Red Jungle
“The morning was viciously hot and clear, as if it hadn’t rained all night. When Russell walked outside with his cup of coffee, he could see the Volcan de Agua in the distance, part of a cruel-looking set of green mountains to the north. By four in the afternoon it would rain again, but the mornings were hot and humid and perfectly clear. The plantation’s rear garden was flat and had a fountain the French family had built, and a huge pond with fish. There was a swimming pool too, but it was empt...y, its white-painted bottom glistening now in the morning sun.
Russell walked to the edge of the pool. Sitting down, he let his legs dangle over its edge. He’d have it filled, he thought. He drank his coffee in silence and listened to the early morning sounds of the plantation: birds, horses being taken from their stalls, sounds of domesticity from the workers’ housing. There was a mixture of children’s voices and ranchera music, too.
He looked into the empty blue sky, cleaned of everything, for signs of rain.MoreLess
Russell walked to the edge of the pool. Sitting down, he let his legs dangle over its edge. He’d have it filled, he thought. He drank his coffee in silence and listened to the early morning sounds of the plantation: birds, horses being taken from their stalls, sounds of domesticity from the workers’ housing. There was a mixture of children’s voices and ranchera music, too.
He looked into the empty blue sky, cleaned of everything, for signs of rain.MoreLess
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