Chapter 5
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Two days after the visit by the roving band of guerillas, San Pablo came to life. All work was forgotten as the villagers made preparations for the St. Mary’s Day fiesta. Always full of noise anyway, now an almost electrical current seemed to run through the air. Clark likened it much to the atmosphere at the Daily Planet the day before Christmas, when work was pushed aside and anticipation put everyone in an exceptionally good mood.
Everywhere he went, the aroma of grilling meats and other savory dishes wafted out of homes. Flashes of brightly colored silk shawls and billowing skirts filled the roads as women made their way about San Pablo dressed in their very best. Children were set to the task of gathering wild flowers and watching their younger siblings as their parents readied for the night’s festivities.
The grassy area behind Rosita’s cantina, a place normally reserved for the daily matches of tejo and impromptu games of fútbol, had been decorated for the fiesta. Tables and battered folding chairs had been set about, and boards were laid side by side to create a dance floor of sorts. Colorful banners made of scraps of cloth were hung from the surrounding buildings, and the children’s hand-picked flowers filled bowls set on every table. Clark could barely believe the transformation.
When he arrived, the party was already in full swing. Henriqué, Luis, and Daniel, men whom he knew as expert brick-layers and farmers, sat near the dance floor playing a variety of instruments, only one of which Clark recognized. Two long tables were covered with food, and nearly everyone in San Pablo either ate, danced, drank or played in the small field. Children ran underfoot, the women keeping a running stream of chatter as they talked to each other and to themselves.
Standing slightly off to the side, he felt a bit awkward, once more an outsider intruding on the lives of these people. While they’d never made him feel anything but welcome after those first few days, his efforts always appreciated, still he knew that he was a foreigner, not really one of the laughing crowd.
“You beat us here. Just couldn’t wait to party, huh?” Jeff’s booming English teased from behind his back.
Instantly more at ease, Clark turned with a grin to see his compatriots approaching. He noted Gillian’s arm hooked comfortably into the crook of Jeff’s bent elbow and looked away purposefully. He’d never asked outright if theirs was a relationship deeper than friendship, not really seeing it as any of his business. Still, he’d often caught himself watching carefully, trying to detect something in the warm hugs they bestowed upon each other and the casual touches and looks.
Instead of his normal work clothes, Jeff wore light tan pants and a white shirt that was intricately embroidered, probably by one of the village women, who took great pride in their skill at such a craft. A plaid ruana, the mainstay of a Colombian’s wardrobe, was draped over his shoulder, and his beard looked neatly trimmed.
“Wow, I don’t recognize you without a coating of stucco,” Clark teased his friend in turn. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you might even have gotten your hair cut.”
“Hardly,” Jeff snorted. “Last time I let Rosita take a stab at it, I nearly lost an ear while she chattered away.”
The two men laughed as Clark turned his attention to Gillian, ready to compliment her on her fiesta finery. She almost glowed, reflecting the infectious gaiety around her. Like the other women, she had donned a skirt for the celebration, full and brightly colored. Her white peasant blouse contained the same delicate embroidery as Jeff’s shirt, and instead of Tevas, she wore sandals with thin leather straps. The look was altogether feminine, so different than the far more practical cargo pants and work shirts she normally wore.
She looked very fetching, and he thought to tell he so when he realized why exactly she look so different.
For the first time since his arrival in San Pablo, the thick brown braid was gone. In its place cascaded waves of honey-colored hair, curling and rippling clear to the small of her back. Swept back from her face and caught with a silver clip, it was breathtaking in its shear volume and luxuriousness.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a bit much. That’s why I keep it tied back,” she remarked, and he realized with an embarrassed flush that he was actually staring at her.
“No, it’s really nice,” he stammered, feeling himself blush to the roots of his own hair. Trying to recover, he glanced around at the other people nearby who were thankfully oblivious to his discomfort. “You’re the only person here who doesn’t have black hair.”
