A few minutes later Marek found himself deposited on the marble floor of the lobby that he polished every morning, he had never seen it this up close before. His burgundy uniform was now entirely covered in the fauna of the park at Podwale. Lying on his back and whimpering, he could see and feel the warm sunlight on his face that flooded through the glass roof, then it was gone blocked out by a huge plume of sweet smelling smoke, then an eclipse in the shape of a panama hat and finally a moustached face glaring down at him, with dark eyes that felt as if they were burning into the porters’ head. As Don Blanco looked down at the leaf covered specimen, everyone in the room saw his face turn from that of our jovial benefactor, to the piercing stare that had made him the most feared criminal in all of Los Rio and had earned him the nickname El Diavalo. With one hand he hauled the gibbering man into the small office behind the reception, the hotel manager knowing a little of the legend of Don Blanco silently excused himself and without even glancing at his soon to be former employee, quietly slipped out of the room. El Diavalo turned the weeping porter upside down and holding him by his ankles shook him up and down, out of the porters breast pocket fell a tiny black business card. Don Blanco dropped his quarry unceremoniously to the floor, stooped down and picked the card up, turning it over and over in his gigantico hand. On one side was an emblem of a pink hippopotamus; on the other side of the card written in gold were the numbers 4561302. The Don stuffed the business card in his trouser pocket, reached into his jacket and pulled out an ivory handled pistol; he cocked it back and pointed it at the crumpled figure lying on the floor. Marek eyes had glazed over; he had gone beyond the point of fear and had arrived at a place of complete emptiness and darkness. Don Blanco reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small tin of aniseed lozenges, with his thumb he flicked the tin open and out popped a tiny dark oval shaped sweet which he tossed nonchalantly into his mouth. If the hotel porter had known exactly who the terrifying man standing over him holding the pistol actually was, he would have also known that what he was now witnessing was a ritual that no one had ever lived to tell tale of. Don Blanco’s forefinger slowly started to massage and stroke the trigger, he sucked in deeply to take in the sweet and spiced taste of the lozenge, then just as he was about to fire, he felt a firm arm against his shoulder. He turned around to see the large expressing eyes of Gargagno looking deep into his own, Gargagno closed his eyes and bowed his head a little, despite an almost overwhelming urge to fire the gun, the Don knew what Gargagno was reminding him of; he un cocked the pistol, lowered the gun then placed it back inside his jacket. As he slowly started to walk out of the room he felt Gargagno’s arm gently wrap around him and the pair walked out leaving the hotel porter lying in the foetal position on the floor of his managers’ office.
Every one of us was surprised to see the Don return from the office without having heard the sound of gunshots. In fact Don Blanco, looking rather shamed thanked Gargagno for his kindness and place two delicate kisses on each of the blushing Uruguayans’ cheeks. The bowing of Gargagno’s head in the office had reminded the Don of a promise he had made and that his acceptance into Rio Grandean society had been dependent on him renouncing violence and promising never to take another human life wilfully, for as long as he was given sanctuary amongst the people of Rio Grandé.
Now even in exile any Rio Grandean had to remain true to these principles more than ever.
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