San Grenadine
04-06-2007, 08:33
Puerto de Isabel sat astride two high windswept hills overlooking the natural harbor for which she were named, virtually unchanged since her founding three centuries ago. The city’s bound had moved inexorably outwards in her 300 years, expanding from a ragged collection of fishermen’s shacks to a respectable town of 20,000 – yet beating in heart the capital was the same tepid rhythm that always languished in such colonial settlements the Caribe. The sun rose each morning bringing the murmur of voices in the half-dozen street markets, heralding a sudden rush of motion – automobiles and bicycle, everywhere men and women pushing towards the docks. And, as each Sabbath, the bells of la Iglesia de la Virgen called the faithful to mass.
On this languid day, José Ingeri as always awoke with the break of dawn. For 20 years he had fished these waters, drawing a living from the sea, just enough for his wife and child with their white brick and stucco home on the outskirts of the city. This particular morning, José awoke cold, a damp breeze blowing in from the water, the heat of his family’s cooking fire much diminished as the last coals smoldered slowly out. He rolled off of his grass mat and rose, taking care not to wake the woman and child next to him while he shuffled across the dirt floor. Pulling the same white shirt, now grey from continual wear, over his head, he snatched a baseball cap and began his march to the boat.
Each morning José followed the same path, skirting through nearly a kilometer of the slums to the markets and wealthier homes which lined the harbor front. Walking east to the coast, he watched as the sky turned from grey to orange, quickly burning away the haze that rolled in before a storm on such cold days as these. The sun broke over the horizon, spreading long early shadows behind the other fisherman who followed this same path to their own small boats. He heard a rush of footsteps behind him on the street as one of the other locals approached, followed by his friend Hector’s staccato voice. “Ingeri, como eta?”
Before Ingeri could answer, a deafening boom cut through the noise of passersby. José ducked instinctively, ears ringing with the sound as a plume of smoke rose from the direction of the market. In the wake of the blast, a series of shrieks tore through the air. José and his companion rose and began to run, quickly clearing the last line of project housing and bursting into a market overrun with confusion. Far distant, a crowd was forming around the flaming wreckage of a vehicle. Men and women lay on the ground, some covered in blood, and already the sound of police and rescue vehicles could be heard in rapid approach. Pausing for a gulp of air, José turned to get his bearings. Already his heart was pounding in his ears, almost deafening in his lightheaded and stunned state. Nothing like this happened in his country. Even here, in the capital, during the 1961 anti-colonial push to expel the Spanish, things had been peaceful. Now that view of the world seemed silly almost naïve.
To José’s left, something struck him as out of place. Amid all of the confusion, two men stood placid. They did not appear particularly foreign - perhaps they were not familiar faces but many people came to this market. Only their mannerism seemed odd, standing coolly in their place as the injured shrieked just a few hundred feet away. One turned to the other, nodded, and dropped a cigarette. The other returned the gesture and, while José watched they both stepped by the two fishermen, going the way José had just come. Perhaps 20 seconds later the men paused halfway up the hill. The police were arriving now, flashing white lights still very visible in the early light. As one officer stepped out of his vehicle, the taller of the two men reached into his pocket. Three seconds later, another car on the fringes of the market exploded, basking the area in another wave of heat and noise.
-----
From the old heart of the city, in the second story of the old governor’s villa where the island’s small parliament convened, the explosions could be seen in the city below. The 23 members of the parliament stood helpless by as flashes of light danced across their city. By the sixth blast, a military guard had arrived to protect the diplomats, but elsewhere in the city troops and police, largely inexperienced and undermanned, milled about, unsure how to react to the sudden attack.
Sargento Primero Marcos della Rosa burst into the cool whitewashed plaza outside the governor’s villa at the head of his platoon. A short, stocky man of pure Spanish blood, Sargento della Rosa nonetheless commanded respect with his beady stare and aggressive demeanor. Here, as always, he found this fact true. Approaching the captain of the villa’s guard, he quickly met gaze with the man, returned the stunned salute, and barked a single command. “Cabo…” He paused to glance at the man’s nametag. “Cabo Tela, I am relieving you of your duties to insure the protection of our government meeting here. You will instruct your men to stand down.”
Cabo Tela relayed the orders to his unit and quickly assembled the dozen men under his command in the plaza. Sgt. della Rosa’s platoon moved to take over their posts, while the sergeant himself and three other men moved inside to secure the parliament’s chambers. He passed inside the heave oak doorway and moved quickly upstairs and into the parliament’s meeting chamber, causing a stir. For a moment, there was some concern among the politicians that this was a coup, followed by demands for information. Marcos raised his hand to quiet the delegation, and loudly demanded, “Is the governor here?” One of the aides in the room shook his head. The sergeant turned to his own page ordering him and two other men to go and locate the governor. The three men rushed out of the room without a word, leaving Marcos alone to answer the questions of a confused and shaken government. The time was 7:14.
