3/1/2013 0 Comments Short Story, Madrid: "EL MAR"“Your problem, Hor-che, is that you think too much.” The Russian local throws out in a low-slung drawl across the bar top, emphasising the “r” and especially the guttural “che” sounds of our protagonist’s name. Her voice, deep and raspy, is disconnected from her otherwise visual aloofness. Long and languid, her torso swoops backwards from a protruding pelvis, supported by nothing but confidence, imbuing her with an air of graceful indifference. Tired and not in the mood for Tanía’s energy this evening, Jorge suppresses a sigh, and manages to summon a warm-ish smile which he directs at the probing face. She returns the empty gesture while plucking a slither of salami from a plate piled with glistening red discs. Surrounding windows, translucent from dry dust mixed with hot condensation, are a dull black, signifying night. But what time of night, he wonders. The room feels tight and heated. An oily coating of sweat has settled over his face and neck. He could do with some clean air, removed from the clamour of El Mar, from the smell of smoke and sizzling animal fat, and most of all, respite from her. Warm, fleshy bodies press up against the front door. Gesturing hands dance around a table littered with abandoned glasses and hardened bread. He wonders if there is a back exit. * Silvery light leaks into the small, dim room, rousing Jorge from a heavy, dreamless sleep. The night before envelops him like hardening cement. His shoulders heave and collapse as he pushes out stale air. An empty bottle clanks when his foot knocks it over onto a plate patterned with fermented food etched into it with a fork. With slow, steady thuds he moves down the corridor towards the front door. The brick paving is surprisingly cold as he steps out onto a narrow patio cluttered with out-dated plastic furniture and a microcosm of exotic cacti. As with most routines, Jorge tends for the prickly stumps more out of habit than necessity, knowing very well that cacti can thrive without water for days, weeks, sometimes even months. His fingers re-hook the watering container onto a frail fence that serves no real purpose other than to delineate his home from the footpath. Glancing at a bright, white rectangle of sky, he makes an implicit promise with himself and decides he won’t go back there tonight. Suddenly, a dog’s bark erupts from somewhere close, startling him and throwing him slightly off balance. A wave of nausea swells in his throat. He fumbles the inside of one of his pockets, lets out a disgruntled groan, and retreats inside. * Back in the stifling warmth of El Mar, Jorge and Tanía are debating Bella’s potential for violence. It’s now late evening and the tiny bar is crowded to capacity, its social gizzards bursting out onto the pavement. With her velvety black and white speckled fur, Bella resembles a Dalmatian pup more than a Bull Terrier. Not usually one to have the strength or courage to rival the Russian when sober, Jorge is now comfortably drunk and delighting in his alcohol-induced boldness. “…It’s in their blood, it’s inevitable. Why not put a muzzle on it, Tanía, as a precaution? Or maybe you should leave it at home so it’s not tied up all night, waiting, because, you know, you do have a tendency to overstay your welcome here.” Before Tanía can retaliate, the front door ruptures open and a girl of about twelve runs in, her wet pink face flushed with horror. She’s holding a lithe, black dog in her outstretched arms, and between sobs, mumbles desperately for help. Amidst a veil of speculative whispers heads tip and crane to get a better view of the spectacle. The animal grimaces in pain, and with a shudder reveals a deep red gash on its inner thigh. Another woman, presumably the girl’s mother, demands whose dog is tied up outside, accusing it of having bitten her daughter’s dog. Sounds evaporate into thick air. Jorge turns to Tanía, who is looking down into a burgundy glass in a futile attempt to be inconspicuous. As if sensing his accusatory glance, Tanía turns to face the woman front on. “Lady, really I think it best you go to a vet, not a bar.” Her lips don’t move but her eyes, narrowed and wet, sparkle with an almost undetectable smirk. Somehow Tanía’s tone could be equally defensive and aggressive. Not prepared for the outlandish disregard, the woman attempts to speak but instead swallows loudly, choking on her own powerlessness and fury. She turns silently to her daughter, grabs her by the waist and forcefully ushers her outside, slamming the door behind them. The noiselessness of the bar presses into Jorge’s ears as if he were speeding in a confined space through a tunnel. “Vale”, says Tanía to her audience, “another drink!” As if on cue, stifled conversations crescendo into lively, inconsequential chatter. Without anyone noticing, Jorge stumbles from his stool and squeezes through the front door. He shivers in the night air and begins his journey home. That night, Jorge has a dream. In his mind he is moving with purpose and vigour. He is a younger, freer version of himself. He stands on the patio of the house, running his fingertips over fluffy nodes of cacti sprouting from a metallic trough. Light rain sprays his face and transitions into pendulous droplets that burst on his skin. The prickly cylinders beneath him shudder and crack open, revealing from dark, succulent crevices spiralling stems and moist, fluttering petals stained with intense colour. Splayed and presented to the sky, the abrupt garden quivers and unfurls in fast-motion, engorged with sudden life. Water continues falling from above as he tilts his head back desperately, with mouth wide open, aggressively gulping moisture. But now it is the present Jorge whose mouth is stretched open to the sky, praying for anything but water to fall from it. He tries to swallow droplets but his gritty mouth resists and his throat closes in on itself as if it were lined with tiny needles. Black fur lurches out of darkness, leaving behind it a thick trail of red. He can taste something salty on his tongue. An amber cube of light glows hazily in the distance like an illuminated refuge. The light grows and radiates as he approaches it, accelerating with each step. Closer still, neon letters flicker into view, spelling out in blazing electric tubing, ‘El Mar.’ He peers through a side window, over a serrated hedge of tapered bottle necks, and vaguely makes out a silhouette of the back of a man wilting from a stool. With precarious deliberation, the man slowly rotates to face the onlooker, revealing through smoky nicotine tendrils an identical face, a mirror image. Jorge locks eyes with himself. Staggering backwards, he disappears from the window and continues to move away at a sporadic, frenzied pace. No, tonight he will not go to El Mar.
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