MARTA II
A year had passed and all of us were back out in the graveyard cleaning tombstones. Afterwards Roman and I had our friends Marta and Pete over. We had met them years ago in Guanajuato, Mexico. Pete was a kind of vagabond. He had left California in 1984 to travel around the world searching for "the meaning of life." The first place he went was Guanajuato and the very first night he met Marta. Guanajuato became the first and last stop on his round-the-world trip. That meant he had found the meaning of life and that meaning was Marta.
Marta was my best friend if you count Roman as more than a friend. Marta was almost spooky sometimes, she had the ability to communicate with things beyond us mortals. She also dressed exotically, which reveled her almost pure bred Native Indian/Mexican heritage. Dressing exotically was not something we see a lot here in rural California where flannel and jeans were the rule.
Roman made pizza for dinner. If you know Roman you know his pizza. He loved making bread and therefore was a pizza dough master. We lived on pizza and wine. Life could have been worse.
After dinner Pete went to the kitchen to chat with Roman so I asked Marta if she wanted to see the barn. The barn was not some giant Amish-like structure. It was a cozy sweet smelling shelter that Roman and I were converting it into a hopefully charming guest house. We were too far in the country for people to drive from San Franciso without spending the night.
Marta pretended to be vaguely interested in my description of the remodeling. She sipped her wine in silence.
Finally I stopped jabbering. I looked at her quizzically and said, "What?"
Then she looked deeply into my eyes and asked, “Why don’t you publish stories on FaceBook any more?”
“I don’t know. When we first moved here everything seemed different but now it is ordinary and normal. Even the chickens no longer look bizarre. I suppose I have lost my vision.”
“I liked them, especially when you mentioned me,” she mumbled, wineglass in her mouth.
She smiled.
++++++++++++++++
The next day I got a call from Pete. He wanted to know if he could swing by while he was out running errands. That he had a present from Marta.
Pete dropped off a small unwrapped box that contained a plastic pill bottle about half filled with a clear liquid. She had written a note saying I should drink the contents before going to sleep. Marta would never do anything to hurt me, but still the unknown liquid scared me. I mean, Marta’s voodoo meant it could have been anything. I showed it to Roman. He only shrugged his shoulders and said something about how fascinating Marta was. Yeah, she was that.
It had been a couple of days and I had not consumed the unknown liquid. I found myself avoiding talking to Marta. I knew I had to drink it or else admit to not trusting her. Last night I did it. Nothing.
This morning I phoned her and asked what was in the bottle. She replied, “water.”
She reminded me that everything had a story, and that if it included her all the better.
Marta was my best friend if you count Roman as more than a friend. Marta was almost spooky sometimes, she had the ability to communicate with things beyond us mortals. She also dressed exotically, which reveled her almost pure bred Native Indian/Mexican heritage. Dressing exotically was not something we see a lot here in rural California where flannel and jeans were the rule.
Roman made pizza for dinner. If you know Roman you know his pizza. He loved making bread and therefore was a pizza dough master. We lived on pizza and wine. Life could have been worse.
After dinner Pete went to the kitchen to chat with Roman so I asked Marta if she wanted to see the barn. The barn was not some giant Amish-like structure. It was a cozy sweet smelling shelter that Roman and I were converting it into a hopefully charming guest house. We were too far in the country for people to drive from San Franciso without spending the night.
Marta pretended to be vaguely interested in my description of the remodeling. She sipped her wine in silence.
Finally I stopped jabbering. I looked at her quizzically and said, "What?"
Then she looked deeply into my eyes and asked, “Why don’t you publish stories on FaceBook any more?”
“I don’t know. When we first moved here everything seemed different but now it is ordinary and normal. Even the chickens no longer look bizarre. I suppose I have lost my vision.”
“I liked them, especially when you mentioned me,” she mumbled, wineglass in her mouth.
She smiled.
++++++++++++++++
The next day I got a call from Pete. He wanted to know if he could swing by while he was out running errands. That he had a present from Marta.
Pete dropped off a small unwrapped box that contained a plastic pill bottle about half filled with a clear liquid. She had written a note saying I should drink the contents before going to sleep. Marta would never do anything to hurt me, but still the unknown liquid scared me. I mean, Marta’s voodoo meant it could have been anything. I showed it to Roman. He only shrugged his shoulders and said something about how fascinating Marta was. Yeah, she was that.
It had been a couple of days and I had not consumed the unknown liquid. I found myself avoiding talking to Marta. I knew I had to drink it or else admit to not trusting her. Last night I did it. Nothing.
This morning I phoned her and asked what was in the bottle. She replied, “water.”
She reminded me that everything had a story, and that if it included her all the better.
