Story :Fulano’s Decision

 

TALES FROM THE CITY

Fulano’s Decision

Richard Primo Silva

Virtual Library

 

Fulano realized immediately: the two men advancing on the other side of the road had all the appearance of a pair of petty thieves and drug addicts. So much mileage through the streets of Lima was not in vain. He sensed the danger and immediately the warning signs went off. His instinct for self-preservation set in motion an emergency plan: he looked around him in search of an escape route. Only then did he realize that he had chosen the worst route to cut through to Rímac and, perhaps, even the worst time. At six in the evening on any given day in August, the streets of Lima were already almost covered in darkness: Lima was even grayer. However, for Fulano everything became more tragic because that viscous gloom of six in the afternoon had trapped him, to his bad luck, in one of the narrow and aged blocks of Jirón Cañete, just behind the Church of Santa Rosa, a few steps from the Tacna bridge, dangerously close to two scabrous shadows that suddenly hurried their pace to bump into him. Fulano looked around him with unease: half-abandoned mansions, crumbling buildings and entrances to alleys that disappeared into terrifying labyrinths. The most abandoned part of downtown Lima, the one that doesn't appear on postcards, but which surreptitiously abounded: ghostly. How had he been so careless to end up, right there, trapped and with no way out?

robbery

He counted how much valuables he had on him that day. He turned pale. Although it was not a great fortune, it was his: his watch, his cell phone, his paycheck, and he did not want to lose it. However, everything indicated that, that Friday in July, they were going to take it from him, and that he would then be one more in the statistics of the guys assaulted on a lost street in the city. He was afraid not only of the robbery, but of disappearing, being just one more figure in a cold statistic.

However, they say that there are moments in a man's life - even if he is just one more of many - when a conclusive decision must be made, a turning point in life, a new way of facing destiny. Probably all of that went through Fulano's head because, suddenly, something changed in his face: it was perceived that he was no longer a frightened pedestrian; but rather a bizarre citizen. He took a deep breath, held it for a few long seconds, then exhaled as if he were expelling all his fears. There was a new determination in him and a gesture of bravery. He straightened his body and raised his head. If he had to face fate, he would do it head on and with dignity. There are times in life when you just have to do what you have to do. In any case, there weren't many options for him, but at least that foggy afternoon, dignity was something that wasn't going to be taken away from him. It could be said that Fulano felt, at that hour, epic, and he started walking facing reality, ready to face whatever fate had in store for him.

The two criminals were still somewhat distant, so they couldn't see Fulano's decision. They only noticed that the small man, wearing grey trousers and a jacket, was walking a little faster and directly towards them. But, apparently, they hadn't understood anything about that decision; they simply continued on their way until they came across their victim. Only when they were close enough, Fulano could see them fully. They were thin, somewhat dirty, baggy trousers, loose T-shirts, each one wearing a woollen cap to camouflage their faces. In a way, to Fulano, those gang members looked more like two malnourished bloodhounds. For a moment he thought that, instead of attacking him, they were going to bite him, barking wildly. He became confused again and, for a few brief moments, he was fascinated by that image.

But everything became harshly real again when he felt the arm of one of them closing around his neck. He wanted to resist, to be bold, to not accept his fate, but the skill of his oppressor immobilized him. The more he tried, the softer he felt his body become. The other accomplice had begun to rummage through his clothes and he knew that he was losing his wallet, his phone, his watch, the loose papers that sometimes get lost in pockets. He could hear the ripping of the seams of his shirt, but his body was limper and he could feel himself fading. He definitely hadn't planned on it like that when he decided to be more untamed and face the predators.

The one who had squeezed him by the neck loosened his arm a little and Fulano felt a little more air enter his lungs. He could then hear the babbling of his attackers. More than words, they seemed like barking. Everything was about to end. If he had decided on something less daring, he could have quickly jumped onto the road and then crossed at full speed to the other sidewalk, perhaps he would have tried to reach Tacna Avenue at a good trot where there were more people; although he was not sure that this plan would have freed him from the assault. Everything was done. One more assault in an old street in the city. Suddenly, he no longer felt the hands of his attackers or their words, but rather he felt clumsy paws tearing at his clothes, the panting of hurried animals, barking exchanged between them. He understood that more heroic attempts were not worth it. For what? He waited sadly for everything to end. Then he would get home no matter what. Maybe he would tell someone what had happened to him or maybe not. For what?

One of them, the one who barked more nervously, was sniffing around in the wallet: he took out the money, looked for some cards that were not there and threw everything else on the floor. He roared something that Fulano did not understand. The other freed him from the scruff of his neck. They barked in unison a little more and then trotted away, pushing each other, barking at a car that had passed quickly until it disappeared into one of the streets.

Fulano stood up, took a deep breath, and put his hands to his neck. He had no wounds, only the pain in his neck. He picked up his empty wallet, picked up some papers that had been left on the floor and started walking to reach Tacna Avenue where the yellowish lights of the street lamps were now somewhat clearer. He took another deep breath. No, of course not, there were hardly any conventional heroes in Lima anymore, but surviving in this city without losing his will was enough: another form of heroism.

With affection,

Ruben