A Perfect Day, in the Countryside

It was early afternoon, they, Joseito, his eleven year old son, Lee and his wife Rosa, they arrived in a taxi, to the old dirt, and dusty road that led down a shadowy lane to Jose’s mother’s adobe premises: along this walk were tall adobe thick walls used for fences, and inside these walls were folks getting ready to plant for the season, and would harvest sometime in April through May, in this rural Peruvian landscape outside of the city of Huancayo, Peru.
Jose like the writer and poet Lee, had quiet drinking, Lee twenty-four years ago, Jose, had about one year of sobriety, but in that short time he had turned his life around most dramatically.

Lee, the elder, or we can call him the old man, was very proud of Joseito. He had befriended him some five years earlier, perhaps one of his first friends in the Mantaro Valley region, Joseito now being forty-years old. He had a radio station when Lee first arrived in the City of Huancayo, and had Lee on the radio a dozen times since concerning his cultural prose poetry, and the over thirty books he had written thus fare, but had given up the radio station since; about the time he stopped drinking. Now he was even doing better, the editor of a regional magazine, also into the Tourist Business, and was buying into an industrial channel on television.
It had appeared to Lee, Jose could see everything sharp and clear since he stopped his drinking, and nothing could stop him in the world of success. Perhaps even becoming mayor of the city, some time back, he had run for public office but did not make it, but chances were, he could next time, as long as he remained clean and sober, and energetic as he always was: he knew everyone in the business area, also in the political arena in Huancayo, and was respected, especially now that he was no longer connected to the bottle. Yes indeed, Lee had felt all the pot holes in his life were being filled with positive cement. And today, he and his wife were invited over to his mother’s hacienda.
He, Jose and his boy lived in an apartment in the city, he had raised his boy on his own you might say, and was concerned he should learn English as a second language, swimming and the computer, and in the taxi he had told the boy so, it was a world now, that without such skills, one might have less a chance in it for success, plus at a young age, one seemed quicker to learn such things. The boy listened.

As I was saying, the taxi stopped, and they were walking down this dusty path of clay and stone, occasionally you could feel underneath the dirt the hard rocks. And then came upon the old adobe walls that surrounded the premises of the Jose’s Mother’s property.
A slight trench had been cut between the walls with the door that lead into the open area of this hacienda type setting, and the field outside, which vegetables were to be planted in this widened area shortly.
Lee, as always wore a hat, so his head would not burn from the sun which seemed to be lower in this high area (some 10,500 feet above sea level), nor his face, he was white as rice, a gringo, they called him, and of course, his wife being of the Wanka stock of this mountainous area, as Jose and his son, were all bronze. Yet, seldom did he see Jose wear a hat, and today was no different. When they had first passed the adobe fence, belonging to Jose’s mother, two fellows were sitting at a table, drinking beer from his mother’s store, they had said their hello’s to Jose, Lee and thereafter, everyone went about their business.

