Banana leaves
By L. V. Morgan
Dedicated to Ernest Hemingway, whose influential work inspired the creation and completion of this story.
Two men walked side by side towards a railway platform, the sun baking down on their bare backs. Humidity hung in the air as the men trudged on, sticking to them as sweat dripped from their foreheads. On the platform, a handful of plastic tables and chairs sat in front of a single portal door which contained a cafe, a bar, and, if one ventured inside, a living room with leftovers from last night’s meal scattered across the unswept floor. The men collapsed into the rickety chairs, grateful for the respite from the blazing afternoon sun regardless of the state of their newfound oasis. One of the men was shorter than the other, wearing clothes that were too big and too old for him, starkly contrasted by his impeccably well-kept straw hat. The other was taller with broad shoulders, big strong boots that had travelled a long way, and a single hidden tattoo beneath the backside of his shirt.
“Que calor, its hot” said the small man.
“I know, demiaciado, too hot” replied the other.
“I need a drink.”
“Water, or some wine if they have any.”
“I doubt that wine would help.”
“Wine always helps.”
The men briefly rose from their seats to rescue their chairs from the heat, plopping back down again under the shade of a lonesome parasol. There was no traffic on the road and the sound of crickets could be heard in the distance.
“What time does the train arrive?” the taller man said.
“What?”
“The train; what time does it arrive?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you checked in the hotel?”
“I did.”
“And what did he say?”
“I can’t remember, I thought I told you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I’m sure I did.”
“No, you didn’t, you definitely didn’t.”
“Well its some time this afternoon.”
“You sure? You said you couldn’t remember.”
“I remember it was in the afternoon. I don’t know why I only remember that detail.”
“You’re an idiot.”
The small man shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair, happy to be out of the sun despite the suffocatingly humid air was suffocating. Eventually, a short breeze blew across the platform, providing some relief from the heat.
“We should ask.”
“What?”
“We should ask someone; the barman here?”
“Suit yourself.”
The wind stopped blowing and a quiet silence fell over the men. Seeds blew down from the trees above them, and bright sunlight shone down through the leaves. A man, old and slow, emerged from the tiny doorway and approached the table.
“Two waters please,” asked the men.
“With gas?”
“No, without.”
The waiter shuffled back into the bar and shortly returned with two bottles of water. Droplets of condensation ran down the outer plastic shell, creating circles of water on the white table. The two men drank from their glasses as they conversed.
“Once we get to Santa Marta we’ll take the ferry. It shouldn’t take too long.”
The young man didn’t respond; he was quietly contemplating over his drink.
“Paco?” Jorge prodded.
“Yes.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“The trees here are so interesting.”
“I was talking about the ferry.”
“Those trees; I think they’re banana trees.”
“What are you talking about?”
Paco ignored him. He sat staring out into the distance, wrinkles etched into his young face. Jorge did not try to force him, letting out a sigh of surrender. Weeks of travelling had taught him that there was no point in getting his companion to speak against his will.
“Look at those trees.”
“What trees?”
“The bloody banana trees that I pointed out earlier.”
Jorge pretended to look around, angling his chair slightly in the direction across the road. Paco continued talking.
“They’re banana trees, those big green ones that are hanging like swords. They aren’t native to here, are they?”
“What?”
Paco continued as if Jorge wasn’t there.
“The gringos brought them from Asia, but they look so perfect here. They fit so well—”
“You aren’t making any sense-”
“—and if they were to go back wherever they’re from they’d say hell no, I like it here—”
“Eres un idiota.” Jorge grumbled to himself as Paco went on.
“—they got all the time in the world, they’re just doing what they do. Sat here, chilling in the sun.”
The crickets outside seemed to momentarily stop their calling, while the flies inside the bar buzzed around the dirty dinner plates scattered across the floor.
“You know Jorge, I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure I made the right choice, you know.”
Jorge said nothing.
“Which one?” he said after a few moments.
“You know which one. It’s obvious, the one I am making right now, the one mum spoke about. Why would you ask which one when you know all this?”
“I didn’t know you were having doubts.”
The wind picked back up again momentarily kicking up some dust which blew across the road. Paco stared at the swinging leaves.
“I don’t want to go back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think I want to be there.”
“Is it the money?”
“No, it’s not the money.”
“Then what is it?”
“I never said, I didn’t want…” his voice trailed off.
“What are you having doubts about?”
“I just think i should be doing something better.”
“Better than what? Being at home?”
“Yeah like something better, more ambitious.”
“But you want to be close to home right?”
“Yeah. But I’m not sure I’ll like it.”
They sat together in silence. In the distance, a motorbike with three passengers screeched across the T junction towards the river, breaking the contemplative air between the two men.
“You know you can always change.”
“Change what?”
“Change what you do. Where you live, your job… you know.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“But María will lose her mind if she finds out.”
For the first time, Jorge looked at Paco straight in the eyes, but they were unmet by Paco. After a moment, he turned to look back across the road at the wisps of cloud hanging over the mountains.
“María will never change.”
As they spoke, the old man brought two more waters to the table. Condensation pooled on the table where excess water had slipped off the bottles.
“Sometimes I feel like there’s never enough time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like time is against me.”
“Paco how is time against you?”
“Well I’m 25 now, like if I live until 83 which is like what most men these days live to, I’ve got 58 years left.”
Jorge stayed silent.
“Sounds pretty good to me.” he contested quietly.
“Yeah, but when you think about it, that means theres a limited number of the number of books I’ll read, the places I’ll visit, como, even the times that I’ll be at home.”
On a side street, the soft sound of vallenato playing from vintage speakers floated through the air.
“Sometimes I think it’s not enough and I don’t wanna do the easy thing. Like it’s all just a waste of time, because theres never enough time to do everything. It gets me down, sometimes, you know. Because I got all these things that I wanna do, so it all feels pointless.”
Dust particles drifted through the hot air and stuck to the table. The buzzing crickets returned to their symphony. Branches swayed in the breeze. In the distance, the silent mountains silhouetted against the perfectly blue sky unperturbed by clouds. The old waiter came to collect their empty glasses.
“Its at 14:30,” said Paco.
“What is?”
“The train. It’s at 14:30.”
“Perfect, then we’ve got 20 minutes.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
The wind stopped blowing and the sun’s heat beat down on the world again, and the swaying banana leaves came to a rest.
Image Credit: Ricardo Gomez Angel via UnSplash
