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- Herausgeber: BookRix
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
"He watched her as she walked off - the thick black hair, the green top, then the brown midriff, then the blue jeans, then the black boots. Black, green, brown, blue, black. That night he set to work and sketch painted. First he drew the belly button, then he worked out from that as a dancer would. All moves revolving round this one point, centred on her belly button, the ombligo. His teacher had taught him “this is where the person began, where they were connected to the mother, this is their centre, forget the brain, focus on the ombligo.”
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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El Ombligo
the belly button
dedicated to La Madre SolBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 MunichEl Ombligo
El Ombligo
On a narrow side street in Rio above a slatted door there flashed a green and red sign, Chicas Muy Bonita, Caliente. Below on the peeling and faded wall, the light alternately lit another sign; it read El Ombligo.
Arturo watched from the shadows. He could hear the heavy beat from the band within, little shafts of disco lights stabbed the darkness through the slatted windows.
He wanted to go in, to see her. But he knew she was working. He could not bear to see her dancing in front of all those men. She said it was just work for the money. She had no skills she said but this, and it paid well.
Cumbia that was the dance, slow, heavy and sexy rhythms. She loved to dance, to show her body. The costume was scanty. A low bikini, a tight revealing bra. The dances erotic. Her belly button revolved as she moved.
It was that which first sought his eyes when they met. He was sitting in a tram and she was standing. In a green camisole crop- top and low jeans. Her belly button was at his eye level. A perfect navel.
Arturo was an artist. He admired shape and form. This belly button was so neat, so inviting, the belly so slim and brown. He raised his eyes to the owner. Her eyes seemed to engulf him, dark mysterious. She was light coloured with a hint of Indian in the high cheek bones. Her black hair hung in waves. She stared back at him holding his gaze. He sensed the strength of a dancer in the figure.
She noticed his long fingers, the stains from his paints, his face long, bearded, Christ like.
He was leaning towards her asking her something. He wanted to draw her. She smiled, tossed her hair. It was nice to be asked, this was something different from a suggestive remark.
She seemed to be considering.
“Where?" she asked.
“Café Sierra,” he said.
She knew it. It was nice, a few vines hung over the veranda and it was on the street. Was this a clue to his status? Did he have no studio, no appartamento? They got off the tram together.
At the table there were no preliminaries. He took out a stick of charcoal and taking his pad began to sketch her. She found it difficult to keep still and kept flicking her hair but he did not complain. While he worked she ordered coca colas.
He was looking at her, looking into her soul. She looked back but he was hard to read. Handsome, his face thin and refined with a dark shadow where his beard would have been. His eyebrows where like two strokes of his charcoal stick. He was silent, something she had not experienced before - usually men could not keep quiet.
She began to relax in his presence. Perhaps this was all he wanted, to draw her. How uncomplicated. All her other men had been so macho.
When the drinks came he did not stop sketching.
She sipped her drink looking at him. Then he took his glass carefully.
“Have you been drawn before?" “No.”
