The figures on the beach started to fade behind the bank of grey cloud that hung over the coastline until it was impossible to distinguish whether they were people or just jets of strange shaped strata hanging over the black sands. The ship carried Torado out further into the choppy waters of the Baltic, the Mexican stood there alone on the deck bound and gagged, his heart shattered into small sharp pieces that scored his skin from the inside. A malevolent mist sunk down and enshrouded the ship, he thought of his friend Suarez back there on the beach, the friend who he was sure he would never see again. Torado stayed there on the deck for hours his legs tightly bound unable to move, thinking about the many evening he and Suarez has spent together. They would sit there watching the moon float high up above the Rio Grandean lakes and rivers together, bathed in comforting silence as they held their bamboo fishing rods and looked out on the still shining waters.
Night fell but there was no moon that night as the black ship lilted and rocked with each crash of the wave against its rusting hull. A fierce rain storm swept over the vessel depositing at least 3 inches of ice cold salt stained Baltic water over the deck. The freezing water covering Torado’s bare feet and biting at his ankles. His whole body shivered, his feet felt numb and the rocking of the ship had turned Torado’s face an unpleasant green. Waves of nausea swept over the Mexican midfielder. The pink silk gag that had been stuffed and tied tightly round his mouth on the jetty made it impossible for Torado to catch his breath and he started to be overwhelmed by a sense of dread and panic. He bit down hard on the gag tearing at it with his teeth until at last the silken strands started to rip and the gag came loose. He opened his mouth wide and inhaling sharply filled it with the sea air taking it down deep into his lungs; then he started to vomit and losing any sense of equilibrium keeled over and crashed down into the lake of water that covered the ship’s deck. Torado tasted the wet salt on his lips and coughed and spluttered as he tried to keep his nose and mouth above the ever rising tide.
One of his captors stepped out of a large blue iron door and onto the deck, his yellow windcheater flapping about like a distressed albatross in the gale force wind that lashed at the ship. He saw Torado on the floor and grabbed him by his legs dragging his body through the metal door and down the long Iron staircase bashing the Mexican midfielders head on each step deep into the bowels of the vessel. The man in the yellow windcheater opened another stiff rusty door and pulled the vomiting Torado into the room tying the Mexicans arms behind a long red metal pipe that snaked its way up to the ceiling then left the bruised and sea water covered midfielder alone, with only the aches and groans of the ships pipework for company. Exhausted and destroyed Torado succumbed to sleep.
A few hours later sunlight began to filter its way through the tiny porthole into the engine room. The light dappled and danced over the Mexican’s eyelids, the sun god Tonatiuh trying to wake the Mexican as gently as possible. Torado opened his eyes, winced with pain his head bruised from the previous night’s trip from the deck to the engine room. He looked around his new prison cell, the room hummed with the noise of the ships engine and the heat had dried out Torado’s clothes which were now starched stiff from the sea salt. The pipe he had been tied against was so hot that he no longer shivered but started to sweat as the pipe burned at his back. A groaning noise came from the other end of the room and the heavy iron door slowly started to open revealing the face of a young looking man he did not recognize.
In the hands of the young man was a large bohemian patterned bowl, steam was rising up from it and a smell so earthy and sweet drifted across the room that Torado’s stomach started to grumble for attention. The young man, who was no more than a boy really, stepped nervously closer towards the wild eyes of the man bound to the water pipe, then knelt down and offered the prisoner the steaming hot bowl, gently lifting it to Torado’s lips.
The hot purple broth scolded Torado’s mouth as he tried to greedily drink it down.
“Slowly” said the boy “it is good beetroot, will make you feel stronger, settle your stomach”
The young seaman blew on the soup to cool it and Torado took another gulp, the soup tasted so good, sweet and sour all at once, he could feel its restorative properties going to work as it slid down his throat. The boy who called himself “Artur” plunged a spoon into the broth and fished out a pale coloured dumpling and popped it in Torado’s mouth, the pastry membrane quickly dissolved filling the Mexican’s mouth with the delicious taste of fatty pork and sugared cabbage and for the first time since he could recall Torado smiled. The innocent face of Artur smiled back “I know you, you are a footballer, a Rio Grandean no?” then dug the spoon in his hand back into the bowl offering the midfielder another delicious dumpling. Torado savoured the sweet roasted pork meat once again and as the flavour filled his mouth he realised that this young man was the first person to have spoken to him since his abduction. He swallowed the silky pastry down and looked at the naïve face of the man-boy and nodded. “Yes my name is Torado it is a pleasure to meet you.”
The young man set the soup bowl down.
“I am Artur the ships mate, the four men who boarded the ship with you, say you are a dangerous terrorist, I do not think I believe this. The men are cold and unfriendly I do not trust them but my Captain says they pay us big money, so no questions.”
Torado still ravenous pointed at the blue flower covered bowl and Artur lifted it back to the mouth of the midfielder who drained the rest of the now less scalding broth down his throat then thanked the ships mate for his kindness.
Young Artur stood up and winked at Torado “there is no need to thank me; it is an honour to serve my mamuska’s beetroot soup to such a footballing legend”
Torado smiled with embarrassment and looked out of the porthole, where in the distance he could see the snow-capped spires of a city that appeared to look as if it was floating on the now calm grey sea. He asked Artur what it was.
“That is Copenhagen; my captain tells me there is a restaurant in that city, where people pay big money to eat Christmas trees and seaweed, crazy huh?”
Torado nodded in agreement and then asked the young seafarer if he knew where the ship was bound for.
“Tomorrow evening” said Artur “we will land on the shores of England but where I do not know; only the men in the silly hats and the Captain know the exact location and none will tell me.”
Then the boy picked up the empty soup bowl and started to walk towards the door. He stopped and looked back at the sad eyes of the Mexican and then with another wink said, “I shall try and find out for you my friend.” Then pulling the huge iron door closed with a screech young Artur was gone. Torado could hear his footsteps racing up the metal staircase.
He sat there alone once again and looked out at the city that the ship slowly drifted past. He imagined somewhere in one of the buildings fine folk sitting in a sparsely decorated white restaurant. Dressed in dinner jackets and elegant evening gowns, efficient waiters dancing around the room presenting the patrons with bowls full of sugar coated pine needles. The crystal glasses on the table being refilled with a golden liquid. The thousands of tiny bubbles working their way up the glass; before bursting into the air to join the laughter that filled the dining room. The snow falling steeply outside the huge windows that looked out onto the cobbled streets.
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