The Meeting

Sat in the square waiting. 

The waiting always made him tense, inside would return the anxiousness of childhood; Then he would be there, back on the windowsill of the wooden house on stilts that hugged the river. He would stare hour after through the window expectant unable to contain his excitement.

 "papa was coming!"

The hum of each car engine making its way up the narrow lane made his heart leap.

 He was sure this would be the gleaming new car his father would be driving but as the car did not slow he would look on in disbelief as it passed by the house.

Slowly the hope would fade in tandem with the dying light of the day and his mama would come into the room,she would gently lift her crying son into her arms and carry him to bed.

Now nearing forty he was sat in the late spring sun outside a cafe in the heart of Palma, staring out over the square, again waiting for his father. As he lit another cigarette he felt the knot tighten sharply in his stomach, it had been over two years since they last met and as time carried them through the lives like lost vessels at sea, they became separated by those vast bodies of water. He knew that they would both feel the same awkwardness once they spotted the other, each man at opposing ends of the square. They would be strangers, longing to feel love but between them flowed a river full of anger, guilt, distrust and regret, its waves would foam up in each of them, threatening to crash down on them.

The hug and the kiss uncomfortable, forced almost as if this was a first meeting; The conversation staccato, stop...start....stop, long pauses as both decided what to say, or what not to.

This how their relationship existed, a constant navigation between ever arriving storms.

Stone

The haze had begun to take form, a film of smoking air, sealing in us all beneath it, tight as a vacuum.

 In the street the day pressed its full weight upon my shoulders, an ache ran down the very middle of me, through my vertebrae and then on into my lumbar, tunnelling down my leg and out beneath my feet. it was as if the ground underfoot was dragging me closer planting me into the soil like roots. the sky above a pick axe that hammered at me so i would stay straight and immoveable, a cane for others to climb up and flower in the hothouse of those middle hours.

Every now and then, a pin popped the top of the white grey plastic dome, then the burning rays of solar light would spread across the stone walls of the buildings, creep from one side of the street to the other and all would be bathed in such rich gold, the peoples bodies glowed and were at once as ancient as a sculpture pulled by rope from the wet bed of the Cephissous.

In that light all evidence of man kinds modernity, the materials of progress, the engines of our attempted rule over the planet, are revealed for what they are; no more than hewn stone. Shapes changed to meet our needs and desires but its nature ever unchanged and from its place glued together by mortar it watches us.

It eyes us as we may a puppy rolling on its back, with affection at its ridiculousness, the hound scratches its back on the ground and its paws dangle in the air but unlike the canine who is eager to please, in our eyes is the desire to conquer all, the stone however remains unconcerned, its place assured until the sun finally eviscerates the planet, the rock long ago has accepted this inevitability.

So from cliff to mountain it stares at us with a furrowed brow as man chips away at it; goes to his death to move and refashion it into structures it may call his own but will always be material simply borrowed for the shortest of times.

Rock, water, soil and sun, these are the creatures that have been granted a degree of eternity. Yet long we as a race have ceased to worship them with reverence. instead we have tried to master all that is permanent and created deities in our own image, so instead we may worship ourselves. Is this our greatest arrogance?

The prison cook part 3: The final life of Olivas Ancho Limonez the III

Olivas awoke to find himself in a damp lightless world, the taste of mould crumbling from the walls making the air itself a dusty soup that clung to the cooks lungs. He had no idea how long he had been here. Time had lost all meaning, mixed with the acrid air to become nothing more than broken grains floating around his shackled body; the ooze occasionally lit for a fraction by a flare of light as a metal hatch screamed open and in the phosphorus glow a pail of water would slide across the floor spilling its contents over its sides. Then the light was gone in a deafening ring as the hatch slammed shut that tore at his ear drum.

His jailers(whoever they were?) did not utter a word and Olivas obliged them in this, not letting out as much as a cry or a scream, this was a universe only inhabited by silence. Surrounded by frozen stone walls, the stench of piss and faeces former tenants Olivas did not wonder on his fate, for he was sure they would soon come for him. He would be stood up against a wall, maybe with other men and then he would be dead. He felt no particular feeling about this end, no sense of injustice or anger, that had all burnt out the day of the fire, all he felt now was an aching, a tiredness, to sleep forever did not seem to him an unhappy ending. After all was not this the ending for all of us?