Now inside the adobe walled hacienda, Lee walked about, the sun beating overhead, looking at the gardens here and there, chickens running about, a dog ran and captured one, killed it (someone said: ‘It was a good egg producer, too bad…’; a plum like, or cherry tree was in front of him—a little girl climbing it, red luscious small plums, two huge rabbits in cages, one the mother with its newly born, the other below, the father. Along one side of the property were large and small white pumpkins, and Lee noticed a water pipe had broken alongside a garden.
The electric wires to the premises were overhead. There was a time there was no electricity in this area, back when Jose was a boy, he’d sit under the moon’s light and do his homework: they had owned the property some 37-years. Back then Jose would have to walk a mile for water, and more than that for bread.
Times were changing, and as Jose reintroduced Lee and his wife Rosa to his sister, Elisabeth (a great cook and conscious mother), his mother, brother and the children, he thereafter, pulled out some old stumps, cut from a tree his father had cut down, back in the early 1990s (his father had died in 1992, it all brought a swelling of a smile to his face to mention it), and they sat and talked in the afternoon sun, with a breeze, while Elisabeth, cooked the Ginny Pigs (they had a cage in back of the place, where they raised them).
During this time Elisabeth and her older brother carefully fixed the broken pipe where water was gushing out, and set the table for all to eat. Ginny Pig was cooked with red sauce, and very tender to the lips, along with potatoes and rice. Elisabeth brought a second portion over to Lee, Rosa remained comfortable with her portion, even trying to get her husband to eat some of it, she was not especially found of Ginny Pig, like her husband. And they all laughed, under the wooden porch, as a storm approached, cleaning the dust and dirt of the countryside. And everyone put on their jackets, and sweaters, and continued to drink coffee, coke, eat, laugh and talk.
Jose, again pulled out those old wooden stumps, and they all sat the afternoon away talking under the sun (the little, three-year old for the umpteenth time was climbing that same berry tree), whereupon, Lee spotting a colorful centipede, and the four children—along with the tree climber, surrounded it and tried to play with it, then capture it, and then Elisabeth put a stop to it—the savior you might say for the little creature.
The younger child, the tree climber, Elisabeth’s little girl, came out to Lee’s side by the tree stump, with her colorful school work book, and they went through it page by page. Lee trying to trick her by saying one thing was another and the little girl would say, “No…” and point to the correct image within the book.

Somewhere in-between this afternoon, Jose had left the inner compound of the site, to visit his friends—those drinking beer he had introduced Lee to, he had returned, and after a short while, complained of being sick, thus, all found out he had had a beer with his friends, saying in essence, to his sister, ‘…I had to be polite.’ His sister saying, “Can’t you say no?”
And Lee reinforcing what his sister’s intentions was by saying what was said, “Perhaps this is a good thing that you have gotten sick, teaches you drinking is not for you—the Lord is saying ‘No more!”’ And he smiled at Jose, whom he liked, and was proud of.

It was a tranquil afternoon in the countryside, one with friends, one with sun beam rays upon one’s shoulders, and animals running to and fro, children playing, older folks watching (Lee and Jose’s mother), a storm to clean up the debris and dust, to water the fields, to fill the water holes (or the groundwater), a good and healthy lunch, laughs, it was a rich afternoon, where there was plenty of everything, and Lee wondered, perhaps Jose did likewise (How did the Lord put it all together, and was it just for them), for he, Jose commented on it, saying, “It’s a great day in the countryside,” looking at Lee, and Lee saying, “In twenty-years it will all be gone, it is best we absorb it now,” and they both looked at one another, knowing there was much truth to it. But as I was saying the Lord, Jesus Christ could not have made a more perfect day, and everyone took advantage of it.


Note, written: 9-15-2008 Dedicated to Jose Arrieta

Written by Dr. Dennis L. Siluk © 9/2008

The Major’s Secret

(Flash Fiction)

