The man was simultaneously entranced and bewildered at what his eyes caught at the other side of the street. As a foreigner, he was prepared to witness stranger things and practices in a tropical setting unlike his own.
What he saw, however, wasn’t something out of the ordinary. It simply caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but approach a man repairing a faded purple umbrella.
He was prepared for the language barrier. A solution better than Google could translate: he hired a native translator named Coycoy. Expensive but useful indeed.
The foreigner approached the umbrella repair man.
Coycoy was a bit surprised about this odd curiosity.
“This isn’t what tourist would bother noticing or taking photos of, sir!”
“But I’m not a tourist,” the man thought to himself. Unmindful of his translator’s advice, he crossed the dangerous street filled with preying driver alligators who barely missed the pedestrians like eels who skillfully traversed the street.
The umbrella man was unaware that he was the object of someone’s interest. He was concentrating on repairing the delicate frame of a weather-torn umbrella. The frame was pock-marked by rust, and some of it’s fine metal tendrils were badly bent and others snapped.
He knew his craft well. He undid the broken rods, cut the clumsy rusty wires in between the joints, rubbed some oil-looking liquid on its hollow shaft and placed the entire dilapidated umbrella on the pavement.
“Sir, umbrella repair?” The man was squatting on a low wooden makeshift stool.
“Nah, I was just curious about what you’re doing,” the foreigner said through Coycoy.
“About what?”
“In my country, we don’t repair umbrellas. We simply throw the old ones and buy new ones.”
The man shifted uneasily upon his stool. Perhaps, what the foreigner said shocked him a bit, or he was trying to center his own thoughts to respond to the foreigner’s query.
But he only smiled and became pensive.
“I meant, couldn’t you do something better than fixing something that could easily be bought?”
“But there are customers, sir.” The man replied. “They come, and I fix what they bring.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, so there’s a mutual relationship after all. You’re enterprising enough to earn in something that people stubbornly consider worthwhile keeping and using.”
“Maybe,” the umbrella man picked up another umbrella, gently opened it to examine what had to be repaired.
“Surely, you can put your meticulous skills into something you can earn much more from?” The foreigner suggested.
The man slowly closed the blue umbrella. His faced revealed a slight interest in what the foreigner had suggested.
“Earn more? Will you buy my umbrellas?” Clearly, he misunderstood.
Coycoy had to repeat what the foreigner really meant.
“Then who will repair these poor people’s umbrellas, sir?” the man asked.
“They need not be repaired at all!” He adamantly replied.
“I don’t want to lose my job,” he said shaking his head.
“With such skills you could do better things!”
“And I wouldn’t hear the stories anymore,” the man softly added.
“Stories?”
“The stories that people would share with me about their umbrellas!”
“What stories could anyone have about umbrellas?” The foreigner was sarcastically amused.
“Everything in life has a story, sir. Perhaps, people are no longer interested in them because they’re too busy with living a life without a story.”
“I’m pretty happy with the story of my life, if you don’t mind. And I don’t need an umbrella to tell me one.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, sir. What I meant is that all who come to me do not only have their umbrellas fixed.”
“What a waste of time. I mean, maybe not for you, but for individuals who could do better things than to share silly stories about their umbrellas!”
“Umbrellas do not have a story, sir. But those who use them or have been entrusted with them have many things to share.” The man picked up a red parasol.
“So if you’re such a listener, what does that umbrella you’re now holding have to say?” The foreigner responded with a challenging tone.
“Umbrellas cannot speak, but they remind us that we are vulnerable,” the man calmly replied.
“Vulnerable?” The foreigner laughed.
“Yes, to rain and sun, as life has its moments of trials in suffering, loneliness and death.”
“You’re being uselessly poetic. How can a flimsy water repellant contraption protect us?”
“They don’t, sir,” the man corrected the foreigner. “They simply remind us and maybe afford our tired hearts and souls some solace.”
“Bah! Nonsense!”
“Sir, may I ask if you have ever lost an umbrella?”
“Meee? Of course, who has not lost one in his lifetime? But I can do without them to realize the harsh realities of life.”
“Indeed, but you have gone through them alone,” the man observed.
“Alone? What exactly do you mean and how can you even know anything about me and my life?”
“All my customers have suffered like you, perhaps more, but they never endured them alone.”
“That is totally uncalled for!” The foreigner was clearly irritated.
“By your reaction, I can judge that you may have indeed journeyed through life, and even though you have a story to share, you have kept it within for fear of being known, of being vulnerable to other people’s love and forgiveness.”
“Humph!” The foreigner was unable to respond to the man’s clear judgment. He turned around and crossed to the other side of the street.
Coycoy followed him submissively. But the foreigner outwalked the translator.
Suddenly, thunder began to clap and raindrops slowly dappled the avenue they were on.
“Umbrella, sir?” Coycoy pulled out a folded umbrella from his duffle bag.
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go under one now,” the man took it from the translator.
As they slowly walked towards the hotel, the foreigner suddenly stopped.
“Coycoy, I hope you don’t mind my asking if you have a story?” The man smiled.
“Plenty, sir!” Coycoy’s replied.
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