Ricardo Rios's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Ricardo walked past his grandmother's house without stopping and headed toward the old tobacco warehouse on the edge of town. The brick building had been empty for two years, its windows broken and doors hanging loose. He'd heard the owner lived in Caracas now and never visited. Inside, dust covered the concrete floor, but the space stretched wide enough for fifty people. High ceilings meant sound would travel well. He stood in the center and clapped twice. The echo came back clean and strong. A cultural center needed a home, and his cousin's price would never drop. This place could work if he could find the owner. Ricardo pulled out his phone and took three pictures of the empty room, already imagining where the cooking stations would go. He walked back toward the harbor district and noticed a wooden sign leaning against a wall outside an art supply shop. "Clases de Alfarería" it read, with pottery class times painted in blue letters. The owner came out and said she was closing the workshop. Too few students, too many bills. Ricardo asked if she'd consider teaching at his cultural center once he found a space. She laughed and said she'd believe it when she saw walls and a roof. He took the sign anyway, promising to return it if his dream stayed just a dream. Two blocks from the plaza, Ricardo found Bodegón Catipal tucked between a pharmacy and a closed butcher shop. The traditional bar smelled like coffee and fried plantains. Four men sat at wooden tables, talking about fishing permits and fuel prices. Ricardo ordered a coffee and asked the bartender if many tourists came through. The man shook his head. Tourists wanted beaches and hotels, not conversation. But the locals needed somewhere to gather, and Ricardo realized his cultural center would need this too—a place where townspeople and visitors could sit together. Not just classes and performances, but simple moments over drinks. That evening, Ricardo stopped outside a music school near the cathedral. In the window sat a golden trophy, its treble clef catching the streetlight. "Best Music Ensemble" was engraved on the base. He pressed his palm against the glass and imagined a display like this at his cultural center someday. Awards that proved the traditions weren't dying, that tourists had learned real Venezuelan songs, that his grandmother's recipes had crossed oceans. The warehouse was still empty and he didn't have the owner's number yet. But Cumaná had everything he needed—teachers ready to share, spaces waiting to be filled, and proof that culture could still win something worth keeping.