It was early evening and Marco had been sitting in the Plaza. The church bells had just called the peasants from the fields and in for vespers. They left their fields and walked along the dusty roads to the center of town. In this small indian pueblo somewhere nestled among the mountains separating two valleys there was nothing much else to do in the evenings. Talking with friends became tedious and going to vespers was as good as anything else. Not many people entered the church though. The ones that did were mostly old indian women wrapped in colorful shawls that had woven for themselves. Others were young mothers carrying their infants on their backs. The men preferred to sit in the Plaza at the fountain or to sell handmade rugs.

Marco had come often to this town. For him it was a sort of business. The company which employed him imported rugs and other indian weavings which were sold in fashionable boutiques on the upper West Side of Manhattan. It was a small

import-export firm which was not very generous to its employees and the job itself gave him little satisfaction outside of the chance to travel. His greatest pleasure when he did come to this village was to sit in the plaza during the evenings absorbing the atmosphere of the town and observing the people. They were especially fascinating for him to watch, with their native costumes and laid back ways so different from his own.

He had arrived ten days earlier leaving behind the humid, fetid air of a large metropolitan city for the highlands of a remote latino pueblo. He loved this country although he could not really tell why. Perhaps it was because the people were simple and uncomplicated, but his was only a tourists perception. He was rather indifferent to the people themselves and concerned himself more with nature. It was the smell of the land which he loved. Here the weather was eternal spring. The days were warm and the night were cool. The country was poor but the soil was black and rich and fertile with an abundant supply of flowers and jungle foliage.

What Marco loved most about the town was the calm pace of people's everyday life. These people knew how to savor the moment and live in their ancient traditions. They knew how to enjoy leisure and he envied them being himself driven to make profits to the point of exhaustion. These people could still marvel at a sunset, not like the frantic people who rushed to catch a train back home. Here in San Luis there was still a colonial spirit of days gone by and centuries had left their mark on the cobbled streets and homes adorned with plastered designs. It was a town frozen in time.

In many ways he town was more Spanish than Indian. The feeling was that of a time before the sinking of the Armada. This fantasy was quickly extinguished by the presence of a group of Quiche indians walking aimlessly through the streets selling their panchos and blankets while going through the learned patterns of their daily lives.

Earlier that same day Marco had visited the hot spring located in an even smaller town near the base of an active volcano. He came upon it quite by accident.

"There's a nice hot spring not far from here," a local guide had advised him. It was mentioned as an afterthought, almost like an aside to fill in the gaps of a conversation. "It is very beautiful, but not many tourists go there. Have you ever seen it?

In fact, he hadn't. The spring was at the foot of a mountain. Surrounded by trees with a river winding serpentine and serene. From the main road it was a good half-hour walk along a dusty road which dwindled down to a path. The spring was sheltered by towering, leafy trees. The mineral waters at the spring had been gathered into small pools and secluded enclosures enables anyone to take a bath with guarded privacy.

He returned from the hot spring relaxed, soothed and refreshed. The medicinal waters offered a healing relief to his aching, aged body. "I should come back tomorrow," he said to himself as soon as he retired to his room. By then it was late afternoon and he found himself in a lazy, relaxed mood not willing to tackle a desk filled with papers and forms to be filled out and evaluated. In truth, he hated his work with its deadlines, commitments and quotas. He would much rather be free to live a life devoid of responsibility.

With that state of mind he took off after supper for an evening's walk to the plaza in the center of town. It was a favorite meeting place for the local people because there was nothing much else to do in the evenings. An elaborate fountain was situated in the center of the plaza surrounded by stone benches and long branched trees. In the daytime it was always a hub of activity with vendors peddling their wares and shoeshine boys hustling patrons for a few pesos. The Cathedral dominated the eastern side of the immense square. It had been severely damaged

during the last earthquake and was now under reconstruction with no sign of completion in the near future. Its white stone facade took on a pinkish glow towards dusk just before the sun began to set and then became a silhouette against the evening sky.

The plaza was always a quiet place to sit even during the most active part of the day. Indians with their blankets and weavings set up market near the fountain. The colorful designs of their handicraft shining in the sun always gave a festive air to the public square.