His fate however was in the tiny hands of another man.

The Generalissimo still enraged by the humiliation he had felt that day, as he had stood there the only guest without a plate of food as everyone had watched the restaurant explode into fire. He wanted Olivas to feel that same humiliation, that same ridicule. The Generalissimo had pondered grotesque unmentionable forms of torture but decide against this, the last thing he wanted was for this cook, this traitor to become a martyr, a revolutionary hero of the farmers.

He had considered a firing squad but there was no humiliation in execution, though he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to be the one to squeeze the trigger. At a loss the Generalissimo banged his head again and again against the hard wood of his desk, when an idea came to him. unbeknownst to the Generalissimo this very idea would give birth to the third and final life of Olivas Ancho Limonez the III

Generalissimo Baratoppolipo unable to contain his excitement over the devilish punishment he had devised for the cook; ran from his office as fast as his little legs could carry him, his platformed boots echoing around the halls of his palatial residence, he raced down the stairs and along the subterranean tunnel that led from his seat of government to the enormous sprawling prison.

The diminutive despot had assumed his plan to force Olivas into labour as the prison cook would be without doubt the ultimate humiliation for such a famous chef;

forced to cater in a windowless kitchen to the utter lowest of society would surely break the cooks very soul.

Olivas was sat amid the darkness and stench as he heard voices for the first time since his incarceration, they were muffled, muted their words inaudible to him but he could sense confusion in the tone. Then the hatch, metal grinding upon rusted coils heaved open and the fluorescent light burst into the cell until it covered his legs making them look like ghostly white apparitions unattached to a torso. Then came a gurgling sound of water being pushed rapidly through a tight funnel, a thick hose was shoved into the hatch and powerful jets of icy water bit and lashed at Olivas's like the jaws of wild pampas dogs, his skin itched and burned. At last the pressure dropped and the rubber body became limp, no longer writhing and leaping around the cell like a possessed python but there motionless as the last of the water dribbled from its mouth.

Another howl of metal came this time deeper and more light crept through until the door was pulled fully open leaving Olivas wet skin shivering in a bright otherworldly light.

Two large men stepped forward and grasped the cook by either arm and dragged the stumbling Olivas down a grey passageway, turning left at the end, he was led into a small room where lay a pair of blue overalls. The guards pulled these over his legs and then cut the binds that had held his arms together. As he put his arms through the sleeves the material felt rough as they it rubbed on his sore skin.

Dressed he was marched by his jailers into yet another room, this one was very brightly lit and it took a minute for Olivas's eyes to get used to the sharp light. There in front of him was a large well appointed yet cold steel kitchen. The guards pushed him towards the range and with a growl told he had exactly two hours to prepare lunch for the eighty other inmates.

At first the cook just stood there utterly bewildered by this new turn of events, slowly his legs still weak he made his way over to a table that bulged with the fruits of the fertile Rio Grandean earth. He handled each piece of fruit, each vegetable, holding it to his cheek then rolling it up and down his face until he could feel the outside world touch him. He breathed in its perfume and felt the salt from his tears sting his lips.

Then he got to work seasoning each dish he prepared by crying into the pot, occasionally wiping his eyes to avoid any danger of over seasoning. With each stir of the wooden spoon, each chop of the knife his body seemed to repair itself until two hours later a glowing Olivas was carrying trays laden with roasted meats, vegetables and a lightly spiced rice around a sparse white walled canteen. 

