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RAMBLIN WAYN -- ART
Music- Poetry- Paintings LIVIN' IS AN ART - VIRTUAL GALERY
25-05-2010
THE DEATH OF A BLUES SINGER IN SÃO PAULO- SHORT STORY BY RAMBLIN' WAYN part2 & end
No coffee for his beloved brother Alves? Out of the question! Begging? He hated. Steal? That was below his standarts and he never steals. It was allready eight o'clock and firmly he stepped to the grocery store of senhor Gonçalo where he bought regularly alcohol for his little stove, and the good man, after he heard Wellingtons his story, gave him a bottle on credit. He went back to his wooden hen-house and waited for the arrival of his brother Alves, whom usually would arrive around noon. Meanwhile he had given a bath to Michelangelo and tear out the thick green, full of blood sucked ticks. It was almost half past twelve when a young man appeared. He was dressed in jeans and T-shirt. "Are you Wellington," he asked. "Yes ... and who are you? " Welligton asked uncertain. "They call me 'contraband'. I am a friend of Alves," said the boy. "Alves? Where is he? Why he didn't come?" "Your brother is sick. He sends me tell you this. He told me also that he'll urgently want to see you... He gave me some clothes... put them on and let's go... " "Should I go to Sao Paulo?" Wellington asked anxiously. "Should... is not the real word my friend. Your brother asks for it. Please... He is seriously ill. Vamos! Let's go!"
And arrived Wellington in Sao Paulo. It was already evening when they reached the place where his brother lived in a house located near the neighborhood Bras. It was an old house, about to collapse. Alves lay on bed in a smelly gloomy room. At the foot of the bed laid his strato Fender guitar. On the ground stood some amplifiers and microphones. He was in bad shape, since the half year Wellington had not seen him. The brothers embraced and wept and Michelangelo the dog howled like a straneg wolf from another planet. The skinny Alves told Wellington that his life was come to a end, as he was infected with the aids virus. The last months his life has been a mess. Injected heroin and felt in love with Madalena a little mulata. It was an addiction and he screwed on regular base other hookers. He had lived as an excessive, a stray wandering desperate outlaw and became infected. That simple? "No!" Wellington shouted: '... Alves do not dying! I love you!" "I'll have no way to deny brother. It is "finished", you hear, "acabo". I'm going back to the "jail" of salvation. See, it's my karma, no game-playing, nada! You see brother all was so planned for me, and will be right now, and the band will play: "Lagrimas dos Indios " 'Indian Tears". You remember ... When we were young and listened to the music of Muddy Waters? B. B. King... the blues ... Stevie Ray Vaughan... Frank Zappa...Yes ... The harmonica of ... yes, lembra? Wellington, say it ... " "Sonny ... Terry ... Wellington said in a broken voice. Alves: "... Yes ... Sonny Terry ... All right ... Robert Johnson ... We are all Negroes Wellington; we have the blues, Wellington, our parents and ancestors ... the blues! And I? I played the blues of Sâo Paulo ... the city of blues, misery, injustice ... Wellington? Are you listening, my brother? I've had my share in this fucking world ... but little brother ... Your life, yes, that the life I really wanted to live. Eating from the street. Wellington ... a sincere bare Jackal ... you hear me brother! No whining in your head, no obligations ... And a dog as your best friend, a good friend. Michelangelo. Your karma Wellington is sacred ... Listen, you have to do something for me ... Go to the headwaters of the Xingu river and look for the Txukahami tribe ... Give this letter to Kalia ... Give her my love and tell her that I'll be wait where the rivers meet. And you brother ... drink every week a Pinga on me and our new embrace .. See you my brother ..." Wellington cried in his heart when he embraced Alves. Than Alves took a pistol from beneath his pillow and Wellington could not stop him. Michelangelo pricked his one ear when Alves pulled the trigger and shot a bullet through his head. The Sâo Paulo hard-core blues has ended.