure, but it seemed to her that he looked saddened by her words.

  Sophia rushed up the stairs. When they were in the bedroom, Sophia went to the right side of the bed and snatched her bag up from the floor, she took the pile of her clothes from the table adjacent to the foot of the bed and stuffed them in. Harlow tried to busy herself, moving slowly, waiting, lingering for an explanation.

  Sophia handed her a blue plastic bag. “Here. I'll tell you later. I just need to get out of here.” Harlow shook the bag, “Where did you get this from?”

  “He left them with the new clothes,” Sophia explained hurriedly with a tinge of irritation in her voice.

  Harlow placed the skirt, wings, and shirt in the bag and laid the shoes on top. Sophia was already waiting at the door.

  When he saw them out of the house she felt a cool breeze on her arms. Christian was wearing a navy T-shirt and he seemed impatient to shut the door.

  “Thank you for last night. I was really out of it.”

  He nodded, “It's cold out here, you should go. Bye Sophia,” he called to her back as she started down the road.