He was shocked when he noticed who his fellow inmates were, as he had leant down at the first table tray in hand he realised the man he was serving was "Old Barazoglio" the famous poet from the coastal town of Labacantaro. Next to him were a group of young intellectuals and political agitators who hung on every word and phrase of the poet like manna from Santa Socrates. Barazoglia thanked Olivas with a nod so gracious it could only have come from such a writerly head. At the next table was Signor Bassone the famous tango singer, who thanked him for the food with a short and beautiful cantato that garnered great applause from the six men at the end of table. Olivas recognised them instantly and blushed with shyness to be in their presence there as large as life in front of him was half of the famous Rio Grande´team. The captain Aromga got to his feet and the whole dining room stood in response, Olivas looked around to see a room full of poets, singers, craftsmen, workers, mandolin players rise to their feet, this was the restaurant he had always dreamed of he clasped his hands together in joy. Applause broke out then came the shouts of the Rio Grand´players "viva Rio Grande´viva Olivas Ancho Limonez the III" even the guards could not contain themselves and for the rest of the day the prison revelled in a fiesta like atmosphere.

Legend has it that for the five years that followed anyone in search of a truly heavenly meal would have done well to make themselves as an enemy of the state and get thrown in gaol. Olivas being a man of shrewd nature always saved his greatest culinary creations for the guards, who in turn returned the favour by allowing the Generalissimo to think his jail and torture chambers were a hell of anguish and great suffering. The truth was the only happy place in Rio Grande´during Baratopolippo's tyrannical rule was unbeknownst to him, his prison.

Whether this is a myth or not there is even a story about a visiting senator from Nuevo America who, so disgusted by the pompous food served at the Generalissimo's palace that during a state dinner he leapt to his feet to announce he was in fact a spy.

He was led out of the ballroom and promptly flung into the jail for 4 years before being deported.

On his return to Nuevo America his wife waiting at the airport to be reunited with him, let out a sigh when she saw him, the senator had gained 45 kilos during his incarceration.

 

The Prison cook Part II (The second life of Olivas Ancho Limonez the III

A strange thing had happened to Olivas in the wake of his act of arson, as he had stood on the brow of the hill watching the flames engulf his livelihood and home he had felt nothing but a great unburdening, his shoulders had unknotted and in the oxygen fuelled fire his misanthropy melted down until it glowed like precious ore. The life the restaurant had starved him of was reborn in the sulphur of a single match head and for the next year as olivas evaded capture he had felt alive as never before.

Being a wanted man suited the cook and he wore the bounty upon his head well, as if it was no more than a cloth cap and finally when his inevitable capture came it owed as much to the fates as anything else.

It was late afternoon and August had entered its final death throes, the heat still as intense as the long passed days of midsummer, the month was done but refused to yield and die as the burnished orange sky glittered; a defiant rusted majesty. Amid it sat Olivas his bare feet covered in the cut pampas that lay everywhere; his life reflected through the sinking sun and the muted golds of straw. The freedom he had felt, slowly began to be replaced by a sadness that slowly crept its way around him, intwining itself into his limbs, deeper and deeper until it became part of his very marrow; that same marrow that had been used as fuel to stoke the furnace of his being. Olivas knew that no matter how he fed the fire, it had already burned its hottest. Over time it would reduce to no more than the glimmer of the dying wax of a candle waiting to be snuffed by spittle covered fingers. For a moment the sun left, leaving him shivering as if midwinter was there breathing heavily on his neck.

A few miles away four untidily dressed migrant farm workers walked the stone track between two tiny hamlets. If anyone was to observe them carefully they would have noticed something odd in their nature. For they sang no songs, no odes to lovers, there was none of the languid nature of workers finding themselves free for a few hours from the hardships of labour and no laughter. They walked in silence their feet betraying a degree of military training that would have given away their true identity to any villager in their right mind who saw them. unfortunately for Olivas the only man these "workers" encountered was very far from being in his right mind.