Even as he spoke, he heard how stupid it sounded. Gillian, for her part, ignored the inane comment and laughed. “Another reason I keep it back. These Latino men. For some reason, they seem to find light hair exotic. I learned pretty quick if I didn’t want to be machismo-ed to death, I’d better just keep it braided back.”
He frowned. “Machismo-ed? Doesn’t sound very pleasant.”
“Naw, it’s pretty harmless. I take it as a compliment,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. “Speaking of, you look quite dashing. Just like a Colombian. I thought maybe you’d drag out your super suit and the Diablo cape for the party.”
He had to laugh at the image of himself standing in the midst of the party in his suit. While the bright colors would have added to the festive atmosphere, the red cape would have sent the kids running. Since he’d removed it the day he’d decided to stay in San Pablo, the suit had remained folded and tucked in the bottom of the trunk in his shack. Almost forgotten.
Over the course of the past six weeks, he’d managed to purchase some of his own clothes when visiting the larger town of Silvia, no longer wearing the borrowed pants and shirt. Adopting the uniform that Jeff assured him was the de rigueur of volunteers all over the globe, he now owned a few pairs of cargo pants and a several cotton work shirts, as well as his own Tevas sandals and boots.
In addition to the cleaning services of Antonio and later, his sister, Alicia, Clark had employed another woman, Ines, to wash his new clothes. He assuaged his guilt by paying her at least what she would have made in a week by picking coffee for four hours a day, still a paltry amount to his American wallet.
Upon learning what he’d arranged, Gillian had approved heartily, helping to aid his acceptance of such a practice by telling him that Ines used her special position with señor Sam to elevate her status among the other women. Ines felt it an honor, Gillian explained to him, that she was trusted with the care of the gringo’s store-bought clothes.
Supplementing his own purchases were the gifts bestowed upon him by the villagers of San Pablo, an astounding thing given the poverty they lived in. With the completion of each house, grateful women came forward bearing baskets and food, embroidered shirts, a finely woven straw hat, and other items they thought he might find useful. Again Gillian was instrumental in helping him accept the embarrassing bounty, giving him a lecture on pride and how even a person of the meanest circumstances wouldn’t tolerate charity. He drew the line at livestock, turning away countless chickens, three pigs, and even once a tamed monkey on a leash.
Among his favorite gifts were two wool ruanas. Hanging to mid-thigh and surprisingly waterproof, they proved to be his most practical garments. One was a rather plain tan with brown plaid stripes and therefore used for everyday wear. The other, which he had donned in honor of the festival, was dark blue with cream stripes placed symmetrically on ether side of the slit where his head protruded through. When he wasn’t wearing it, he draped it over his pallet blanket style, appreciating the warmth it offered when the clear Andean nights brought a crispness to the air.
Actually, in his navy ruana, tan pants and clean white shirt, Gillian was right. He did look much like a Colombian. His dark eyes and dark hair, grown a bit since his arrival, added to the illusion, along with the deep tan his skin had acquired through his many hours working in the Andean sun.
Even Luke had dressed up for the occasion, a bright red bandana tied smartly around his neck. They’d decided that the he looked most like a German Shepard, despite the fact that his ears failed to stand at attention, instead folding over in a comical wink. His enormous paws and rapidly growing body demonstrated that someday he’d be quite a force to contend with. Knowing to whom he owed his rescue, he could always be found within shouting distance of Gillian, sleeping in her shack at night where the other San Pablo dogs were wont to roam more freely. He stood next to her, watching the antics of the humans until Antonio issued a shrill whistle from across the field and waved a bit of food as added enticement.
After watching Luke scamper off and their compliments duly exchanged, Clark, Gillian and Jeff joined the party.
The food was abundant, nothing held back in honor of the celebration. Chicken and beef in a variety of forms covered chipped platters. Piles of thick arepas threatened to topple onto the tables, and as if the rich cornbread didn’t offer enough starch, potatoes and rice were heaped into bowls. A staggering array of vegetables picked just that morning and prepared with local flair, lent their rich colors to the table and made Clark’s mouth water.
