Rose: With whorls of petals arranged in a deceptively ordered arrangement, and a softness that could fool one into thinking it was harmless, it was a relatively treacherous flower in comparison to say, a jasmine. Because if one took a closer look, they would see that rose petals were always… always slightly twisted. And if that wasn’t warning enough, right below the flower, there were thorns, ready to prick whatever happened to brush past it.
That’s what he was.
Juan Estafador. It was the name he’d always referred to himself as, even when they’d first met. In a time when bloodshed and hunger had been the norm. Back when she was just a slip of girl failing to face the winter cold, and he’d been a lad trying to brave the world on his own. “They’re not nice, Ella,” Juan had told her, after he’d learnt her name. Ella had not known who ‘they’ were, but the feeble warmth that had radiated off his body as he wrapped his arms around her had given her comfort. “We can face them together.” His dark eyes had shone with clear outrage at the unfairness of it all. But one look at his large red cap, which sat on the top of his tousled black hair, and his torn white shirt, which was far too big for his puny body, had told her that he couldn’t do much against it. He patted her head softly. “We don’t have to play nice.”
He was just a bud.
In the weeks to come, Ella would come to learn just exactly what Juan meant. He would teach her what it took to survive. She remembered their first time like it was yesterday. They had walked in the market hand in hand, when all of a sudden, she tripped over a rock. She had cried that day, real tears dripping down her face, because she’d seen him put his foot in front of her own. Her friend. They were supposed to be facing ‘them’ together. Then why?
She cried harder.
He’d left her on the road alone, bruised and bleeding. She didn’t know what was worse. Him and his lies, or the fact that she’d believed them. She didn’t have to ponder much, for by then, a few shopkeepers had dashed over to help. She never heard their reassuring words or paid heed to the way they bandaged her. No, there had only been one person in her sight. A sheepish Juan standing a few feet away from them, with bulges in his trouser pockets. “But it worked!” Juan pleaded after they’d left the bustling crowd, for what seemed like the hundredth time. Ella bit into the pear he’d given as a peace offering, but turned her face away. With a cardboard box in an alleyway as their home and nothing apart from Juan’s findings to eat, her pride wasn’t that big that she’d refuse a decent dinner. Yet, that didn’t mean she had to speak to him.
“Ella.” His voice shook with repressed regret. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t ask her to face him, but she did anyway. She saw his trembling fists, placed at his side. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, anger dissipated into the wind. “We’ll work together.”
After that, it was one adventure after another. Becoming the trouble makers of the market place meant that they could live another day, but would have to face the scorn of everyone they encountered.
So be it. No one would risk taking them in either. With prices skyrocketing and the looming threat of famine, who would accept two waifs?
Eventually, they’d become experienced enough to understand the importance of makeup, wigs, charm and ‘shop rotation.’ They’d travel from market to market and city to city, knowing that one day it wouldn’t have to be like this. That it would all end. Somewhere along the line, they grew up. But that day never came.
War had finally ended, but the prices hadn’t come down. Neither had the taxes. On the contrary, they had become higher than ever. Now, they were just two among the growing number of con-men and women all over the country. “The damned war did this. It’s all their fault,” swore Juan. He ruffled her short hair affectionately, an action of his that she’d gotten accustomed to over their partnership of eight years. “But we’ll make it. We’re the best.”
Ella still didn’t know who ‘they’ were. She had begun to think that Juan didn’t either.
Being the best in the con business was a matter of shameful pride, but that wasn’t to say that they hadn’t tried. Finding a job was hard enough. Managing to survive off the pay was even harder.
They were no exception.
Two years later, and nothing had changed. Save for the better clothes and food they’d finally been able to afford. They’d moved on from petty thieving to bigger heists. After all, they had a reputation to live up to.
But nothing beat the rush of the run. Right after a quick scam.
Ella stood next to the fruit stall, her gaudy red sundress gently swaying in the wind. Amidst the fragrance of bananas and peaches, she caught a whiff of perfume.
Rose.
She didn’t have to look behind her to recognize who it was. Instead, she glanced carefully from the corner of her eye. A man wearing sunglasses, dressed in a mauve shirt and tan brown shorts stood next to her. Her gaze was momentarily drawn to his red cap, sitting snugly on his curls. It was as though he was inspecting the fruits kept on display, but Ella knew better.
She waited.
Slowly, he raised his glasses and gave a quick wink.
It was another day.
Art in Words 