Paroxis was stood on a small jumbled stone wall that ran along the entire outskirts of the village, to his eye he held an empty bottle of fruit wine. Mistaking the tall pampas blowing in the breeze (as he had for every single day of the last thirty years) as the rolling waves of the ocean he searched through the grape stained glass for his ship but there was nothing save for a few sea birds circling above the foaming waters. Taking the telescope from his eye he threw it to the ground where it smashed joining the pile of hundreds of other discarded telescopes. This was Paroxis mused without doubt the worst sea port he could have ever been washed up in. If you had asked around the village anyone would have told you that Paroxis had never seen the ocean. At 14 he had fallen from an unusually tall avocado tree, when he had awoken Paroxis had become convinced he was merchant seaman and had remained that way ever since. in the true tradition of a sea farer he became a brawler and a drunkard and slowly withdrew more and more from his fellow villagers. For the past ten years he had spent from dawn until sunset swaying on top of the wall, drinking fruit wine waiting for his ship to finally return and spirit him away back to his beloved ocean.

The heady mixture of the sun and the seven bottles of fruit wine he had consumed that day caused Paroxis to squint as he tried to focus on the four strangers at the foot of the hill walking towards him. immediately Paroxis mistook them for sailors on shore leave and gripped by excitement leapt from the wall, tumbling over the pile of spent telescopes and then stumbled down the hill to greet them. The men looked surprised as a man clearly inebriated and dressed in full naval regalia staggered towards them. Paroxis shouted out "Ahoy ship mates" sensing an opportunity one of the workers saluted then replied "aye aye captain". Clearly delighted by this Paroxis began to question the men feverishly. "How long would they be ashore?" "How were the trade winds?" "What cargo did they have aboard?" 

The men played along hoping that this madman might let slip some valuable information. They explained to a wide eyed Paroxis that they had put into shore that morning for a brief stop as the ships cook had been struck down with scurvy. So ecstatic to finally meet other genuine men of the ocean Paroxis felt desperate to help his mariner brothers and mentioned that there was a wonderful cook hiding out in the village. Paroxis was sure he would happily take on the position for safe passage across the sea and giving a knowing nod said "he is the type of man who would be right at home in a ships galley"

The men thanked Paroxis with two bottles of fruit wine and the promise of a berth on the ship when it sailed tomorrow and left the ecstatic madman leaning against the wall guzzling fruit wine and dreaming of the fine tea clipper he would  be sailing on. 

Olivas was still sat cross legged amongst the felled Pampas as evening silent and thoughtful took tentative footsteps over Rio Grande´. His fingers running up and down his clothing examining the threads and stitches of each item. The day of the fire he had left with no more than a sharp knife and the clothes he was wearing. The trousers were so worn now that his knees poked through all knobbly and gnarled and when Olivas bent down to sniff the ripening tomatoes that grew so abundantly in the village, the tear in the seat of his pants caused the old ladies to blush. The jacket on the other hand seemed to wear time and hardship with an elegant ease becoming more comfortable with every passing day. Olivas wondered how all these years he had failed to notice what a fine piece of tailoring the jacket was. It was a faded blue denim, like the overalls worn by the famous poets of the port town of Albacantaro, its weave sturdy yet light upon the skin. It was Olivas considered, a fine enough piece of clothing to worship the gods in. This was how he was to be captured; kneeling in prayer to Santa Socrates Maria.

The four men of Baratopolippo's elite guard were on their hands and knees crawling through the tall grass that led to the hills summit, the setting sun above them spreading in pools and lighting up the dead flower heads. The nearer they got to their quarry each man could hear their fellow soldiers breathing heavily, each inhalation sounding as tense as a steel string, then there in front of them was Olivas, knelt down, the sun behind him a suspended copper orb. Perfectly still the cook looked like a painted icon seen through coloured glass. The men hesitated feeling almost blasphemous as if breaking the vision in front of them may incur the wrath of the spirits and gods of rural Rio Grande´.

The soldiers sat crouched silently wrestling with their consciences and fears before the commanding officer at last gave the order and the men sprung from the grass and in an instant Olivas bound,gagged and blindfolded was placed in an empty rice sack and dragged away.

   

The prison cook part 1

The finest cook in all of Rio Grande´was Olivas Limonez Ancho the IV, he came from a long line of cooks thought to date back to the 3rd century, though this was just rumour and hearsay. what was not rumour was that he was a phenomenally bad tempered man who now occupied the lowly station of prison cook in the sprawling  subterranean gaol where the Generalissimo had dissidents tortured and enemies locked away until death came for them. This unenviable position that Olivas now found himself in had come about due to an unfortunate turn of events that had transpired to rob a nation of the most elegant of palates.

