The sun, the clouds and then a gasp

 It was Sunday morning, Spring, fresh but inviting, so she decided to carry out her usual routine: reading the paper at a neighborhood bar and then do a bit of shopping while trying to put the bits and pieces of her life together. Half asleep, she almost forgot her bag but then threw it over her shoulder and danced down the stairs. She was happy, without knowing why, she was happy. It was Spring. Life seemed to be returning.

     "What'll it be this morning?" asked the waiter with his usual half smile, half grimace.

     "Just a black coffee, no more!"

     She dug into her bag to find a pen. Why do certain people find it necessary to mark, underline and scribble on newspapers, magazines and books? Who knows. Perhaps it is a carry over from student days. That day, though, there was no pen. Just the digital camera and the tape recorder she had used the night before at the birthday party. That brings up another question: why can't people go to birthday parties without taking scads of photos?

       There are two wars in Iraq, she read, one involving the invading U.S. forces and the other an undercover one pitting mercenaries against...

         She stopped reading for a minute to gaze around the bar--the photographs of tango singers, an old Italian coffee maker, some very amusing old publicity posters. "What a strange world," she thought , "far-away wars that somehow seem to get closer and closer and these trappings of another epoch...when there probably were also wars."

         "Excuse me please," said a young man politely as he nudged behind to occupy a seat in back of her. She didn't even reply and hardly noticed the stranger. After all what had he to do with her life? She never talked to men in bars, well, unless she knew them or maybe she'd politely say no to those that invented typical questions such as: 'have a light?'

           It took her some time to get back to her reading. She was on the outs, having dumped her husband before he dumped her. That was the way she had understood the situation. Things were headed for an inevitable break-up so why not take the initiative? It's easier that way, isn't it? Isn't it? Besides, he was acting strange, aloof...maybe there was someone else, so the best remedy seemed to be...

           Suddenly, she sat up abruptly. A strange light feeling had overtaken her body. Instinctively, she looked for her bag. It was gone!

          "It was the kid," said a man at a nearby table, "he grabbed it an ran."

         "Oh shit!"

        Maybe the sociologists could explain the situation. Maybe the psychologists could. Maybe economists could. The guy was poor. On drugs. Had to get money somehow. He wasn't like those white glove thieves who occupy the last three floors of a skyscraper. No. But why did that kid have to take my bag, with my photographs, my recorder, my keys. "My keys!"

       Now she was close to paranoic. As she raced down the street towards her house, she imagined the worse: the youngster had gotten there before her, like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, had beaten up her eight-year-old son, kidnapped him, taken the cash she had stored away...

        There was a police car at the corner. Her heart leaped ahead, as if she had just finished the 100 yeard dash. A crowd of people were swarming around, shouting, crying, pushing.

         "Let me through! Let me through it's my son!"

        The body of a young boy splattered in blood greeted her eyes as soon as she pushed aside the last bystanders. "Carlos!"

          It wasn't Carlos. It was a young man his age, but not Carlos. The victim had gone to the cyber at the corner to send an e-mail to his girlfriend. A thief had entered, drugged to the hilt, and, disappointed at not finding any money worth grabbing, shot the youth in the head.

          "Free the area, now!" thundered the voice of the police officer, as he tried to move curious onlookers away from the body of the victim.

          The lady slumped over when she realized it was not her son, then straightened her back in a stroke of lightening and raced towards her apartment door. A foreboding feeling of apprehension invaded her as she turned the key in the lock, although she was saying to herself again and again: "it wasn't Carlos, Carlos is alright, calm down, get control of yourself..."

         Everything was in order inside the apartment, except for a brown envelop on her pillow, with her late husband's handwriting scribbled on it. She opened the envelop gingerly and took out a sheet of paper:

         "You were right to leave me. I have AIDS. I wanted to tell you, but I just couldn't get up the courage. It's better this way. I love you. Henri."

          A swallow came to rest outside her kitchen window and pecked at the bits of seed that the wind had deposited in the crevices. The young woman gasped for breath as a greyish cloud in the form of a mushroom momentarily blotted out the Spring sun. Then she tucked the letter to her breast as her lips repeated again and again: "My God! My God!"