*
The next day Barton returned to the small food court for lunch. According to a commemorative plaque set into the wall of the archway leading inside, it had been built by a family of local notables in what appeared to be a sprawling colonial style town house and its annexes.
He took a seat by the fountain and after waiting five or so minutes a pretty twenty year old appeared, presented him with a menu, and disappeared. It was evidently early, just one or two people stood at the small bars and he was the only client in the eatery.
Five minutes or more passed before the girl reappeared. He was discovering the pace of life in Barichara moved at a slow pace and couldn’t help wondering if things ever speeded up. As he studied the surroundings he imagined little changed even when the annual folk festival came around, which according to Emilio marked the high point of the town’s calendar.
Barton looked at the menu again and ordered a beer and a cheese arepa. It seemed as if everything in Colombia contained cheese in one form or another. Then with a forced smile, more like a pout, the girl took the order and disappeared again.
Looking around he admired the bright flowering shrubs and vines that decorated the courtyard. The soft air barely moved. The only sound came from the gently bubbling of the stone fountain and the cooing of a dove in the tree overhanging his table. There was an air of timelessness and tranquillity. It was a small corner of Eden.
Ten minutes later he was served, this time with a shy smile.
“Habla inglés?” he asked
She made a sign with her forefinger and thumb to say a little.
“It’s very quiet,” he said looking around.
“Si, holidays are finished.”
He wondered which holidays, it was already mid-February.
“Where are you from?”
“England.”
“Inglaterra?”
“Si.”
“Is it cold?”
“Yes, now.”
“I’d love to go to London.”
She reminded him of a young Bardot, blond hair and flashing dark eyes.
“Do you live here?”
“Yes, I work here, my grandfather owns the restaurant.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty...next week,” she said laughing.
“You are not a student?”
“I am learning English and tourism.”
“Very good.”
“My name is Dolores, my friends call me Lola,” she she sticking out her hand.
“Oh, I’m Tom, Tom Barton.”
She turned and disappeared inside leaving him to finish his meal. Then, as he wondered how he was going to pass the rest of the day she reappeared.
“You are here by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like caballos?”
He shrugged, wondering if she was talking about horse meat.
“Can you ride?” She did not wait for an answer. “I can show you the countryside if you like.”
“The countryside? When?” he asked startled by the sudden invitation.
“Now.”
“And the restaurant?”
“Close until evening.”
Barton could not refuse the offer from such a pretty girl, even if she twenty and more years younger than him.
“Why not.”
“So let’s go, “she said pointing the way. “The caballos are not far.”
They led him down an adjacent calle where after about a hundred metres she pointed to a small field where there were three or four horses.
“Here. I will call Jesus. He will fix the saddles.”
Barton, caught off guard, thought she was joking, but was saved from making a fool of himself when an old gaucho appeared.
“Look, that’s my caballo,” she said pointing a tall light tan coloured mare. “You can take Bolivar, that one.”
Barton was a little dismayed to see it was even taller than Lola’s.
“Don’t worry he’s very tranquilo, he is thirteen years old. He was my father’s favourite.”
The old gaucho helped him strap on leggings, then he pointed at the stirrup. Barton obeyed with his foot and in a single movement the old man hefted him up into the saddle with surprising strength.
Before he had time to ask questions they were heading out into the surround country at an easy gait. After a shaky start he relaxed, settling into the Western saddle, adjusting to the swaying movement of the animal, marvelling at the unfamiliar hues of the undulating Mediterranean type landscape and the mountains beyond.
“How do you like it Tom?”
“Wonderful,” he replied, and it really was, seated high above the roadside vegetation, the air in his face as Bolivar broke in a trot. Lola drew up beside him, her face filled with her youthful pleasure.
Feeling the warmth of the sun on his face the last lingering feeling of gloom that had hung over him in recent weeks evaporated. As they broke in a canter he realised there was another world to be discovered beyond the City and its unbearable constraints.
He galloped with this youthful Colombian companion across the soft red earth, through strange vegetation, pass brilliantly coloured flowers, and towards the mauve and violet hues of the hills beyond, his mind evacuating the echoes of London’s omnipresent media, dismissing the exhortations of BBC India and the press that whipped up opinion, reporting the rantings of interested politicians and businessmen, all of which was as irrelevant as the endless commentaries on the exploits of tattooed men chasing balls.
Cornucopia Page 63