His troubles had begun around the time of the Generalissimo's rise to power, this was not an uncommon problem as the majority of Rio Grandeans had suffered great hardships during these times but this is Olivas story so we shall tell it as it was told to us by our great grandfathers.

It had been late spring and in the small town of La Bomba Arroz was a small sun soaked square, now if you were to walk down the narrow lane that led of the northern end of it just to the left of the church of Santa Angelina, Maria, Delacroix da Zico you would soon reach a flower laden park. Through that park ran a crystal stream, now if you follow that stream to where the park changed from municipal grounds to the rural lands that are dotted with avocado farms then you would see foothills rising up in the distance. At the brow of the first hill under a copse of Acacia trees, you would find four rusted metal tables hiding under the blossom covered boughs of those trees, around them would be sat chairs whose paint had been flaked off by decades of strong summer heat. Behind these tables and chairs stood a small corrugated hut, out of which drifted smells that made stomachs growl and noses faint with ecstasy. Inside the hut always behind the stove stood the greatest and without fail the most singularly  bad tempered cook this land had ever known. 

No matter what time of day or year the tables were always full here and often you would find families, workmen, rebels, fighters, farmers and poets sat on the ground under the trees enjoying the delights of Olivas fair hands and foul mouth. mothers would position their children under the Acacia blossom so it would cover their ears from the expletives that exploded and tumbled out of the little corrugated hut, sometimes the language got so bad they would have to cover their own ears but always when the food arrived all was quickly forgiven and people would smile, laugh, eat and wonder how such beauty and harmony could come from such a violent process.

Plump fillets of fish and meat would sit proudly atop soft and sweet roasted fennel, wearing coats of herbs and wild flowers each mouthful was at once rich, simple calming and complex and slowly the shouting and swearing would drift from the diners minds over the acacia trees, before being blown out into the pacific that sat behind the white topped Rio Grandean mountains where the gods watched what happened below with consternation.

This particular spring, there began to be a marked change in the type of clientele who gathered at this culinary idyll. Gone were the families, the artists, writers, avocado farm workers, labourers and ageing revolutionaries; who had rubbed shoulders in harmony by the old corrugated shack. Now everyday just before midday the tiny road that led to the village of La Bomba Arroz was choked with fumes coming from the roaring engines of huge motor vehicles. Their wheels would spin as the raced up the towards the track sending terracotta dust spewing over the avocado trees. The farmers would shout and waved their fists and would be repaid only by a mouthful of salty soil and a barrage of popping champagne corks that flew from the car windows like a volley of rifle bullets. underneath the hum of the engines could be heard the shrieks and giggles coming from the lips of the young showgirls as they entertained oil men and the political cronies of the Generalissimo. 

Olivas did not like these new customers not one bit and this caused his infamous ill temper to grow and grow until it transformed itself into a meteorological force. From the village you could see a angry cloud that never moved, suspended over the hut and the acacia trees, full of a torrent that constantly threatened but never burst.

His clients now were wealthy captains of industry often accompanied by men dressed in ostentatious military regalia, lithe yet empty looking young women draped themselves over the men and howled with delight as fur boas were hung around the smooth skin of the necks. their voluminous hair and heavy make up burying their Rio Grandean beauty below layers of vulgarity.

The men had demands! requests! they insisted on dishes that the fuming cook considered brutish and frivolous.

Olivas was and always had been essentially a misanthrope, a fair man he held all people in equal contempt but as he muttered and cursed over the hot stove he had started to remember his former customers with a warmth and kindness he did not know existed within him.

Down in the village three ladies so ancient their age was now interminable stood in the square dressed in the traditional black of mourning, they looked up at the cloud over the hill, it was blacker than ever before and around the walls of the square thunder echoed.

After some time one of the ladies spoke, softly to herself as much as anyone who would have cared to listen.

