Dreams To Sell

Stephen pulled back the curtain and gazed across the square. The sky
was a pale, clear blue, the mornign sunshine like an English spring. He
breathed deeply, inhaling teh everpresent odour of sandalwood, that
trace of sanctity everywhere. The streets were busy with early morning
trade: Indians in their rainbow colours bring to market produce from
the highland farms, voices calling Mayan words, dark eyes sleepy from
the journey or bleary from last nights drinking. he turned away from
the window filled with excitment of strange places. He'd arrived in the
small hours, the bus driving into a town lying silent under a big moon.
He'd found address of a cheap hotel in the guids book. 'Refugio', the
refuge. Basic but clean. He slipped into his crumpled chinos and pulled
a fresh shirt from his rucksack. He needed something to eat.

Rough bread and coffee. The opportunity to practice the rudimentary
Spanish he's puicked up on the long journey south. He grinned at the
girls in the kitchen who peeped out and giggled. pointing at him across
e empty dining room. Gulping the last of the coffee, he opened the guid
book at a new page.

Antigua. The old capital of Central America. A Spanish Colonial
nestling in the deep shadows of two volcanos. It teemed with cafes and
language schools, a ruined church on every corner. He walked the broad,
cobbled streets with their pink and orange houses, pushing through the
crowds already gathering for Semana Santa. And he was not the only
european. He smiled into there sunny faces as he passed them. there
were Amercians too, cluthing their Spanish text books and nursing
hangovers, killing time in the 'Rainbow Reading Room.'

The 'Rainbow Reading Room' was mentioned in the guidebook. Rub by two
Boston women, you could buy coffee and fruit juices whilst checking out
the extensive collection of second-hand books. It was a perfect place
for the footsore traveller. Stephen pulled up a chair, chose a D. H
Lawrence from a nearby pile and watched the jewelry seller compete for
custom.

'Hey, can I get you something?'

The voice was heavily accented and full of an odd kind of amusement.
Stephen looked up into the sunburnt face of a young Latino. His eyes
were dark stones. He had a trace of Peter Laurie about him.

'No, thanks. Well, maybe some coffee.'

'Another coffee coming up.'

The coffee he brought was bitter. The place was emptying out as the
afternoon turned slowly towards evening. Stephen thought about heading
back to the Hotel.

'Mind if I join you?'

The waiter sat down, smiling. He really was like Peter Laurie, small
and exotic, vibrating with comic-book villainy. Stephen couldn't help
but smile back.

'Sure, why not?'

'I'm Castillo. You?'

'Stephen.'

'You're English. I need to talk more English. I need to
practice.'

'Well, practice on me.'

Castillo was from El Salvador, his home a litte town a day's drive from
the border. He's been in Antigua for three months working at the
'Rainbow', trying to learn English from the tourists.

'I'm a daydreamer.'

He said this quite seriously but it sounded like a line from a black
and white film. They were the same age. Twenty-five.

'We can meet later.'

The evening sky was darkening, tranlucent glass scattered with
brilliance. Bats flew up into the warm air. The lights from the little
shops were baleful. Everywhere there was Salsa and the bars were
opening their doors. Stephen returned to his room and changed his
clothes. They met at a bar called 'Picasso's' where the music was loud.
Santana and Fleetwood Mac. Catillo was waiting, his dark hair gleaming,
a Cuba Libra in his hand. He looked up and smiled.

'Uno mas, por favor.'

Stephen sat down and the barman placed the drink in front of him.

'Cheers.'

The run was rough and burnt the throat. Stevie Nicks sang 'Edge Of
Seventeen.' The conversation began and didn't stop for a long time. The
ways of friendship are strange. A journey towards a first meeting then
the feeling that the colour of life had changed. They spoke for hours
and were very drunk my midnight. Saying goodnight at the corner of the
street, they went their separate ways. This was a beginning.

They ate ice cream at Dona Louisa's, exchanging stories . Stephen
listened to Castillo's tales of earthquakes and stared out of the
window at the Volcano's truncated peak. Their lives had been so
different yet now they were here, talking like old school chums. They
flew to Tikal and days gazing at the temples, grey stones reaching up
into the sky, through the canopy of green.

On the night before Stpehen's flight home, Castillo came to the hotel,
knocking discreetly on the door. Stephen opened it. happy to be
distracted from thesad tedium of packing. Castillo smiled as usual but
there was a sadness in him.He held a few flowers in his hands, blooms
that were a vivid orange against the whiteness of his shirt. He smelled
faintly of cologne.

'We're good friends now.'

'Yeah, I know.'

Stephen took the flowers ans put them in the vase by the bed.

'We can write.'

'Yeah, all the time.'

They drank some beers and talked about music. At 1.00 pm, Castillo
stood up.

'I have to go.'

His eyes gleamed with unshed tears. They embraced then parted. Stephen
walked down to the front door and watched him go, a slight figure
disappearing into the quiet dark of the Guatemalan night.