On this languid day, José Ingeri as always awoke with the break of dawn. For 20 years he had fished these waters, drawing a living from the sea, just enough for his wife and child with their white brick and stucco home on the outskirts of the city. This particular morning, José awoke cold, a damp breeze blowing in from the water, the heat of his family’s cooking fire much diminished as the last coals smoldered slowly out. He rolled off of his grass mat and rose, taking care not to wake the woman and child next to him while he shuffled across the dirt floor. Pulling the same white shirt, now grey from continual wear, over his head, he snatched a baseball cap and began his march to the boat.
Each morning José followed the same path, skirting through nearly a kilometer of the slums to the markets and wealthier homes which lined the harbor front. Walking east to the coast, he watched as the sky turned from grey to orange, quickly burning away the haze that rolled in before a storm on such cold days as these. The sun broke over the horizon, spreading long early shadows behind the other fisherman who followed this same path to their own small boats. He heard a rush of footsteps behind him on the street as one of the other locals approached, followed by his friend Hector’s staccato voice. “Ingeri, como eta?”
Before Ingeri could answer, a deafening boom cut through the noise of passersby. José ducked instinctively, ears ringing with the sound as a plume of smoke rose from the direction of the market. In the wake of the blast, a series of shrieks tore through the air. José and his companion rose and began to run, quickly clearing the last line of project housing and bursting into a market overrun with confusion. Far distant, a crowd was forming around the flaming wreckage of a vehicle. Men and women lay on the ground, some covered in blood, and already the sound of police and rescue vehicles could be heard in rapid approach. Pausing for a gulp of air, José turned to get his bearings. Already his heart was pounding in his ears, almost deafening in his lightheaded and stunned state. Nothing like this happened in his country. Even here, in the capital, during the 1961 anti-colonial push to expel the Spanish, things had been peaceful. Now that view of the world seemed silly almost naïve.
To José’s left, something struck him as out of place. Amid all of the confusion, two men stood placid. They did not appear particularly foreign - perhaps they were not familiar faces but many people came to this market. Only their mannerism seemed odd, standing coolly in their place as the injured shrieked just a few hundred feet away. One turned to the other, nodded, and dropped a cigarette. The other returned the gesture and, while José watched they both stepped by the two fishermen, going the way José had just come. Perhaps 20 seconds later the men paused halfway up the hill. The police were arriving now, flashing white lights still very visible in the early light. As one officer stepped out of his vehicle, the taller of the two men reached into his pocket. Three seconds later, another car on the fringes of the market exploded, basking the area in another wave of heat and noise.
-----
From the old heart of the city, in the second story of the old governor’s villa where the island’s small parliament convened, the explosions could be seen in the city below. The 23 members of the parliament stood helpless by as flashes of light danced across their city. By the sixth blast, a military guard had arrived to protect the diplomats, but elsewhere in the city troops and police, largely inexperienced and undermanned, milled about, unsure how to react to the sudden attack.
Sargento Primero Marcos della Rosa burst into the cool whitewashed plaza outside the governor’s villa at the head of his platoon. A short, stocky man of pure Spanish blood, Sargento della Rosa nonetheless commanded respect with his beady stare and aggressive demeanor. Here, as always, he found this fact true. Approaching the captain of the villa’s guard, he quickly met gaze with the man, returned the stunned salute, and barked a single command. “Cabo…” He paused to glance at the man’s nametag. “Cabo Tela, I am relieving you of your duties to insure the protection of our government meeting here. You will instruct your men to stand down.”
Cabo Tela relayed the orders to his unit and quickly assembled the dozen men under his command in the plaza. Sgt. della Rosa’s platoon moved to take over their posts, while the sergeant himself and three other men moved inside to secure the parliament’s chambers. He passed inside the heave oak doorway and moved quickly upstairs and into the parliament’s meeting chamber, causing a stir. For a moment, there was some concern among the politicians that this was a coup, followed by demands for information. Marcos raised his hand to quiet the delegation, and loudly demanded, “Is the governor here?” One of the aides in the room shook his head. The sergeant turned to his own page ordering him and two other men to go and locate the governor. The three men rushed out of the room without a word, leaving Marcos alone to answer the questions of a confused and shaken government. The time was 7:14.