"That cloud will split in two today and what will come will be a turmoil this country has never known"

Olivas furiously whirled some butter into an iron skillet, squeezed some lemon over the fish then hurled the yellow shell drained of its juice against the thin corrugated metal wall, as he spooned the emulsion over the fish he felt a tap on his shoulder; he spun around and having to look down saw a midget standing there plate in hand. This particular midget was wearing a garish military uniform, which had hanging from the jacket row after row of meaningless medals. on his minute feet were the most grotesque bejewelled platform boots Olivas had ever had the misfortune to see. The shape of the mans lips gave the appearance of a constant sneer. Then he did the unthinkable!

The Generalissimo thrust the plate of beautifully cooked and seasoned fish in front of the explosive cook and barked out the order "more salt, put more salt on this fish, then bring it back out to me"

Olivas exploded spectacularly but the combustion had taken place silently deep inside him; he just nodded took the plate and tuned back to face his stove leaving the Generalissimo to walk back to his table with a smirk of satisfaction one only sees on the faces of men with great power.

Several minutes later the Generalissimo and his guests stood in shock as the corrugated shack exploded into a ball of fire.

At the very moment the plate had been thrust in front of him Olivas had known what must be done. He had turned all the flames on the stove to full so they licked their way up and over the sides of the pans. Then he had carried one of the gas canisters into the kitchen, opened the valve, lit a cigarillo and walked out.

Once the cook had reached a good vantage point high above the restaurant he had sat down on a pile of scythed pampas and lit another cigarillo, watching as his home and livelihood burned.

In the months that followed Olivas had managed to retain his freedom despite a nationwide manhunt by the Generalissimo's not so secret secret police. He had criss crossed his way around Rio Grande´ from  farm to fish cannery earning his keep working in the kitchens that fed the seasonal workers who grifted their way across the land in a similar manner. There was a lot of work that year as the avocado crop was an abundant one and the anchovies had jumped out of the ocean as if some unknown devilry deep underwater was a worse fate than the one that awaited them in the cannery's that dotted the coastline.

The Generalissimo had made the famous cooks capture a priority of his new state security apparatus, after correctly assuming that the fire at the shack had been a directly aimed sleight towards him. His whole moustached still bristled with anger at the humiliation he had felt that day, standing there without a plate of food surrounded by important business figures from Nuevo America all watching the flames first engulf the restaurant then the acacia trees sending everyone scuttling back to their motor cars without desert.

All the way back to the city the Generalissimo's stomach haunted by hunger had made the most horrifying gurgling noises that made the faces of the two glamorous showgirls who were sat opposite him, twist their faces in disgust.

It was late november now and the young officer stood in the grotesquely opulent office of the Generalissimo shifted nervously from foot to foot, his head bowed, eyes fixed on the rug decorated with pictures of "their great leader" as he reported that once again the cook had managed to evade capture, this time allegedly by hiding in a giant vat of cooked tagliatelle.

The Generalissimo was convinced that villagers across the land had been harbouring this fugitive, perhaps even helping him remain at large, despite the repercussions of this treachery. The young officer nodded in agreement with everything. Then in a fit of fury the Generalissimo hurled all the items off his desksending the young officer diving for cover before the Generalissimo did something that left the soldier in utter shock. From the corner of the room he watched as running out of things to hurl the Generalissimo threw himself to the floor, banging the wooden boards with his fists and began to weep and wail like a child. he appeared oblivious to the officers presence and feeling thankful for this the the young man quickly snuck out of the office leaving the Generalissimo to his tantrum.