Outside the bar it was dark, twilight had come and left, you could see the gibbous moon setting in from the window; it was high in the heavens. The Major leaned heavy on the bar, reflected on his war wounds from Vietnam, it was 1971, and he had been there in 1968 through 1970, now stationed at Fort Rucker, Alabama. He was an instructor within a helicopter unit. His eyes had been badly cut, damaged, now scared, hit from hot flying bits and pieces of metal, during his war years. The scars ran deep, one in the middle of his forehead, the others under his right eye, another along the upper part of his right jaw bone, it had ripped the side of his face off, stitch marks from his nose, around his mouth to his chin.
When he had finished his second drink, he looked to the side of him, saw Corporal Hanson, he was his clerk, a nice looking young boy, eighteen years old, had joined the Army at seventeen, and seemingly got his rank quicker than the average young man in the Army, not having been in a war zone, were most men acquired their rank a little more rapidly.
He said to the young Corporal, “Funny seeing you here, it’s a ways from the base.”
“First time I’ve been in this bar, I was just kind of looking about for a new waterhole.”
And then the young man dug into his coat pocket for some money, pulled out a five dollar bill, and put it on the bar counter, ordered the same kind of beer the Major was drinking, Beck’s.
“Yes, Major,” repeated the young boy, “it’s my first time in this bar,” and he leaned forward to take the beer from the bartender.
The Major lit a cigarette, from the reflection of the light on his face, you could see the scars, the ones lower by his jaw were deeper than the ones under his eye, and the one on his forehead was thin but deep, bone deep, the others with the stitches were visible but smoother.
The boy was white faced, light brown hair. The Major, knocked on the wooden bar, “Give me two more beers here Ralph,” he knew the barkeep quite well, the boy noticed.
“You’re only eighteen years old, right?” asked the Major.
“Yes sir, I’ll be nineteen in October, I mean next month,” replied the boy, looking at the Major’s face, but not staring.
“You ever been in love?” asked the Major.
“I don’t quite understand sir,” said the boy with a modest look, one that seemed almost indifferent, if not arrogant.
“It’s a simple question, in love with a girl?”
“I’ve dated girls if that is what you mean!” said the boy with that indifferent and arrogant tone, and now an almost superior look.
“Listen Corporal, I asked a simple question, doesn’t give me any look of superiority.
“Yes sir, Major,” said the boy soldier head down, looking at his glass of beer, almost afraid to look the Major in the face.
“Are you in love with any of the girls you write now?” asked the Major.
“With one, sir, I write her regularly,” said the boy. But the Major new better, he had read all his letters, and he knew who he wrote: his sister, his mother and one girl he had dated from High School, but never a word of love or marriage, just talk on issues. He didn’t write any men, not even his father.
Now the boy turned his head to the other side of the bar, away from the Major, and the Major looked the boy up and down, and smiled, “No need to pout,” Said the Major, “I just was curious, nothing more.”
But there was more questions to come from the Major, as the boy now turned back to face him.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” said the Major, “the Army is a life of hardship, and one needs to advance, stay alive, and you need to be watchful of your superior looks, be careful that someone doesn’t get you.”
The boy looked deep at the Major, the Major then said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take you, or lay a hand on you, but you simply need to know your chances in war are less than good.”
“What do you want of me, sir,” asked the boy.
“Want,” said the major, “nothing, I don’t want a thing from you, matter of fact, it is best you finish your drink and go-on back to your barracks.”
The Corporal got red in the face, drank down his beer, as the Major turned back to staring at the wall across from him, and leaning on the bar as he had done prior to the Corporal entering his dialogue.
“I am not shady,” said the boy now standing on his feet, about to leave the bar, directing his words to the Major.
“Fine,” said the Major, “just make sure you do not end up in a war, you don’t really want to, just go after your great longing, carefully,” and he leaned back in the chair, smiled, folding his hands as if to feel more guarded, the boy did the same, unconsciously, and turned about walking out of the bar.
Several minutes had passed, the Major heard the door open in back of him, about twenty feet from the bar was the door, he looked across the wooden bar at the wall, into the mirror that hung on the wall, the Corporal had come back in, he mumbled out loud, “The little shady impostor.”

