Lost Love

©2010 Ian Hobson

I was late for my shift for the third time in as many weeks, and I'd probably get fired; but it was a shit job anyway, so I didn't really care. Before crossing the street I waited for a bus and a police car to pass, then weaved my way between the remaining vehicles. A car horn sounded angrily but I ignored it.

It was late afternoon, though still very warm, and the city thronged with people, many of them tourists with bulging wallets and expensive looking cameras; the city's pickpockets would no doubt be reaping a rewarding harvest. As I turned into Main Street, where most of the grandest hotels were situated, there was a commotion of some kind up ahead. Were it not for heavy traffic I might have skirted left around the gathering that was blocking my way, but I knew well enough how to slip through a crowd. Though soon I was part of that crowd, straining to see over the tallest of them and to identify the cause of the obvious excitement.

'Here she comes!' At this impromptu announcement, the crowd surged forward but was held in check by two lines of blazer-wearing hotel heavies. A gleaming limousine had pulled up opposite the hotel entrance and one of the blazers was hurrying to open the rear door as cameras clicked and whirred, some of them held by paparazzi.

'Who is she?' I asked one of the onlookers.

'Madeline Dumont. She's in the new Giorgio Caprioli film, and big in Hollywood too.' The man pushed a little closer to the front of the mass of adoring fans, and I slipped into the space he had vacated. Madeline Dumont: I vaguely recognised the name, but I had never been a movie-goer.

A pair of long, bronzed legs, feet and high heels, swung out over the paving, followed by an immaculately dressed and slender figure, topped with an impossibly large hat that shaded the face of its owner. As the female stood waiting, a middle-aged man in an expensive-looking suit followed, and she took his arm, before the two of them strode purposefully towards the hotel entrance.

'Madeline!' One of the paparazzi, crouching low, had slipped through the cordon of blazers and managed a couple of shots before being unceremoniously dragged out of the couple's way. As they were momentarily delayed, the young woman raised her head in answer to a call from a fan standing a couple of paces to my left. But as the woman's head turned, her eyes met mine... and it was as though time stood still.

***

Madra lay sleeping. I liked to watch her sleep, and to listen to the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Like me, she had a made up story: her mother had been an actress, and her father a very important American who drove a Ferrari and lived in an enormous mansion with lots of servants, but both parents had drowned when the American's yacht sank in a storm. My story was similar: my parents had been rich, but both had been killed in a car crash.

In truth we were just street urchins, orphans, unloved and unwanted. And though we wished that we could be like the children we sometimes saw being ferried around in expensive looking auto-mobiles, we knew that that was the way things were; there were haves, and have-nots.

We lived amongst the have-nots, and had done for as long as we could remember - especially so, since our escape from the orphanage three years before. Though, luckily, I had just found us a place of our own: a half-demolished wartime air-raid shelter behind the old railway station.

Madra stirred and then her eyes opened. 'Renaldo.' She spoke my name and then stretched, cat-like, before giving me a smile. She was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, and although I was not much older myself, I was in love with her.

Two cups on the table in the corner of the room rattled as, nearby, a railway train trundled past, and then, somewhere more distant, brakes screeched and a car horn sounded. 'Breakfast?' said Madra, as though prompted by the noise.

'Oranges.' I reached into the shoulder bag that lay on the mattress beside me and produced three oranges that I had appropriated while Madra slept. 'Two for you, and one for me.'

She smiled that smile again - a smile that could launch a thousand ships, or break a thousand hearts – then shook her head, her short-cropped, jet-black hair reflecting the sunlight that filtered through the crack in the ceiling. 'We share. We always share... Where did you steal them from? The market?'

I looked affronted as I handed her one of the oranges and began to peel another. 'They fell from a cart as it passed. I just happened to be there. I'm lucky like that.'

I did steal them, of course. I stole lots of things, as did Madra.

After sharing the the last of the three oranges, we made our way out of our hideaway, carefully concealing the entrance with a section of corrugated iron roofing, before slipping through a gap in a fence and then heading into the noise and heat of the city. As we skirted the edge of the busy open-air market, some of stallholders followed us with their eyes, suspicious, and then, further on, a patrolling police car slowed a little, prompting us to turn down a side street that led to the plaza.

'Hey, Renaldo! Madra!' Our friend Sebastian was sitting outside the old Catholic Church; his usual begging spot. 'Where you fuckers been lately?'

'Around,' I replied as we strolled over. 'How's business?'

'Not so fucking good.' Sebastian got to his feet and rubbed his backside with the flat of his hand. 'This Goddam, fucking step don't get any fucking softer. Hi Madra. You want to come and sit with me for a while?'

'Not today, Seb.' Madra smiled at Sebastian and then looked around the plaza. It was only a little after 8am, but beginning to throng with people. 'You seen anything of Carla?'

'Na,' he replied. 'I think maybe she got some work with her sister. You wanna try for that?'

'In one of Alonso's sweatshops? Working inside for eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, for meals and a mattress full of fleas? No fucking way, man.'

Sebastian ginned. 'Yeah, the great outdoors is a much better fucking life... Hey, nice lady, can you spare some change for an orphan?'

We left Sebastian to his begging. It was something Madra and I had both done in the past, usually working each side of a street; but, for Madra, it was becoming an unsafe thing to do, as sometimes she was approached by men who clearly wanted something in exchange for their money.