The Generalissimo's cobbler

The Generalissismo's cobbler

Gustavo the cobbler sat on his stool carefully re stitching a pair of hideous bejewelled military boots. Turning one of the boots over so it was now upside down, the rubies that covered it flashed red in the light of the hearth. He began to apply the glue to the comically high platformed sole. setting the boot down the shoemaker let out a yawn and his mind turned back to the very night when he had first set eyes on these wretched foot coverings.Then they had been little more than a common pair of boots, a dusty brown leather and the type you would find worn on any avocado farm across Rio Grande´. In fact the only thing that was remarkable about these bootees was the dramatic nature of their arrival in Gustavo's workshop. on that night the fighting in the capital had been fierce, people had hidden in their homes as rumours abounded about a psychopathic midget who had led a troop of bloodthirsty mercenaries bringing terror to the peaceable villages of Rio Grande´. His army were now on the cusp of seizing the capital and there was little resistance left, nothing more to be done by the residents except to hide in their ramshackle dwellings half starved and pray to santa maria socrates. This is exactly what Gustavo had been doing as there was a wild hammering at the door. Gripped by horror the shoemaker did not move but crawled into the empty fireplace muttering incantations to himself. There was a crash and the door burst open a young man gasping for breath stood in the now open doorway the light of the flares in the sky behind illuminating the boyish looking soldier in a glow of phosphorous. Gustavo did not move he watch as the officer scan the room his eyes at last resting on the crouched figure of the cobbler whose eyes shined out of the black shadows of the hearth.Gustavo realising he had no other option, emerged from the fireplace his limbs quivering. The shoemaker let out a audible sigh of relief when instead of drawing his pistol the young officer thrust a pair of small grime covered leather boots into the arms of Gustavo.

He had listened to the soldiers request, had not questioned it but instead went over to his stool lit the gas lantern and had began to work on the boots. the soldier must have been no more than eighteen he stood there uncomfortably watching as the cobbler used a small hammer to push the metal pins into the ridiculously high platform soles he had been instructed to attach to the boots. it was clear to Gustavo that this young man wanted to make it clear that these now idiotic looking boots did not belong to him.When he spoke he sounded nervous as trying to sound casual he asked the shoemaker "if he had a pair of mountain grapplers in a size 43?" the cobbler shook his head and apologised saying that since the trouble had begun it had been hard for him to get hold of leather for new boots. As he said this he turned and watched the soldier; he had a handsome face that glowed warm in the gaslight he wasn't eighteen he was still a boy no older than fourteen! His uniform was ill fitting, a hand me down that his mother had tried to make good with a darning needle and some goats thread. He looked scared, he was looking at the boots shifting from one leg to the other, in the distance through the open door the cobbler could here the sound of instrument strings being picked in a mournful lament. Then as if suddenly gripped by the something the music had awoken in him he grabbed Gustavo by the shoulders and pulled him close as if to plant a kiss upon the shoemaker instead in a barely audible whisper he took the ear of the cobbler. " These are for the Generalissimo please make them shine".

Gustavo had not known from that night on he would be forbidden to work on any other footwear apart from those of the "great" Generalissimo.

He sat there his thin legs creaking with each movement from the endless years sat at the stool, reaching over Gustavo took another huge dollop of the thick indigenous Do Sul beeswax and slathered another coat on the already sickly glistening patent boots. The cobbler wondered how many pairs of people shoes he could have lovingly attended to over these last years if it had not been for the Generalissimo? Then in a fit of rage he tossed the shoe brush and watched as the beeswax on the bristles caused the brush to skid across the stone floor until it came to a rest with a thud as it hit the crumbling brick wall of the dead fireplace. 

These years alone, isolated by his task, kept away from his fellow Grandeans, day after day huddled over these wretched boots, their ruby eyes constantly watching him imprisoning him in this tiny workshop he could take not a moment more.

For hours the cobbler worked with a feverish concentration, gathering up every piece of dry timber, evert splinter of wood he could find. He broke up the desk and his acacia wood stool with an axe, scrunched up decades old newspaper Rio Grande´match reports into balls. At last in the fireplace stood a magnificent pyre. Atop it he carefully placed the jewel encrusted 10 inch platformed boots, doused them in homemade grape spirit and struck a match.

When the Generalissimo's not so secret secret police were called to the remnants of the blaze nothing of the boots remained accept a small pile of red precious stones that glowed orange in the white hot embers. A few hours later the cobbler was arrested, they had found him lying by a quiet acacia draped part of the river, the late spring sun dappling through the leaves and dancing on his face. Gustavo was fast asleep and on his wore a contented smile, a smile that did not leave him even after he had been roughly awoken and charged with high treason.