The Visitor



He knelt down.

. . . . . .

I was never happier than when we took our trips to the seashore. Dalila and I.

She was truly lovely – dark wavy hair and chocolate-drop eyes. I liked her laugh best, though; it was as the lapping waves.

I was, of course, not so beautiful. I guess she must have loved me anyway – she had always said so. But I would retain some feeling of inadequacy… guilt, maybe.

The path was cut through thick stretches of forest, where dwelled palms and acacias, tall ferns, and all manner of creatures - tree frogs, snakes, monkeys. Thousands of chattering birds; parrots, macaws, cuckoos, honeycreepers, hummingbirds, jays, jacamars and dizzying birds of paradise. It was easy to become distracted and to wander off the trail - then you would die. Beyond the mangroves was the endless expanse of heavy forest; damp, hot and extremely dangerous. My grandfather had called it “el infierno verde” – the green h***.

I had only once seen a jaguar. They never came to these places anymore; some said that the rebel soldiers had hunted them extinct. To glimpse the golden eyes, the flash of teeth, to hear the echo of its deep growl was to be filled with a sense of irresistible danger mixed with the wonder of being close to death. My ancestors worshipped the beast as a god; I still imagined that it was some kind of divine visitor.

“If I am to die young, I should like to be killed by a jaguar,” I would say, “Or in a sword fight.” Dalila laughed.

Out from the shade of trees was the bright sand and surf. The blue-green water was gentle, and the playful sea breeze whispered, caressed and made Dalila and I chase after my hat. We rolled in the sand and swam in the warm waters; Dalila tried to teach me how to ride the waves to shore. I assured her that the waves that day were simply not to my liking.

As dusk drew near, we relaxed on the beach. We talked and, eventually, I succumbed to her pleas and tried to play a song for Dalila on a well-worn guitar. She didn’t seem to notice when I replaced sharps with flats and forgot the words, and she showered me with kisses. Stars appeared on the horizon – the pink sun melted into the sea’s embrace; I took my cue and caught Dalila in my arms. And I could realize clearly that I had never been in a state of more perfect bliss.

CRACK!

My left hand was shredded like hot, wet confetti. A bullet had shattered my Lila’s head; I could not carry her body. I staggered, then ran, into the forest, driven on by shouts and sounds of gunfire. I came to full consciousness in the impenetrable black of the jungle. Dizzy, I felt the pain where my hand had been. I thought of Dalila’s brain scattered on the beach. I threw up. Stumbling aimlessly, sightlessly; I tripped on roots and fell into pools of water and felt the movement of innumerable invisible creatures brushing past me. I stopped and, straining to catch my bearings, heard the sound of a snarling beast, and caught the breeze of its hot breath. I stared into the gleaming eyes.
. . . . . .

He felt the sweat trickle down his forehead. His mind cleared, as it does before death, and he thought nothing of his pain. Most of all, he thought those deep thoughts that come in the last hours of life; he remembered everything, and he was not sad. He would die on the forest floor; no one would ever find his body nor even know why and how he had died, and he would not be dissatisfied.



The visitor moved on…