One guy, one time, wouldn't leave her alone. He had hold of Madra's arm and was trying to make her go with him, so I ran up behind him and kicked him as hard as I could. He let go of Madra and chased me for three blocks. Soon after that, Madra said she didn't want to beg any more, so we looked for others ways to survive.

'Where are we going?' I asked as I followed Madra across a busy intersection. She had taken the lead and seemed to be steering me towards a newer part of the city, where shop windows were filled with goods that we could only dream of owning.

'I need a new pair of jeans.' She tugged at her waistband as we walked. 'These are getting too tight. And I need a bra.' She was right; her jeans were very tight and, although she always made me turn away when she washed, I had stolen a glance more than once and knew why she wanted the bra.

'We could try the Sisters of Charity.' They were a semi-religious group who handed out food and clothes to the homeless.

'Their stuff is all shit.' Smiling, Madra turned to look at me as we walked. 'You could do with some new clothes too. Maybe I'll find you something.' She headed straight for a large shop window, where manikins displayed the latest fashions.'

'Here? You're crazy. These places have security guards. Look at us: two scruffy kids; we'd never get through the doors.' I was nervous and kept looking over my shoulder; though none of the people on the street seemed to be taking any notice of us; most were hurrying to work or window-shopping.

'Not this one. This way.' Madra turned and, after waiting for the traffic to ease, she ran across the street.

I followed. Ahead was a store with a wide entrance and a few items of clothing on racks that were half in, and half out, of the doorway. Madra stopped and pretended to look at the goods on display in the window, but she was eyeing the garments on one of the racks. As I came to stand beside her, she waved me on and, knowing what was about to happen, I hurried along without looking back.

Within a minute, Madra was beside me with a grin on her face and a bulge under her old yellow T-shirt. 'Easy as fuck. Bet they won't even miss it. Come on!' We ran on as far as the next street corner, and then turned to look back, and I was relieved to see that there was no pursuit.

'What did you get?' I asked as Madra removed the bundle from where she had hastily concealed it.

'T-shirt.' Madra held it out to show me. It was was pale green and looked to be maybe one or two sizes too big for her.

'I thought you wanted jeans,' I said.

'I do, but I need to look like I'm a shopper, don't I?' She slipped the green T-shirt over her dirty one and then straightened her hair with her fingers. 'Lend me your bag.' With the new T-shirt and my leather bag hung from her shoulder, she suddenly looked less like a street kid. 'Come on.'

We turned back, crossed the road again and kept walking until Madra found what she was looking for: a store that sold jeans. 'Wait here, Renaldo.'

I waited, while Madra went inside and disappeared amongst the clothing racks. I expected her to be no more than a minute, but she was taking far longer, and I began to worry. Both the street, and the store, were now busy with shoppers. I stood to one side as people came and went, but there was still no sign of Madra.

Then suddenly she was beside me again and handing me back my bag which was noticeably heavier than before. 'Take these, I'll just be a minute.'

'You can't go back in!' I protested. But in she went, walking calmly towards the rear of the shop. My heart was pounding, but I was relieved to see her heading back out again moments later, with a leather handbag tucked under her arm; until all hell broke loose.

I heard a female vice shout something from the back of the store and, without turning, Madra began to run. But a tall, middle-aged man in a suit appeared from nowhere and grabbed Madra's arm before she reached the door. 'Get off, you pervert!' she screamed.

All the people in the shop were now staring, watching Madra struggling to get away from the man who was trying to push her towards the rear of the building. I ran inside and kicked him hard behind the left kneecap and grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulling him backwards but, though he went down with Madra on top of him, he managed keep hold of her wrist, until she bit his hand. The man screamed like a woman and loosened his grip enough for Madra to pull free, but a big fat woman, who had followed Madra from the back of the store, lunged at her and made a grab for her ankle.

I came to Madra's rescue, tugging her away from the woman and almost flinging her towards the door. 'Run!' I shouted, 'Run!' But now the man wrapped his arms around my legs and brought me down. Madra hesitated in the doorway but, as I kicked myself free of the man, she turned and fled into the street while I tried to get to my feet and follow. But suddenly the wind was knocked out of me as something heavy fell on top of me and slammed me into the floor.

It was the woman; I've no idea what she weighed but I felt like I had an elephant on my back. I struggled, but both the woman, and the man, had hold of me, and soon others came to help and the police were summoned.

Next came the worst twenty-four hours of my life. I was beaten senseless by one police officer, while another screamed questions at me. Whether I gave them Madra's name, I can't remember; but something made them stop and I was left alone in a cell for days until, to my surprise, they let me go; just took me out into the street and shoved me into the gutter.

I made my way through the city, half starved, and holding onto my ribs as I feared that at least one of them was cracked. The street noise seemed strange after the quiet of the police cell, and people seemed to stare at me as though they knew exactly why I was bruised and battered. But that didn't matter: I was free, and all I had to do was return to the old air-raid shelter, where Madra would be waiting for me.

***

But she wasn't there. And although I spent days searching for her, even going back to the orphanage, I never found her, never saw her again, until now. She smiled at me; that same smile that I knew so well, and then one of the blazers stepped between us and she was whisked inside the hotel.

I've seen all of her movies now; some of them several times. And often, as I lay in bed, I think of the time we were together. And always I wonder if ever she lies awake and thinks of me.

END

Lost Love now has a sequel: http://www.abctales.com/story/ian-hobson/single-teardrop