How Many Times Has Peru Won The World Cup The Lost Tale of: Victoria the Mad (A Non Fiction Short Story)

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The Lost Tale of: Victoria the Mad (A Non Fiction Short Story)

This is about Victoria the Mad; unfavorable fortune, cursed by the gods. For a quarter of a century coagulating an old spontaneous compulsion and ringing a bell, yelping and unpleasant behavior, she met walking the streets of the Peruvian City of Huancayo, her image, the very image of a mad, indifferent woman, who was neither friend nor enemy, man or woman , or a stranger never turns to look at twice, walks with a tin cup in his hand, repeatedly looks into shop-windows; alone walking the side streets, around the Plaza de Arms. The mind would soar, look bright and bright, with a long stare at nothing. Then walking down one side street after another, from one avenue to another, across the longest stretch of sky above her head, then down, she cast her eyes down, lost in the earth’s crust, like Moses carrying the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments, down Mount Sinai, only to eventually cast them on the abandoned lot, which abandons the one and true God (Jehovah-Elohim-El Shaddai).

It was often found in the main Plaza de Arms of the city, which is not very big, less big than the State University, the National University of Central Peru (UNCP) which weaves outside the city limits. But she wandered a quarter of a plaza, like a paved street, with all its dust and carbon dioxide, surrounding, enclosing, and enclosing her, night and day, marked by bare feet, seeking shelter under the deep-rooted Algarrobo trees, with their oval glossy green leaves, and short broad trunks in the brisk cold summers and warm corners by the church in the rainy and wet winters, this Andean city, and the big terrifying stars with’ at night

Friends and acquaintances told me:

“She was always there, always around.”

“Been around twenty or twenty-five years, then she up and disappeared.”

“She never changed one iota, in all that time. Never changed from the first day I met her.”

“She always wore the same clothes she appeared in, that black dress, the jumper dress she wore – or whatever it was, the same old tattered dress, the same she’s always wearing it, sitting on someone’s doorstep, like a mutt waiting to be fed, demanding to be fed, I doubt she ever had another dress.”

“She spoke no more than ten different words, or perhaps a few more, but not much, though a blind llama could guss.”

It is clear that she had never had any education beyond the elementary stage, which is required. No one knew what she was like when I asked about her, how she was getting on, people who had lived in the city all their lives, who seemed to know her – had faded memories of her, no idea if she was still alive or dead, and if she had died, if she would have been long buried. She seemed a mild, if not hopeless, crazy woman who looked as if she might once be handsome – she probably had the features to be – maybe even a professional , but now only a lost legend of a. a half-tramp, a silly, impractical woman, in a Christian community, from the 1960s – who dragged her frame from here to there – through the mid-1980s, who had lived a miserable but quiet happiness, alone, within himself – everyone had forgotten her-no, not quite forgotten, but almost gone, time had passed for the city and its people, the new generation was now taking control, and only a photograph she was, part of the past, represented on an enlarged snapshot, for some strange reason, taken out of the files, of the city municipality, for an exhibition, a show that the city held one summer in the municipality plaza, and there I saw her for the first time (2005).

Quite happy and perhaps quite poor, the beggar woman, mad (perhaps bipolar, with an ounce of paranoia, depression; and borderline schizophrenic – who’s to say?) with a can of coffee in hand, for change or coffee, or whatever, perchance soup.

But I went through the trouble and the risk of bringing this story and its hardships, lest I think about writing this tribute for the rest of my life. I’m sure I’ve enjoyed what I’ve gone to the trouble to get, and little is said, I’ve learned, it would only take the satisfaction out of what I’ve written ready so far.

“Enjoyed what?” you say

“The story” I mean what do you think she was thinking those twenty five years, just coming daily and looking at the plaza and its people? She didn’t act, and she wasn’t rich. That’s a fact. At the sight of her face, and her cleavage, from the same picture I saw of her, soaked in mud up to her ankles, and barefoot, a knot of hair, like a hornet’s nest, a naked child (rated and confused, but not frozen) again, one who doesn’t have enough sense to know that she needs to worry about something, so she worries about nothing. She lived in a world where all faces were alien faces, even more so, once absorbed.

What was she doing in the plaza: maybe she was making enough judgments to keep her busy, maybe she was saying: “Is this happiness, is this what it’s all about? Is that’s what happens to you sooner rather than later, or sooner than sooner Fools, how long do they think it will last? We don’t live forever. And here I am – “She’s” n stopped, staring at the multitude of faces, eyes, limbs; she notices their agility, constant movements, almost as if on automatic impulse – she has a voice inside her head, which keeps her busy from such unconsciousness; all this is around her, and she can’t help but notice the countless pigeons flying back and forth, being fed by the population, the children, as they run after the pigeons. So ungrateful, she thinks, dirty pigeons, scavengers who eat garbage, but they feed them well.

She forgot who paid for her coffee, and the bread biscuit she has. She does not know, and she is not curious, she is one of God’s sparrows, and He feeds all His sparrows, we all know that people feed pigeons.

“What do you ask of a sparrow, you shouldn’t ask more of her?” God tells me this (at the end of this story, so I can put it in, tell you), somehow he whispers it in the back chambers of my mind, you know, that second self that we all had, we talk to now and then, but never admit we do to anyone – they think we’re crazy. But I can’t find her to feed, so I feed the sparrows instead.

Afterwards: If I had asked her about her state in life, and if she had the spoken words to tell me, she might have said: “Some are born for one thing, and some have u born of something else. And the person who is born a guppy or a tadpole, it’s no use trying to be anything else, like a shark, or a fat trout, she’s going to be what she was meant to be – except a fool for trying.”

That’s what she would have told me, I believe. And I’ve now done my part – I think she and I would have got on quite well. If I were to tell you the true story of my life, it hasn’t been that bad. Sometimes, some things are not in the lot and plan for mortal man and mortal woman to know – who would have ever guessed, it would be a legend!

Number: 725 (1-31-2011)

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