Bowler
11-15-2017, 02:23 PM
The old bus grated to a lower gear and gave the climb a second try. Wheels bounced over ruts and stones as tired suspension springs groaned in protest. The bus reached the crest leaving behind a comet plume of dust and diesel exhaust. Passengers adjusted their bottoms for more comfort on the wooden slat seats and relaxed, just a kilometre to journeys end.
Juan de Dios Sara turned his head to the window, looking through the pitted blood currants of squashed flies, beyond to the beauty of the blue mountains of the Sierra del Segura. Was this home? He struggled to focus on the moving glimpses of memory.
The bus wheezed thankfully to a stop in the tiny square. Broad hipped women gathered baskets, shopping bags, jostled their way down the centre aisle and out through the open door, ignoring the hopeful tip box. The driver consoled himself with a cigarette and asked Saint Cecelia for the hundredth time what sin he had committed for him to be condemned to this lousy run.
Juan de Dios Sara followed slowly; crumbling vertebra had arched his spine, greedy pain searching for a new home had long since found his hips and knees.
He stood for a moment in the square. Yes there, the drinking trough and to the right, the stepped path leading to where the little tower of Santa Maria pointed the way to heaven. Juan de Dios Sara smiled, yes, he was home.
From light to shade he blinked away the temporary blindness. The bar resting in the afternoon siesta held four card players gambling for a few pesetas; a bored figure in a grubby full length apron leant against the bar.
Juan ordered wine a Chorizo tapas and seated himself at a corner table. Time, bought with rough wine meandered slowly through the long afternoon.
Alcohol loosened shards of memory; dreams like old friends were returned, grasped and savoured.
A torn tourist poster on the opposite wall advertising a local corrida caught his eye.
He smiled and shook his head. A charade for the unenlightened, a show for the white bellies and the posing nonentities seeking glory in the assassination of milk cows.
A hot afternoon in Linares the, fifth bull, a mighty Miura blooded, untamed. Manolete the master, small, proud, grateful for the courage of his partner in the dance of death. Two ,three passes, ever closer, the blood of the Miura staining his chest, the last act, the suerte de matar. The gust of wind that took the muleta to your belly; ah Manuel you took too long to die.
The sergeant blinked the sleep from his eyes.
“Sorry sir, I thought I had”---
“Where is he?”
“I’ve put him in the back room, we found him on the road to the church”
“Effects?”
“A few pesetas, by the look of him, a gypsy, a stinking Gitano.”
“Nothing else?”
“This old suitcase, I haven’t opened it yet”
“Then do so”
The young police officer untied the string and opened the lid. On layers of tissue paper lay two letters. The sergeant leant forward lifting the paper covering.
“What the hell”
The sergeant let his hand caress the white silk, then, reached for the letters.
“Your stinking Gitano is Juan de Dios Sara and this" He said, pointing to the silk bundle, is his ‘Suit of Light”
He replaced the letters and closed the case.
“I saw him once in Seville, he was too old for the ring but his work with the cape was still a thing to behold. The courage is in the feet boy, at the pass they are still, only the coward dances. The one worthwhile man this dammed hole produced has returned to us and by god that fat pig of a mayor will pay for the finest funeral this town has ever seen, or I will take a closer look at the town hall expenses.”
He laid his hand gently on the battered case.
“Welcome home Juan de Dios Sara”
Juan de Dios Sara turned his head to the window, looking through the pitted blood currants of squashed flies, beyond to the beauty of the blue mountains of the Sierra del Segura. Was this home? He struggled to focus on the moving glimpses of memory.
The bus wheezed thankfully to a stop in the tiny square. Broad hipped women gathered baskets, shopping bags, jostled their way down the centre aisle and out through the open door, ignoring the hopeful tip box. The driver consoled himself with a cigarette and asked Saint Cecelia for the hundredth time what sin he had committed for him to be condemned to this lousy run.
Juan de Dios Sara followed slowly; crumbling vertebra had arched his spine, greedy pain searching for a new home had long since found his hips and knees.
He stood for a moment in the square. Yes there, the drinking trough and to the right, the stepped path leading to where the little tower of Santa Maria pointed the way to heaven. Juan de Dios Sara smiled, yes, he was home.
From light to shade he blinked away the temporary blindness. The bar resting in the afternoon siesta held four card players gambling for a few pesetas; a bored figure in a grubby full length apron leant against the bar.
Juan ordered wine a Chorizo tapas and seated himself at a corner table. Time, bought with rough wine meandered slowly through the long afternoon.
Alcohol loosened shards of memory; dreams like old friends were returned, grasped and savoured.
A torn tourist poster on the opposite wall advertising a local corrida caught his eye.
He smiled and shook his head. A charade for the unenlightened, a show for the white bellies and the posing nonentities seeking glory in the assassination of milk cows.
A hot afternoon in Linares the, fifth bull, a mighty Miura blooded, untamed. Manolete the master, small, proud, grateful for the courage of his partner in the dance of death. Two ,three passes, ever closer, the blood of the Miura staining his chest, the last act, the suerte de matar. The gust of wind that took the muleta to your belly; ah Manuel you took too long to die.
The sergeant blinked the sleep from his eyes.
“Sorry sir, I thought I had”---
“Where is he?”
“I’ve put him in the back room, we found him on the road to the church”
“Effects?”
“A few pesetas, by the look of him, a gypsy, a stinking Gitano.”
“Nothing else?”
“This old suitcase, I haven’t opened it yet”
“Then do so”
The young police officer untied the string and opened the lid. On layers of tissue paper lay two letters. The sergeant leant forward lifting the paper covering.
“What the hell”
The sergeant let his hand caress the white silk, then, reached for the letters.
“Your stinking Gitano is Juan de Dios Sara and this" He said, pointing to the silk bundle, is his ‘Suit of Light”
He replaced the letters and closed the case.
“I saw him once in Seville, he was too old for the ring but his work with the cape was still a thing to behold. The courage is in the feet boy, at the pass they are still, only the coward dances. The one worthwhile man this dammed hole produced has returned to us and by god that fat pig of a mayor will pay for the finest funeral this town has ever seen, or I will take a closer look at the town hall expenses.”
He laid his hand gently on the battered case.
“Welcome home Juan de Dios Sara”