Siete minutos by Ismael Camacho Arango (most read books of all time txt) 📕

“An Indian brought it to me,” he said.
“He must hate you,” she said.
“I don’t think so.”
She kept on washing the plates, nothing else mattering to her soul even if Homer held the head by the hair.
“Would you come with me to the jungle?” he asked.
She dropped the saucepan she had been washing, the noise echoing around the room. Perhaps he wanted to marry her.
“I will have to ask father.”
Homer thought of them making love amidst the trees, shuddering with desire. This girl would kill him one day with her charms.
“The Indian lives by the Guaviare River,” he said.
“Did he tell you that?”
“He can’t talk.”
Homer showed her the part of the jungle where the Indian might live while feeling her teats.
“The jungle is dangerous,” she said.
“He wants coca leaves,” he said.
The end of the world happened when she smacked his face, leaving a red mark on his cheeks.


Jaramillo
Homer imagined the money he might make with the heads, while the noises of the world intruded in this reality, the tree of life swayed in the breeze and the wind caressed his face.
He must have dozed for a few moments, because the sun had gone behind the clouds when he opened his eyes. At first the red bricks looked grubby but then a little boy with dirty clothes and picking his nose stood against the wall. After moving along the path the apparition stopped by the tree.
“I must be dreaming,” Homer muttered, the child had to be a ghost invented by his mind.
The child stopped by his side, his nose a mess by now.
“Where is your mother?” he asked.
Homer understood the stranger’s identity like many other things in his life, waiting to be solved.
“She’s gone,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
Looking at the kitchen window, Homer noticed the bottles he had left there a few days before and the cloth Maria used to wipe the surfaces. His mother had gone to the kingdom of the sky, while a mirage like Jose had remained in the confines of the garden. Homer had grown into a tall man with green eyes and greasy hair but the child looked the same.
“I left early yesterday,” he said.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Time doesn’t exist,” Jose said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll understand one day.”
Jose caressed the tree full of brown patches. As Homer barked, Jose imitated him, the nature of time and life itself dissolving into nothing.
“Where is your uncle?” he asked.
“He’s a journalist in New York.”
“Good for him.”
Memories of that day flooded back to Homer’s mind, as he looked at a toy car lost amidst the wild flowers but the tricycle his uncle had given him lived with the spiders in the shed.
“Can you guess the future?” Homer asked.
“It’s all around you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Two and two are seven.”
The sounds of the garden interrupted his words. At first Jose talked of life, but as Homer touched his nose, the child did the same thing.
“You guess my thoughts,” Homer said.
“Shut your eyes,” Jose said.
Homer wanted to go to sleep, even though a breeze made him shiver. On opening his eyes, he saw Maria with a tall man.
“He wanted to see you,” she said.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I’m Jaramillo.”
He looked smart, while keeping away from the wall and the tree branches full of bird muck.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” he said.
Jaramillo avoided the dirty patches in the garden, brushing a few cobwebs sticking to his shirt.
“I’m a friend of your Uncle Hugh,” he said.
“He’s in New York.”
“I met him there.”
After rummaging in his bag, he showed Homer pictures of the shrunken head along some articles about the Amazonian jungle he must have found in a magazine.
“A shop wants more heads,” he said.
Images of all the money went through Homer’s mind, as he took the journalist back to a kitchen full of dust. Homer muttered a few apologies.
“When will you go to the jungle?” Jaramillo asked
“I have to wait for the Indian.”
Homer looked for the mark the Indian had made with a pencil in the middle of the map he kept in the wardrobe.
“He lives by the Guaviare River,” he said.
“Your heads must be there,” Jaramillo said.
“I hope so.”
“It’s incredible.”
Jaramillo must have touched something dirty while writing the conversation in his notebook, because he left greasy spots in the paper.
“I’ll take civilization to the jungle,” Homer said.
“Well done.”
After writing Homer’s statements for future reference, Jaramillo spent a few moments cleaning his clothes.
“You must come to my office,” he said.
Homer nodded. “It’s a good idea.”
Jaramillo got ready to go back to his tidy house at the other end of the town.
“Call me if the Indian comes back,” he said.
“I’ll do that.”
On reaching the shop, where Miguel served one of the customers, he turned back for the last time.
“I’ll be in contact,” he said, before disappearing amidst the merchandise stored by the door.
Homer hoped he had found the street amidst all the mess.


The trip
The Indian appeared in the shop a few weeks later, where resembled one of those statues of San Agustin in the Huila province while standing amidst the coca boxes.
“He’s from the jungle,” Homer told one of his customers.
She smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Homer.”
“I have a few nice things,” he said.
Homer put some boxes on the floor, before holding a dress with golden buttons around the waist. It would look beautiful on the woman’s slender body with big teats.
“It came from Paris yesterday,” he said. “I have my contacts there.”
Anything good in Paris had to look good in Homer’s shop. She looked at her reflection in the mirror by the counter, while holding it against her body.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
He found some more clothes in different colours and sizes, their buttons shining under the light of the lamp.
“This red blouse suits you,” he said.
She turned it around, inspecting the front and back, her eyebrows rising in admiration, but frowned on looking at the price.
“I’ll give you eighty pesos for this one,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’d be losing money.”
“Eighty pesos,” she said.
“One hundred is my last offer.”
“You will lose a customer, Mr. Homer.”
Everything seemed to stop, as she moved along the shop where his universe stopped amidst the fires of hell.
“You can have it for ninety pesos,” Homer said.
“Eighty pesos.”
He shrugged. “Ninety.”
A satisfied customer might bring more business, Homer thought, as her hands ran through the fabric, long nails caressing the material. On looking in her handbag, a few coins fell on the counter, disturbing the peace of the morning. Then she handed him crisp notes she had must have withdrawn from the bank that morning, with the water mark and the signature of the vice-president of the country.
“You’ll look like a princess,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Homer.”
“And it’s a good price.”
“I hope so.”
She looked at the other dresses in the counter, while Homer wrote a receipt. He hoped she would buy something else to go with the blouse.
“I’ll have nice clothes next week,” he said.
“Fine, Mr. Homer.”
Waves of cheap perfume wafted in the air, as she walked towards the door before disappearing in the street.