Layla and the Three Wise Men

Layla

The bed, cornered as it was, appeared to fade away in the squared room it laid in. More than square, the room was rectangular; although when you were at the door, it did not seem as elongated as it really was.

The painted walls could not hide they were made from concrete. "You can smell the concrete in the tropics", my grandfather used to say. And yes, you could smell the refreshing effect of the water it retains, as it reveals itself, just like most things tend to do under the rainy season in hot Central America.

The ground of the bedroom, tiled in strips of washed white pieces, resembled more a cemetery than the bedroom it was meant to cover underneath. All throughout Nicaragua, houses that were built during the late sixties, were all windowed with frosted glassed, aluminum framed, palleted holes-in-the-wall. In this case, they were evident because there were no curtains hiding them and it was the only source of natural light and of privacy the bedroom offered.

There was another door at the end of the room. It was half closed but I am sure there was a bathroom of some sort behind it. The tiles on the floor now changed to a light blue color and the aroma of Palmolive soap gave it away as the bathroom it was. When the room's main door opened, it forced a gentle breeze coming from inside, bringing in the smell of Lavender most products inside carried. The idea of a bathroom culminated in the mind of the observer without having to do any more mental exertion.

Next to the bed there was a nightstand. It was really a small folding table. The quality of nightstand could be inferred because of what laid on top of it: there was an empty used glass and one still containing some scotch, there were books and pamphlets on it too, ...and an ashtray.

At the foot of the bed, you could see the 17" RCA-Victor Color TV. It must have been standing on something because it looked high lurking behind the bed; way beyond it's dimensions would have allow it to.

On the opposite side, the right side if you were standing at the entrance, there was a small bookshelf. You could see three dozen books: some laying down, others standing, and some, resting either on top of the ones already down or leaning by the ones standing. They looked like a bunch of guys looking into the depths of the bookstand while showing their themes on their backs. Some were in Spanish, others in English; and some, you could not tell because the letters were too small, or they had faded away.

On the floor, right next to the bed, almost like a continuation of a cotton sheet corner that slipped down, lay another ashtray. It was not so easy to spot, but it drew ones attention because of a corn pipe sitting there from where an almost imperceptible smoke came out of it, but the smell was of Cannabis and it inundated the room.

A feminine silhouette could be seen on the bed, under the sheet; and next to it, was Bob. He had been named Roberto but everybody either called him Bob, or Tito.

One of Bob's legs faded into the sheet, fusing with the female figure and his other foot fell by the side of the bed, and rested on the floor.

Suddenly but slowly, the female figure turned itself under the white cotton sheet, two living volcanos came out from hiding under the wrinkled bedsheets. They cried youth and beauty. Sloped by a beautiful tan skin and crowned by two symmetrical magenta-colored nipples which ended constructing these two mountains of life. Her face had not been exposed yet for her curled long hair was hiding everything else up her nude torso. With abundant but intoxicating laziness, a couple of black eyes slowly opened from inside the brown bushy hair. These eyes were so black, that no pupil could be distinguished, and her gaze seemed to swallow the whole of whatever she stared directly at. But now, they were looking at Roberto and he was the one being swallowed, not only by her eyes, but by her soul as well. She sat up, shook her head right and left, and submissively got comfortable on Roberto's chest.