Part deux – The continuing adventures of Super-Fly

 

‘What? She is blind AND deaf?’ Superfly whispered as if he’d never seen that combination before in a woman

‘Yes Sir, she is both. There is no need to whisper Sir. She can’t hear us’

For a small instant, a millisecond, as she raised her coffee cup to her lips, Superfly thought he saw a hint of a smile on her face.

He walked back to his table head low and disappointed. Or rather a little embarrassed. When it came to women Superfly was used to getting his own way. Not that he was arrogant or anything. It was just that he was so charged with the aura of otherworldiness that most females, well – found him irresistible. The thing was – and this is also probably the source of their attraction – he could be totally reckless and they failed to fully understand him. He was different. For example he almost never answered text messages or phone calls. Days, weeks and sometimes months would go by when they would never hear of him. And suddenly, he would appear out of the blue (literally out of thin air), and whisk them off somewhere exotic. Like the East End of London, or Fiji. They also sensed that he wasn’t telling them everything. That he had secrets. He knew more than he let on. What he knew more about they did not know, but they could sense it. Not dark bad secrets, but secrets that were weighty and full of profundities.

Superfly sipped his cafe cortado and looked out of the window. He loved watching human beings. For him, they represented a golden age of innocence. Mankind had, over the course of the last 50,000 years undergone a terrifying cultural evolution. The acquisition of language, followed by writing, farming, agricultural surpluses, city states, cities, the first roots of open-ended philosophical enquiry, the fetters of theism, and the dawning of the scientific age. It was all very sudden (in a cosmic sense), and there were still pockets of resistance here and there: local ruffles in the fabric of the Zeitgeist, that represented stubborn resistance to the unknown and a hankering for the past. Superfly, had seen the same tapestry of history in all the worlds he had been to. More or less; with perhaps a few exceptions, history always played out as the same play. It was always left to individuals; beacons of light, to show the way. If left to the masses, these worlds would still be wallowing in their own turbid waters.

Superfly sighed. It was getting dark and the square was filling up with people. It was the golden hour and the sky was turning blue-purple. Tourists were posing for postcard pictures in front of the central fountain. The shoe-shine boys were out in full force as well as the waterpaint sellers and the women with their weaving’s. All were trying to squeeze the last few drops out of this day – only for it to start all over again tomorrow. ‘The diurnal litany of existence. The wretched pangs of the stomach’ was what Superfly liked to call it. The brightly illuminated figure of ‘Christ the Redeemer’ stood high atop the hill in the distant background, looking down upon Cuzco.

Earthling’s fascinated Superfly. Human’s could be extremely clever, but also diabolically, infuriatingly – stupid. But alas he was not here to pass judgement on mankind’s idiosyncrasies. He had a mission – and he would see to it, that it was completed. The mission was extremely important, and the faith of, well life – rested on its outcome…

The German woman finally paid, got up, grabbed her walking stick, and headed for the door. As she went by his chair he heard her whisper: ‘Nice poem. Pity you couldn’t finish it Superfly…’

Superfly threw his napkin on the table and laughed. What else was there to do? Rage?

Superfly summoned the waiter over

‘Would Sir like something?’

‘Si, la Cuenta por favor’

‘And one other thing. I am looking for the house of a Senor Cesar Branco. Have you heard of him?’

‘Ahhh, yes Senor Branco. Everybody has heard of him Sir. He is a most esteemed personage in this area, but er, how can I say, he is a little old and difficult and cantankerous, and he hardly ever goes out these days. Feeble minded. People say he talks to his walls. And his cat. And that, sometimes – he speaks to the devil. The Church fathers once tried to have him banned from the city walls, for they thought he practiced witchcraft and devil worship. Ahh, the light that now shines from those eyes, is a poor relation of its former glorious self…you know he once wrote an essay on the true nature of the Inca ruins and…’

‘Yes I know, do you have his address?’

The waiter wrote it down for Superfly.

‘Senor Cesar Branco’ Superfly whispered to himself as he stepped outside into the chilly air. Here was a mind he could spar with.

He clicked his heels and headed off into the dying light…

[To be continued…]

Who is Cesar Branco and why does Superfly wish to see him?

Who is the German woman who knew his name?

Where exactly does Superfly come from?

All will be revealed…in a blog…near you soon.

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