They filled their plates and took seats at one of the unoccupied tables. Eating while a steady stream of villagers stopped by to chat with the Americans, Clark hardly noticed as the afternoon turned into dusk. If asked, he would not have been able to say when last he’d felt so carefree, so unfettered by worries or doubts.
Night had fallen in earnest, but the party showed no signs of slowing. Candles and oil lamps twinkled on all of the tables, the small band hitting its stride shortly after the bottles of chicha were passed and shots shared by all old enough to hold a glass. Clark, trying to be a good sport, slugged back his own small portion of the home-brewed liquor and nearly choked as the potent alcohol seared down his throat. Hearty smacks on the back and guffaws about the sure manliness of the gringo loco did little to convince him to try another shot.
In his travels, Clark had experienced many kinds of local music, but he never ceased to be amazed at what a grand amount of sound could be generated by a few simple instruments. With only a flauta, tiple, guitar and a pair of maracas, the small band filled the valley with joyful sound, and soon only he, Jeff and Gillian and a few of the eldest villagers remained seated.
Gillian explained to him the intricacies of the bambuco, how the goal of the dance was for the man to maneuver his way through various partners to end up with the woman of his choice. Another dance that he admired was called the chirimia, and Gillain told him he should appreciate it because he’d likely never see it outside of the lower Andes.
He watched, enraptured, as the people of San Pablo danced and laughed, looking for all the world like they had nothing to care about but the music and the food and the party. Skirts twirling and boots stomping, they were lost in the music and the magic of the warm night, their bellies full and friends at hand.
“Amazing,” he muttered, feeling such a warmth for these people that up until a month ago he’d never known at all.
“What’s so amazing?” Jeff asked.
“These people,” Clark clarified with a broad sweep of his arm, indicating the merriment swirling about them. “They have nothing to celebrate. Their homes were decimated by an earthquake. Guerilla soldiers wandered into town not two days ago and took what little money they had. But still, they don’t seem to have a care in the world.”
“Aquí y ahora.” Jeff said simply. When Clark continued to look at him blankly, he explained. “Here and now. It’s their philosophy of life. Nothing matters but what happens right here, right now. They don’t dwell on the past, and they don’t worry about the future.”
“Isn’t that awfully short-sighted of them?” Clark wondered. “Not to think about the future and prepare for it?”
“Maybe,” Jeff conceded. “But really, what exactly could they prepare for? I mean, you’ve seen how unpredictable things can be. It takes all these people have just to make it from day to day. There’s not much use in wasting energy getting ready for something you don’t even know will happen.”
“I guess,” Clark admitted. Just managing to cull enough food from the garden for the evening’s meal was a big enough concern in San Pablo. A problem that could happen a week from now was unfathomable.
At that moment, a well-endowed woman name Lourdes swept up to the table. Clark cringed, sinking back into his chair. On several occasions, Lourdes had made it clear that she wouldn’t mind getting friendlier with the dark-haired, dark-eyed señor Sam, and Clark always felt slightly unclean after encounters with her.
But he was in luck, Lourdes’s target not him but instead the lean and bewildered Jeff. Clark gave him a sympathetic smile as Lourdes hauled him off to the dance floor.
“Poor guy,” Gillian said with a giggle as Lourdes manhandled Jeff into a tight embrace. “He’d better hope she hasn’t had too many shots of chicha or he may find himself pinned to the wall.”
Clark laughed out loud at the image of an ensnared Jeff sandwiched between a slab of adobe wall and Lourdes’s ample chest. “Better him than me.”
She laughed along with him, the sound rising above the music in a delightful counter beat. “Well, your time might be coming, so don’t be too smug.”
After they’d watched Jeff and Lourdes take a few spins around the dance floor and their laughter had dwindled to coughs, she turned to him expectantly. “So, you ready to try it?”
Clark choked. “What? Lourdes? I don’t think so!”
