The room was dark. Not the kind of dark you find in horror movies, not the kind that could be hiding something. This room was dark, almost out of spite. In the corners, hidden in darkness themselves, there was absolutely nothing scary, in fact, nothing at all. Here and there, one could find a table, lit by a single candle that only shed its light onto its resting place’s circular top, not a photon escaping. There was some form of overall light in the room, coming in from cracks that had opened in the plaster and straw walls, cracks the tavern keeper had been too lazy or poor to cover. Not that it rained that much here, but it’s just not good to have holes in your walls.
Three of the four customers sitting in the place were locals. No one else really came around, except for the average tourist, one of which happens to be the fourth customer to wearily settle himself down on a hard wooden stool by the bar. The tourist, who had just come in off the dusty street, only now, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the place, sees the dark sheets nailed over the windows, and the cracks. He also notices the dimness, listlessly clinging to whichever piece of furniture, heel of bread, or shoe happened to be closest.
Stifling a yaw from a hard day of touristy things, the stranger leans in toward the bartender, while reaching into the right jacket pocket of his tan windbreaker. He pulls a small dictionary out of his windbreaker and begins leafing through it as the local men sit, content to watch the potentially amusing encounter. There are cliffs, located a few kilometers outside of town, down the old mule path toward the ocean, that can get windy this time of year, one of the locals thinks, that must be why the tourist wears a windbreaker in this heat.
With the tiniest of starts, the local man realizes that he used to love the cliffs, but hasn’t taken the time to go, these past few years since starting at the new Ford factory in town. Maybe I will go, with my wife and our son, the local man thinks to himself, when I have some time off from the factory. I will buy my son a fine tan windbreaker, too. I will lean with him into the strong wind, and we will lean out over the side together, and nothing bad will happen to us. His mother will be afraid, but we will look each other in the eyes, my son and I, and we will laugh.
Seeing his friend start, the second local man glances toward his cousin, the bartender, who, he knows, does not mind dealing with the tourists that come to the area. He, too, remembers the cliffs, but has no desire to go to them, as there are more tourists there, more rude, unfriendly people, like the ones that treat his wife poorly, should her cleaning cart get in their way. The second man’s wife works at one of the big tourist hotels, just a few villages down the coast. There is talk, the man knows, at city hall, visible just barely through the cracks in the wall, of selling public land to a group of investors, so they can build a hotel halfway down toward the cliffs. Saddened by the thought of so many loud, smelly tourists in his small town, he smiles, thinking that his wife could take a job in the new hotel, so she would be closer, so they could spend more time together.
Floorboards creak with the first two steps our third man takes, bringing the halting conversation at the bar to a stop, his two companions snap out of their reverie, and turn to face him. A reluctant shadow still clings to his boot, it seems, returning to the gloom as soon as the tourist starts with that puzzled look many people get. The third man strokes his beard and strides over to the bar, to stand next to the puzzled tourist.
After a split second’s hesitation, he decides not to tell the tourist that he is not welcome in this place. He does not show the man his knife, with the sole purpose of slashing up a few limes of course, or shout him out into the blazing heat. He does not beg the man to leave his town as it is, does not explain to him the delicate balance that holds the community together, or how cracks are showing in the once-solid facade.
Turning to the bartender, the bearded man laughs. He laughs until he cries, then he has drinks poured for every man present. Now they all laugh.
No comments:
Post a Comment