“Is it…?” Elly peered at the art piece covering most of the wall of the front of a house.
“Here we have what is similar to a blackbird or raven but not quite. We call it Maria Mulata. It is the official bird of Cartagena. In this mural, the bird is not black of course. I like to think these colors here are the colors of the Colombian soul. This iridescent blue. These yellows. These reds. I…”
I glanced at Elly. She had a wide smile on her face.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m boring you.”
“No, please go on.”
“Well, when I was younger, my grandfather brought me here. I remember as a skinny ten-year-old standing by the head of what I thought was a beast of a bird…”
Elly laughed. “I can’t imagine you as a kid. You look like you were born serious and mature.”
I chuckled. “Oh, no. I was one of those kids constantly getting into trouble. Sticking my arms in places they shouldn’t have been and getting the worst cuts, bruises, and tellings-off of any kid in the whole of Cartagena.”
Elly laughed again.
“So, anyway, the story my grandfather told me was the story of the Maria Mulata. Long ago, on the land that this street was built upon, people and animals lived together in harmony. One of these animals was a magnificent bird sporting the most vibrant colored feathers. It was admired by all, animal and human, and known among foreign lands for its beauty. Then one fateful day, a searing fire spread across the neighborhood. It was relentless, killing everything in its path. The Maria Mulatas opened their wings and carried all the people to safety until the fire could be extinguished. The people were forever indebted to the bird for its bravery and heroic action. And the sacrifice it took upon itself to rescue the people living there. The fire and smoke blackened its feathers and tail so that with each new generation, the birds remained black as coal. But sometimes, even today, if the ray of the sun is hitting the bird just right, you can still see a hint of the extravagant color of those first Maria Mulatas.”
Once I finished the story, we stood in a comfortable quiet, admiring the mural.
Elly turned to me. I could see something had touched her about the story. “So, in the right light, you can see the soul of Colombia in this bird?”
“In the right light,” I said. “You can see the soul of Colombia in all its beings.”
* * *
By the afternoon, it was clear that Elly was growing tired. She wouldn’t admit it, but her leg must have been bothering her quite a bit. Her stubbornness was frustrating…it almost matched mine. Almost.
We had just finished visiting a couple of spots in the Old Town. There was one place I knew would be the ideal spot to finish the day, but I hesitated. It was a place I had never taken any woman I’d been seeing. I hadn’t even told my brother about this place. It was a coffee shop I liked to escape to, knowing that no one I knew could pester me there. It was my secret spot.
But that was where I was heading now. And, for once, I was not alone.
“I want you to promise me something.” I stopped the car to let a mother and child cross the street.
Elly moved away from the passenger window she had been staring out of and twisted her body in my direction. “That depends,” she said uncertainly. My words had brought her guard up. Again.
“It’s nothing that’ll cost you. I just…I just need you to promise me you won’t utter a word about this next place I’m taking you. It’s a secret of mine, and the fewer people I know there, the fewer greetings I need to utter when I’m there trying to be alone.”
Elly chuckled. “So arrogant, proud,andantisocial. Wow, Sebastian, if those are your good qualities…”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not that I’m purposely trying to be antisocial, I just need…I need a break from things sometimes. Do you know what I mean?”
I could feel Elly’s eyes on me. I wanted to turn to her, to catch her eyes and hold our gazes there just like in the hallway back home. But I had to keep my eyes on the road.
“Yes, I do.”
Her voice had no hint of the teasing from a minute ago.
“So, can you do that? Keep this place a secret, I mean?”
“Yes, Sebastian. I promise.”
* * *
The coffee shop was situated in a winding cobbled side street, just wide enough for my car to drive through. Usually, I would park it before turning and walking this way but I wanted to get Elly as close to the entrance as possible. The road curved like a snake on a mission. The shadows were growing in this area as if a cloud came over just above and would not leave.
Café San Jhon was owned by Jhon Felipe, a man who had spent his youth traveling around the whole of South America to find the very best coffee beans, only to come home and find them in the garden of his neighbor. So, he married his neighbor’s daughter.