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.
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