Cheltenham, UK; 1997
One tiny drop of blood.
Blade and mind stop.
Is it the carotid or the jugular? He knows they both lurk under the thin layer of skin, close to the sharp edge of his cut-throat razor — Juancho’s razor.
He has always kept it close; sharp – just in case, ever since that fateful day twenty-four years ago.
He stretches his neck and studies the blue veins beneath the dark stubble.
He used to be so good at anatomy, but he seems to have forgotten all he ever learned.
Ah! How he wishes he could forget so many other things…
The blade is still motionless, waiting for a decision.
It would be so easy…
Will he ever have the nerve?
Bogotá, Colombia; 1973
Trails of blood — red-black blood — lead to the body; a torrent, like the tears blurring his vision.
He rubs them off furiously, the dirty, torn sleeve leaving trails of grime – the brand of the pariah — along his cheek.
He must try and see clearly.
His eyes scrutinize each corner of the square as he emerges from his hiding place, heart pounding, body trembling — and not only because it’s cold.
A few more cautious steps; his knees buckle, and he sinks beside Juancho’s body, oblivious to the surrounding stench.
He’s such a fucking coward. Hiding while they killed his protector, his friend.
But not even fourteen-year-old Juancho had been a match for them. He José, barely nine, wouldn’t have stood a chance.
He had watched them from behind the heap of smelly trash, blades glinting in the moonlight, silent and diligent in the completion of their murderous task – under El Cabezón’s orders – he’s sure.
Nothing the gang does, especially if cruel, is ever anyone else’s idea. El Cabezón is king of the gang, and everyone obeys him.
He sniffs quietly and places his hand gently on Juancho’s chest, his own heart beating fast in hope.
But he already knows.
Juancho’s face looks so peaceful — a bit paler than usual, eyes still open to the stars — but otherwise the same face he had looked up to so many times under the same night sky.
Now, he is alone. Really alone for the first time in his short existence — or his notion of it.
He knows he was alone before Juancho found him: a tiny bundle under the bridge of La Calle 26.
But now that Juancho is gone, who will look out for him?
He knows exactly who — and what — awaits him in the streets tonight.
He wipes his nose on his sleeve, and something akin to a prayer rises from his lips: a prayer for his young friend who gave his life for him; a prayer for help for his own helpless little existence.
He stays there for a long time — both boys, the living and the dead — lit by the uncertain light of dawn; the certain smells of death, decay, and human depravity; and the certain fear gathering in his guts.
Juancho’s body lies still and quiet, surrounded by mounds of garbage piling up around him — the leftovers of greed — perhaps the most fitting shroud for a dead youngster from the streets of Bogotá.
He stands up.
Tonight, without Juancho, they will probably have him again — unless he runs away or manages to defend himself.
Fat chance.
They killed Juancho — not only much older than him but strong, fast, and good with the blade.
They’ll kill him too.
But no way El Cabezón or Poroto are going to fuck with him again.
He still remembers the fear and the pain – how they pushed him and kicked him and thrust their swollen members inside his powerless body, one after the other — impervious to his screams and tears during that endless night… the only night Juancho was away.
He remembers their gross laughter, their crude jokes.
Until Juancho came back.
Then, they had to face the fury of the little man – small but powerful – a tiger bounding over them, his cut-throat razor flashing in his hands dancing a mortal dance on his short, bowed legs.
How much José loved him that night.
How lucky he felt to be his protégé.
Oh, Juancho!
He knows they killed him because of that.
Because of him.
And now he is all alone. Scared and alone.
Who is going to defend him?
Who will protect him?
He sobs once more — a sob of fear and despair.
What can he do?
What would Juancho do?
He would never give up; never give in.
He would have pulled out his blade…
Juancho’s blade!
Hope sparks in a corner of his mind.
If the thugs didn’t take it…
At least it is a weapon. It might be his only defence — and the only memento of the only protector he’s ever had.
No! They didn’t take it. It’s still there, in Juancho’s pocket.
With a sigh of relief, he clutches the small but deadly weapon, holding it tight in his sweaty hand.
He looks around once more, just to find the enquiring eyes of a scraggy dog, scavenging scraps of last week’s rich-and-poor’s dinner.
One last look at the young body, which will have the honourable burial of so many homeless: left to rot and be eaten by rats and vermin — the only happy inhabitants of the big city’s trash heap.
Juancho had been the only father-like figure he’d ever known. Yet now he has to run away, pulling the dirty top over his blond curls — those bloody curls to which he owes more than one cruel nickname, hundreds of dirty jokes…
and a night of rape.
The streets now swallow him, with jaws of misery and want, into the hungry, cruel entrails of Bogotá.
Cheltenham, UK; 1997
The blade — the same blade, after those twenty-four years — is still waiting.
His eyes now rest with quiet annoyance on the tiny blond hairs just starting to grow under the black dye.
Those blond curls that once made him a target for perverts of all ages in the dark slums –
but to which he also owes his undeserved pampered childhood as the adoptive son of the lonely spinster who rescued him from the streets that very morning.
All because of the unspoken racism pervading the upper crust of Bogota’s society.
And she loved him and protected him as best she could – better than his real mother ever did.
After all, why would he have ended up under a bridge only a few days old if she had?
Where was his real mother then?
Yet, he never could love Blanca Ines back. Not really.
Has he ever loved anyone after Juancho?
Have any of those passionate affairs he’s had meant anything ever – more than heartbreak, ruin, vice and despair?
After all, inside, he is still a miserable Gamin.
Better dressed.
An adored, sexy Tango teacher pretending to be Argentinian and to have dark hair.
Those blond curls beneath the dye are a daily reminder of what he has always been since that fateful day –
a fake.