His cell phone rang with the distinctive calendar recorded message tune. The young man pulled the device out of his jeans back pocket with a puzzled gesture, since he did not remember having recorded anything for that day. The screen illuminated and he slapped his forehead as he read the reminder recorded months earlier.
<Visa expires in 2 months>
Indeed the student visa with which the boy had entered the United States had only a few valid remaining days; moreover, he no longer had the possibility to extend it for a further period. As he was not interested to join the legion of foreigners who were irregularly in the country, Marcos thought he had to prepare his return to his home town.
At twenty three Marcos Ferrari had left his town in the Argentine Province of Santa Fe to settle with relatives in the city of Buenos Aires. The youth found the winds of the great metropolis stimulant for a period of almost a year, during which he had held a series of menial jobs in various mechanical motorcycles workshops, one of his true passions until he was hired by his uncle to work with him . However, after that period his adventurous spirit produced again to him the familiar restlessness and Marcos ended up traveling without any preconceived plan to Caracas, moved only by his desire to change air, without greater knowledge of the situation Venezuela was facing. Indeed, once he was there it was difficult to find a job that would allow him to stay alive at least until he could raise money to continue his journey, and he was about to hit the road with his travel bag to tempt fate in Colombia when he met Elena.
Elena Rodriguez was a Caracas thirty-eight years old lady, recently divorced from an executive of a trading company that had actually left her for a younger woman shortly before the divorce. Elena enjoyed however a comfortable life in her hometown until due to the dramatic drop in the international oil prices the country's economic situation began to deteriorate rapidly. Elena met Marcos when he served coffee to her at one of the many precarious jobs that the boy had taken in his two-month stay in Caracas. She had been attracted by the tall if somewhat ungainly silhouette of the young man, his pale eyes and reddish hair. Elena got immediately to draw the boy´s attention simply by pulling up her skirt in a way that then made her reproach herself as shameless. Afterwards, as she paid the consumption, the woman introduced a note with her phone between the depreciated bolivars notes, with the result that in that same night they had slept together at her house. Marcos had taken care of all maintenance issues in the woman´s house and car for which he managed to extend for another month his visa to stay in Caracas. Meanwhile she began to sell all her properties in Venezuela getting however a reduced revenue due to the economic crisis in the country and decided to travel to the United States, where she already had a resident visa obtained years before and kept valid since then. The young man accepted excited the possibility of escorting her.
After over a year together Elena showed signs of fatigue in their relationship and it became clear she had lost interest in Marcos. Finally she moved to Miami claiming that the climate of New York, with the autumn approaching, did not fit her.
Despite holding a tourist visa the boy got a job in Harlem, with an African American cabinetmaker, a sixty-nine year old craftsman. Charles Barlow or Uncle Charley was born in Mississippi where he had learned the rudiments of his craft with his father, and then, tired of the racial persecution of that time had migrated north, eventually settling in New York. He was particularly fond of Marcos, who despite being a very skilled with computers was obviously interested in learning a trade almost forgotten. The fact that also the young man came from a rural environment created a spiritual closeness between them, above the differences in age, race, culture, religion and nationality. Besides, it soon became clear that Marcos was a very clever boy and quickly grasped the secrets of the trade. His help allowed Charley to maintain the work level in his workshop, which was in turn his home, as he had many customers who came to Harlem to commission different works.
To reach the workshop from the nearest subway station Marcos had to walk a couple of blocks and finally through a narrow, dark alley, which gave him some stinging when he left the workshop late at night that with the withdrawal of summer arrived every day earlier. Being the only white person on his way did not make him feel safer.
That morning Marcos had reached the middle of the long alley; the boy was whistling a tune to give himself courage when he saw a movement between two high dustbins near a doorway. As there was no one in sight he put himself on guard ready to run or fight as were the case and did not separate his eyes from the moving site. Suddenly his ears perceived a slight moan in a voice that sounded feminine. Marcos approached cautiously the place trying not to make any noise when walking; suddenly, another movement startled him; shocked he saw an arm sticking out on the dirty pavement. It was a black thin arm likely belonging to a woman or a child.
Without ruling out the possibility of a trap the youth approached the gap between the two trash cans and then his heart sank. A pair of huge eyes stared him from a black haggard face. He verified that they belonged to a young woman curled up on the floor who was shaking in convulsions. Marcos touched her forehead with his hand and found that it was burning with fever. Without hesitation he bent down and tried to help the young woman to stand up but it became clear that her legs would not support her weight. Marcos looked around to see if there was someone to ask for help but the alley was completely deserted. He lifted the woman in his arms surprised by her light weight and walked the distance up to Uncle Charley´s store.
“I've cleaned her wounds.” Said the old man. “Luckily the shot produced no irreparable damage, but the girl has lost much blood and is now very weak. Actually we should take her to a hospital. This is a gunshot wound with an outlet. She's asleep now.”
“We do not know what her history is or why she lay in the alley. Is there nothing more you can do?”
“I would be asking for trouble if we do not report a gunshot wound.” Charley looked alternatively at Marcos and at the woman until he eventually made a decision.
“To hell! In Vietnam I took care of bullet wounds in worse condition.”
“You never told me you were in the Vietnam War. What were you, a paramedic?”
“Among other things. Listen, go to Sam´s pharmacy and brings these things.” He leaned over the desk and wrote down a list of products in a paper. “While you go I´ll call Sam so he won´t make problems nor questions and give you everything I ask.”
Charley proceeded to disinfect the girl´s wounds again, applied a very strong local anesthetics and sutured with firm hand. Then he injected a large dose of antibiotics
“It is done. Five stitches at the entrance in the back and seven in the front. Now there is no longer risk of bleeding; she should still keep taking oral antibiotics for a week.”
“The girl woke up.” Charley said when entering the workshop. “The fever has gone down although it can still rise again.”
Both men entered Uncle Charlie´s bedroom where they had placed the young woman. She watched them entering with a hint of fear in her eyes.
“Do you speak English?” Asked the older man. She nodded affirmatively.
“What's your name?” Charley asked again.
The girl hesitated.
“Nubia.”
“Is that your name or your origin ?” Insisted the homeowner.
“I am called that way me because I belong to the Nubian people.”
“So I figured. But you have a given name.” Charley's comment was between a question and a statement.
“Alimah ... Alimah Koumi.” Replied the woman overcoming certain reservations.
“Where are you from Alimah ... or Nubia?” Marcos made his voice heard for the first time.
“ I was born in Sudan but lived in Ethiopia all my life.”
“Until when you lived in Ethiopia ?” Charley's voice was full of commiseration.
“Until ... a month or so ago. I lost track of time.”
With a rueful gesture Charley sat on the edge of the bed while Marcos kneeled at its side. Seeing the two men in a gentle and non-aggressive attitude for the first time in a long while, the eyes of the woman called Nubia filled with tears. In her broken English she began telling her sad story.