one dancing hand or risk a splintered tooth.
Hart wondered for a moment whether he wasnât having a recurrence of the malaria he had once contracted during the bush war in Sierra Leone, after he had managed to mislay his chloroquine in a spate ditch, but he soon discarded the idea. He was far too war-wise not to recognize the signs of post-traumatic stress. He had seen it in others many times and had pitied them for it, whilst still going on to plunder their images for his camera. Now he, too, was a victim of the syndrome. It was an object lesson in humility.
Hart hunched forward and tried to overcome the shaking by a process of rationality. The whole thing was hardly surprising,he told himself. A pistol had been aimed â first at his body and then at his head â and two botched shots had been fired. Shots that he had been convinced, in his essential being, would kill him. He had wilfully ignored the after-effects of these and had travelled halfway across the world only to find his father crucified, stark naked, on the wall of his study. What had he expected? That he would be able to soldier on with his life as if nothing had happened?
Gradually â despite the shaking and juddering that was inhabiting his body â Hart became aware that he was being watched. A woman was staring at him from the far corner of the square. She was sitting on a bench, her legs zigzagged beneath her. When it became clear that he had seen her, she started up from her place and headed towards him. Hartâs fevered imagination came up with a picture of a dog that has been forced to sit for too long and has finally resolved to anticipate its masterâs command to come to heel.
The woman approaching him was around fifty years old, of Maya descent. She did not wear the traditional floor-length huipil , however, and neither did she have a head covering of any sort, but instead she wore a Western-style dress of a black silk material, set off by a black jade necklace of a strange geometrical design, with gold and coral inlays. Her manner of walking, too, was at once elegant and knowing, as if, long ago, she had made a study of its effect and was no longer able or willing to shake off the habits of youth.
If she had been younger, Hart might have assumed that she was a streetwalker, on the lookout for evening trade â inCentral America, the zocalo , or central square, was where such women often approached you. But this lady was no streetwalker. Maybe she had seen him collapse onto the kerb and was concerned for his welfare? But Hart doubted it. There was intent in her walk.
He rose, meaning to give her the slip, but his legs gave out on him at the halfway point and he lurched backwards onto the kerb in a muddle of arms and legs. He put out a warding hand to slow her down. âIâm fine, Señora. Absolutely fine. Iâve had a little too much to drink, thatâs all. Iâll be right as rain in a minute.â Hart realized that he was babbling to the stranger in English.
The woman halted two yards from where he sat. She, too, replied in English. âYou must come with me, Mr Hart. My name is Colel Cimi. There are things you should know about your father. Things that only I can tell you.â
Her English was American-accented and oddly imprecise, as if she was being forced to act as both speaker and interpreter for want of an assistant. Hart suspected that she had once been fluent in the language but had fallen out of the habit of speaking it. He tried to gauge the expression on her face but failed.
âWhy should I come with you? Youâre a total stranger to me. And what should I know about my father?â
Colel Cimi fluttered her hand. A 1972 Lincoln Continental glided towards her from a distant part of the square. The car shone with a combination of Turtle Wax and four decades of elbow grease. The premium-grade whitewalls rumbled overthe cobbles. The burnished trim gleamed in the reflection of the
Hart wondered for a moment whether he wasnât having a recurrence of the malaria he had once contracted during the bush war in Sierra Leone, after he had managed to mislay his chloroquine in a spate ditch, but he soon discarded the idea. He was far too war-wise not to recognize the signs of post-traumatic stress. He had seen it in others many times and had pitied them for it, whilst still going on to plunder their images for his camera. Now he, too, was a victim of the syndrome. It was an object lesson in humility.
Hart hunched forward and tried to overcome the shaking by a process of rationality. The whole thing was hardly surprising,he told himself. A pistol had been aimed â first at his body and then at his head â and two botched shots had been fired. Shots that he had been convinced, in his essential being, would kill him. He had wilfully ignored the after-effects of these and had travelled halfway across the world only to find his father crucified, stark naked, on the wall of his study. What had he expected? That he would be able to soldier on with his life as if nothing had happened?
Gradually â despite the shaking and juddering that was inhabiting his body â Hart became aware that he was being watched. A woman was staring at him from the far corner of the square. She was sitting on a bench, her legs zigzagged beneath her. When it became clear that he had seen her, she started up from her place and headed towards him. Hartâs fevered imagination came up with a picture of a dog that has been forced to sit for too long and has finally resolved to anticipate its masterâs command to come to heel.
The woman approaching him was around fifty years old, of Maya descent. She did not wear the traditional floor-length huipil , however, and neither did she have a head covering of any sort, but instead she wore a Western-style dress of a black silk material, set off by a black jade necklace of a strange geometrical design, with gold and coral inlays. Her manner of walking, too, was at once elegant and knowing, as if, long ago, she had made a study of its effect and was no longer able or willing to shake off the habits of youth.
If she had been younger, Hart might have assumed that she was a streetwalker, on the lookout for evening trade â inCentral America, the zocalo , or central square, was where such women often approached you. But this lady was no streetwalker. Maybe she had seen him collapse onto the kerb and was concerned for his welfare? But Hart doubted it. There was intent in her walk.
He rose, meaning to give her the slip, but his legs gave out on him at the halfway point and he lurched backwards onto the kerb in a muddle of arms and legs. He put out a warding hand to slow her down. âIâm fine, Señora. Absolutely fine. Iâve had a little too much to drink, thatâs all. Iâll be right as rain in a minute.â Hart realized that he was babbling to the stranger in English.
The woman halted two yards from where he sat. She, too, replied in English. âYou must come with me, Mr Hart. My name is Colel Cimi. There are things you should know about your father. Things that only I can tell you.â
Her English was American-accented and oddly imprecise, as if she was being forced to act as both speaker and interpreter for want of an assistant. Hart suspected that she had once been fluent in the language but had fallen out of the habit of speaking it. He tried to gauge the expression on her face but failed.
âWhy should I come with you? Youâre a total stranger to me. And what should I know about my father?â
Colel Cimi fluttered her hand. A 1972 Lincoln Continental glided towards her from a distant part of the square. The car shone with a combination of Turtle Wax and four decades of elbow grease. The premium-grade whitewalls rumbled overthe cobbles. The burnished trim gleamed in the reflection of the
Similar Books
