BARCELONA COFFEE
Adult Stories
by
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GUERRILLA COFFEE I adjusted the belt while the voice of the stewardess said the usual. We should be flying already. Pep, at my side, is calmly drinking some fruit juice. The trip was going to be long and boring. “We will have some fun while the lights are out”, Pep tells me with a wink. His son, Pep Junior, is sitting some seats further back near a chunky redhead who, from the beginning, before going through Customs, had smiled at him provocatively. “That chick is nice”, he commented to his father and me. “Well, so you are going to be distracted.” He is fourteen years old and is very nervous. The redhead is twice his age: her name is Meritchell and works in Barcelona’s city hall. We live in the city and have just left it, enthusiastic about “helping” the guerrillas in El Salvador. We are not alone; there are about fifteen of us. The only one I know is Jordi — a friend of Pep — and Giorgio, an Italian from Milan who was convinced to join our cause by Pep, who belongs to the Communist Party. Last night, while we were stargazing from the cute penthouse Pep has in L’Hospitalet, a quiet working-class neighbourhood in Barcelona, he told me how important it is that we collaborate to help these poor people. I totally agree with him, although I have my doubts about the effectiveness of assistance that consists of spending a few days of a holiday by their side, because we cannot afford to leave our jobs for more time. The moon lit up a large pretty smokestack in the middle of the square where Pep lives, giving it a magical look. We hugged and went inside to finish getting ready for the trip. Meritchell walked by us towards the toilet and says: “Amparo Soria is with us”. “Who is Amparo Soria?” Pep asks. “You know her; she is one of the actresses from the Bagdad, the one that does the big erotic number, with the two black guys and the Pekingese dog.” “Oh, yeah; I remember perfectly. The girl was so lively! What is she going to do in El Salvador?” “She will most likely be getting off on the previous layover”, yawned Pep, who was nodding off as we talked. I fell asleep right away, too. I was beat, extremely tired. I woke up when the plane landed at the airport in Mexico. All I am carrying is my backpack and this has saved me from problems with luggage. We got ready to wait for the connecting flight to Tuxtla, the capital of the state of Oaxaca. It arrived on time and when we went to find our places, we discovered that Amparo Soria, “the actress from the Bagdad”, was also coming with the group. Pep Junior was very pumped up about Meritchell. The plane was very old and I fell asleep in Pep’s arms. I work up when we were arriving in Tapachula. The plane stopped and we landed on a kind of potato plantation and disembarked. The heat was pressing and dense, hot air that enters your lungs and leaves you with a kind of apathy and reluctance to move, with every motion measured. Alain was waiting for us with a kind of jeep that had seen better days; we had to cross through Guatemala. What an idea of the expedition’s organiser to have us go to Mexico! All I could think about was a good shower, about letting the water run and wake me up from the trip which, before it had even started, was already becoming a drag to get through. But who could have convinced me to travel these byways? “What a drag!” “So now the lady is complaining”, says Pep, but I convince Alain to stop in a tiny hamlet opposite a cottage where, from the door, one can see a little curtain made from a kind of crochet traditional to the region and an advertisement for a local beverage. The place is filthy; there is no toilet or river or mineral water for washing, which causes me to take some of the local beverage to use for washing up a little. The Indian — who actually looks more Chinese — hands it to me with a smile. I try it the best I can in a kind of toilet I improvised for cleaning my butt. “Good God! It is pure alcohol and sticky, too.” I am angry enough that I do not want anyone to know how ticked off I am, so I return to the group with a smile. The Indian woman brought us some corn tortillas with some kind of spicy hot vegetables and the beverage that I had just tried out below. Above, it also tastes repulsive. The stupid bitch smiles when she sees me and then brings me an ice-cold Coke that leads me to make up with her. We are close to Tapachula on the Pacific, and Alain explains to us that we are about to enter virgin forest. We will enter Guatemala through a very special border checkpoint. But I had barely woken up from my deep sleep in the jeep. Pep has my passport and I carry my backpack full of panties or briefs so that I have enough of them and can change them twice a day for as long as the trip lasts. We pass through Quetzaltenango, Totonicapan, Chiquimula; we will enter El Salvador via Cojutepeque. We were told that the guerrillas on both sides are some tough bastards, so it is important to be careful. Between its being very old and way overloaded, you could say it was a kind of cocktail shaker. I complain about the road. Suddenly, I open my eyes because Alain stops at a checkpoint. He has some kind of special “permission pass” about which I know little and care even less. Then I realise we are passing through pure jungle and that I quite like it…
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About the Book
A humorous – and rather ribald – take on Guatemala’s guerrillas in which a female James Bond with a backpack full of lacy knickers (one for each day of the week) battles to unmask the terrible villain who wants to wipe out the world with the VHL virus; she breaks with all the schemes, is more than an adventure novel, it hides a background of social criticism and affirmation of freedom and personality of what is really a truly independent woman. The charming Amandina and her own particular way of observing the world around her. According to Claude Simon, French writer and Nobel Prize, a different way of interpreting the existentialist novel… A novel that will stir your passions and that you won’t want to put down until you read “The End”.
About the Author
Born in 1942 in Barcelona to a Spanish father and US-born mother, as far back as she can remember Cristina Roldán has always considered herself a fighter for freedom in general and for women in particular. She always says that she leads by example, and that that’s the best way to do it. She divided her time between Paris (where she studied) and Barcelona until the age of 46, when she and her daughter Sarah left behind city, home and everything familiar to never return to live there again. Although Cristina has written in French and Spanish since she was a small child, she finished this novel in 1986. She never wanted to publish it until now, and it is now being published for the first time. Cristina is also a painter and has worked as one, with exhibitions worldwide, including three times at Paris’ Grand Palace with the Société des Artistes Français under the pseudonym Mariah Rodriguez (www.mariahrodriguez.net). Cristina is the mother of three children and grandmother of seven grandchildren and has lived in Paris, Brussels, Barcelona, Madrid and London.