His panicked response sent her into peals of laughter once again, and she could barely manage to speak. “Not that...” she sputtered between convulsions. “I meant aquí y ahora.”
“Oh.” He relaxed visibly, grinning as she tried to compose herself. “Do you need another shot?”
She shook her head. “That’s the last thing I need. But help yourself.”
“I don’t think so,” he demurred. “Alcohol really has no affect on me. I’d rather just enjoy the wine.”
What he was really enjoying was watching Gillian have such a good time. While she was always fairly easy-going, he’d never seen her laughing with such unbridled merriment and teasing so mercilessly. The reserve that always seemed to hold her in such calm control was gone, and whether it was the free flowing chicha or the party or just the fact that they’d all survived another day, he didn’t know. If he had to guess, he’d probably say a little bit of all of it.
“You didn’t answer the question. How does it feel to be a part of the here and now?”
What was it that they’d joked about? Oh yes, her lack of persistence. Clark took a drink of wine while he formulate an answer that would satisfy her without opening a bunch of painful things he’d rather avoid discussing.
“Yeah, it’s nice. Maybe for a while, anyway,” he added skeptically. “It doesn’t seem very realistic.”
What he didn’t say was that he couldn’t imagine living without any regards to what might happen next, even if he no longer had any idea what that might be. Just because he was too busy and too tired to think about it much didn’t mean he didn’t want to think about ever.
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? For the last six weeks, staying here in San Pablo?”
Unnerved by her insight into his thoughts, he hesitated only for a second before answering her. “No.”
She turned to face him directly, her flinty eyes unblinking and curious as they held his. “Are you sure about that? You don’t seem to have a past, and I’ve noticed that you don’t talk much about your plans for the future.”
“Maybe that’s because I don’t have a future,” he speculated with a broad grin that masked the uncertainty her observation had dredged to the surface.
“Everyone has a future, Sam,” she said, reaching across the table to lift the bottle of wine. Pouring herself a hefty draught, she inclined the bottle in his direction, repeating her actions into his glass when he nodded his approval. “And there’s a big difference between not worrying about it and running away from it. You might not be able to predict the future, but you sure as hell can’t avoid the fact that it’s going to come someday.”
Clark took a drink of his wine. Was that what she thought? That he was running away from his future? How was that possible when every future that he’d ever imagined for himself had evaporated? How did you run away from...nothing?
“Besides, that’s not what aquí y ahora is all about,” she went on.
“Then what’s it about, exactly?”
“It’s about not holding on to things that are hurtful or make you angry. About just kind of rolling with it. I think it means that you should suck every bit of enjoyment you can from each moment and not let anything, past or future, stand in the way of living life right now.”
“You certainly do that well,” he said, tipping his glass in mock salute.
“Yeah, well, I’ve had more practice than you. It gets easier. Trust me,” she said with a laugh that was distinctively less joyous than the ones of earlier.
A slightly uneasy silence settled over them, topics touched on a little to close to home for his comfort.
But he didn’t want to feel maudlin. For that moment, at least, he wanted to enjoy the music and the wine and the company seated next to him. This was a party, after all.
When he spoke, his voice held a lightness that he allowed to settle in his heart. “So, what does your future hold, when it finally does come to pass?”
Taking his cue, she smiled brightly. “I see a dance in my future. Come on.”
He shook his head vehemently as her intention to take him out on the floor became clear. “Oh, no.”
Her hands went to her hips, her head cocked to one side so that a waterfall of honey waves came to cover her shoulder. “What, Superman can’t dance? Or maybe it’s that you’d rather wait for Lourdes to finish with Jeff.”
“Oh, God,” he groaned, “anything but that.”
Extending her hand, she gestured for him to rise, adding a wry smile. “I promise, I won’t pin you to the wall.”
Quite reluctantly he allowed himself to be led to the dance floor, but within two songs, he’d picked up the strong beat of the music and was able to manage a bit of the bambuco.