9-13-2008

Murder at: Puno and Real

The Roads, Puno and Real, passes by the Plaza de Arms in the city of Huancayo, Peru, the streets go back to the days of the Inca’s, now modern with smooth hard concrete, and dusty on this early Saturday morning. Surrounding this city are the Andes, high mountains, green and brown.
At the corners of Puno and Real are two wooden huts, each having a woman proprietor inside them, selling several different newspapers; this Saturday morning, the sun was dropping down over the mountains onto the city, the altitude 10,500 feet above sea level.
Outside the city, in the valley of Mantaro, are several villages, with adobe houses, and hard dirt streets: children and parents, doing their shopping, and so forth. Women on their roofs washing their babies and hanging cloths, dogs on the roofs barking, men on the streets, and in the side empty lots playing ball; some men just sitting on chairs by shops against the building walls, smoking and drinking beer.
Back in Huancayo, at Puno and Real, a garbage truck just stopped, two men run to the local shops, collect trash, some of the trash is sitting out on the sidewalk, near the street. There is a crowd of people in the plaza, gathering up for a wedding in the cathedral. And an old man has come up to the street corner carrying a suitcase, He’s looking about for a place to sit down or so it seems, he looks uncomfortable, and tired.
A kid asks him if he wants a shoeshine.
He handed him his suitcase said, “Look after this.”
“What did you say?” asked the shoeshine boy.
“If you would guard my suitcase while I find a place to wash up and so forth!” said the old man, somewhere in his mid seventies.
“Isn’t that a bit dangerous, I’m a stranger to you, I could run away with it, most kids around here would,” said Johnny, about fifteen years old.

The sun was taking the chill out of the air; it was bright and fresh, with a little breeze.
The old man was looking up the road, when the boy made his statement-question. He looked at the boy out of the side of his right eye. Keeping a view up the street, then he pulled his collar up, and hat down, covering his face somewhat.
“Maybe I’ll get them yet,” the old man mumbled. “They’ll kill us both if they see you with me.”
“Well I don’t know what you’re talking about old man, do you want a shoeshine or not?” said the boy.

The chill in the air was now gone, the old man’s eyes was boiling, looking at the boy annoyingly and suspiciously up the street. He started to grind his teeth. There was a new quiet between the boy and the old man, a kind of bubbling curiosity for the boy,
“Lad,” said the old man, “sorry but it is called self-preservation.”
For a block or two, the road was flat, and then it went down hill, that is when he saw the three men, one after the other, their heads appearing over the hill onto the flat road.
“They’re not going to stop,” he said to the boy.
“Stop it,” said the boy.
The old man grabbed his suitcase back out of the hands of the boy, untied a rope he had tied around it.
“You better go before you get into trouble,” said the old man to the boy, and handed him a dollar bill, but the boy remained standing where he stood.
“What do you want?” asked the old man.
“Nothing,” said the shoeshine boy with a face that said, perhaps the old man is having a walking nightmare.
“Why not?” said the old man, trying to see how close those three men were getting to him, talking to the boy, but not looking at him.
“Not sure why, old man, do I need a better reason?”
“Then thanks for your company, but get on out of here there’s going to be trouble.”
“Well,” said the boy, and stepped back a foot or two.
The old man smiled a beautiful Peruvian smile, holding on to his half opened suitcase, looking at the boy, and then the three men coming towards him.
“Wait,” said the boy, “I’ll talk to those men; tell them not to hurt you.”
“Don’t bother, they came to kill me,” said the old man.
The boy thought, he must had really got mixed up in something bad, awful. He reached inside his suitcase, pulled out a white towel; the three men walking across the street now, twenty feet from the old man. No one said a word, nothing. The boy wondering what the old man did,
The old man looked at the boy, said, “I was trying to get out of town, and I double-crossed those men, it now is them or me, now you know what it is all about.”
They were now all at the same street corner, Puno and Real, and looking at one another.
The boy said to the three men, “He’s just an old man!”
“You better step back boy, before you get hurt,” said the taller man of the three.
The old man dropped the suitcase on the ground,
The short fat man, one of the three, said, “He’s gentle as a lamb,” and they all started laughing. At that moment, the old man pulled out a silver plated 38 revolver, from under the white towel it was wrapped around, said as he started shooting ‘Well, good-night boys’ and within seconds all three men were dead on the ground.
The police were up the street, at the other end, two women directing traffic, one across the street guarding the bank, standing outside of it, leaning on its stone structure, another police man at the far end of the plaza, they all pretended not to have listened to the shots, and continued to do whatever they were doing with out interruption.
The old man then walked into the Plaza area, sat down on a bench, and told the boy, “Ok, now give me a shoeshine.”

9-12-2008