Throughout the twirling dances, partners were exchanged, and Clark found himself passed from woman to woman all amidst the broad laughter and loud whoops of celebration. Thankfully, he was paired with Lourdes for only a brief set, soon spinning back into position with Gillian. They finished out the dance, and begging thirst and exhaustion, he led her back to the table.
Falling into their seats, out of breath with laughter and dancing, Clark refilled their wine glasses while Gillian swept errant strands of hair out of her face.
“I think you have an admirer,” she whispered loudly, looking at a person standing beyond Clark’s left shoulder.
Panic shot through his spine, and he stiffened, afraid to turn around. “Not Lourdes?”
Gillian giggled at his discomfort. “Relax, you’re safe. At least this time.”
He swiveled slowly to find a pair of dark eyes staring at him from several feet away. A little girl not much younger than Antonio clutched something in the fist that she held slightly in front of her, as if she wanted to bring it to the table where he and Gillian sat but was too afraid to move. Clark gave her what he hoped was a welcoming smile and lifted a hand in a small wave.
Instead of coming over, her eyes widened and she took a large step back. Clark’s heart sank at seeing her obvious fear. He’d tried so hard to win the trust of the children, but so far, only Antonio and Alicia approached him with open acceptance. And that was because he paid them.
He glanced at Gillian, who was smiling slightly as she watched the interplay between the large American man and the tiny Colombian girl. But when she saw the dejection in his face, the merriment left her own, replaced with an odd tenderness. Standing swiftly, she positioned herself between Clark and the little girl, appointing herself ambassador.
Crouching down near the ground, she motioned for the girl to approach them. In a gentle voice that carried back to where he watched, she explained that Sam only seemed scary because he was so big, but really, he was like a giant piñata, full of sweet stuff on the inside. Clark choked on a laugh upon hearing that analogy, not sure if he likened himself to a fanciful creature filled with nothing but air and meant to be whacked with a big stick. But when it elicited a shy grin, he decided that he’d take being hit with a stick if that’s what it earned him.
Holding the girl’s hand in her own, Gillian approached the table. “Sam, this is Eva. She has something she wants to give you.”
Clark leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees to bring his eyes directly in line with Eva’s. Her dark lashes were thick around her obsidian eyes, her young skin a warm, creamy tan. She was a beautiful child, and when she smiled at him, Clark felt his heart melt.
“This is for you, señor Sam,” she said softly, holding out her gift.
Clark recognized a strap similar to the one holding Gillian’s keys together. He took it, examining the brightly colored braid. Lengths of string in a rainbow of colors had been tied into tiny knots, creating delicate stripes running perpendicular to the strap’s seven or so inch length. Only a quarter of an inch wide, it was a small but precise example of the expert weaving skills possessed by the women of San Pablo.
“Did you make this yourself?” he asked gently, holding the braid as if it were the most valuable thing he’d ever received. “It’s so beautiful.”
Eva nodded solemnly. “A pulsera.”
Not trusting the gringo to understand, she gave Clark a look of wisdom far beyond her six or so years and took the strap from his hands. She wrapped it around his left wrist, her small fingers nimbly tying the two ends into a secure knot. He didn’t dare move while she worked, not wanting to endanger their fragile friendship. When she was satisfied that it would not come untied, she spun the strap around, placing the knot against the inside of his wrist. Grasping his hand, she twisted his arm this way and that so she could admire the bracelet properly placed on its new owner.
Clark brushed a finger over the finely woven gift, a sharp wetness stinging the back of his eyes. When she placed a kiss on his cheek, he had to swallow hard against the lump that had risen in his throat. Thankfully, Eva scampered back to her friends, and he made a great show of examining his bracelet closely while he tried to compose himself.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, the touch so light as almost to pass notice. A suspicious glitter shone in the gray eyes gazing down at him.
“Aquí y ahora, Sam,” Gillian said. “I’m telling you, it’s the only way to live.”
Funny thing was, he was starting to agree with her.
to be continued...