During the evening it was even quieter. The evenings always brought with them a bit of a chill with the temperature falling into the low thirties as that of an autumnal night. It was usually necessary to wear a sweater or light jacket no matter how hot the day's temperature had been. The plaza was a favorite place for people to sit and read or just to meet friends. It was a place to relax and watch others doing the same as oneself.

The sun had already set and Marco had decided to sit on one of the stone benches under the dim light of a lamppost. It was not particularly crowded this one evening. The church service had just gotten out and a few indians crossed the plaza wrapped in shawls finding their way home in silence.

Perhaps due to the afternoon rains and heavy thunderstorms which followed, people choose to stay indoors. The cobblestones of the old Spanish town were still wet and the benches not yet dry. The trees set off a little shower of their own as the wind blew through them.

Suddenly from the shadows a young boy approached Marco and sat next to him near the stone bench. His clothes were badly torn and soiled in such a way that the colors of the original material were unrecognizable. He had no shoes and his feet were crusted with dirt caked up from days of walking along dusty mountain roads and village streets. The soles of his feet were flattened by years of neglect indicating that perhaps he never owned a pair of shoes in his entire life.

He looked ashamed, put his head down and asked Marco in a soft voice.

"I'm hungry. Can you give me some bread?"

This was not the first time that the young boy had begged. Marco had seen him many times before in the Plaza. The boy usually came out in the evening after sunset and moved from bench to bench. He was a professional beggar. And at such a young age! He knew the art of timing. He extended his hand toward Marco and left it suspended so that it was slightly cupped ready to receive an offering no matter how small. It succeeded more in instilling guilt.

"Tengo hambre." A pause. Then another petition. "Please give me something." Marco tried at first not to look at the boy and busied himself with reading a newspaper which he had brought from his room.

"Some bread, please. I have nothing to eat. I have no family. No mother. No father."

Marco had heard his story from the mouths of other young beggars just like the boy who knelt before him. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable and buried his head deeper into the paper with the hope that the boy would just get discouraged and go away. His privacy was being invaded in the public square and this annoyed him. Those who passed took no notice of either Marco or the boy. Comically Marco tried to steal a quick glance of the boy from over the top of the paper but found himself staring instead into the boys face as he knelt on the cold stone pavement.

The boy could not have been more than ten, but he looked much younger yet even older than he really was. A lifelong subjection to a poor diet had stunted his growth and the lack of maternal care had aged him beyond his years. The boy looked ashamed and saddened but Marco could not determine if it were true shame at being a beggar or shame for being poor. At the worst it was a well-polished act to arouse sympathy.

The boys eyes were the dominating feature of his face. They were haunted and lonely. They pleaded for food. There was no doubt that he was hungry. His pitch black hair had not been cut in months and hung uncombed over his ears and collar covering most of his forehead like a matted wig.

"Un pancito, por favor," he pleaded again. There was something about him not altogether sincere. There was too much of the actor in his begging. His life on the streets had taught him the art of drama as played out on city sidewalks and public parks.

His arm was still extended untiringly. His eyes, the most dominant features of his face, remained downcast searching the ground for the possible answer to his poverty.

Marco said nothing but began to wonder why such children were forced to beg. A child born into poverty is a public responsibility. He comes into the world disadvantaged. What others take for granted, he has to fight for. Even a simple meal does not come easy.

"I cannot take upon myself the sufferings of the world," Marco rationalized to himself. "If I were to give a peso to every beggar in the world, I would not even begin to solve this problem." His reasoning helped to soothe his conscience and ease his mind. He felt neither guilt nor remorse. "Besides I would go bankrupt if I became a good Samaritan and those I helped would only crave for more." Indifference was to be his final solution.

Marco noticed that across the plaza there was yet another boy about the same age as the one who knelt at his feet. He also was poor yet was sitting in the doorway of a shelter selling postcard and pencils. In an instant Marco had more respect for that little impoverished merchant than he had for the boy who lay crouched before him with an extended begging hand. Yet, he was not the one to judge. Who knows what sort of homes they both came from and returned to in the evening.

"Pancito, por favor." His voice was now that of a pathetic lament. The boy refused to go away. He kept staring at Marco and was wearing down the older man's resistance. It was a method the youth had honed and perfected and one which had worked well on many a less hardened tourist.

Marco's resolve began to weaken. He remembered he had some crackers in a small rucksack which he had brought with him from the hotel to the plaza and he searched inside the sack to find them. He quickly drew out the package of crumpled crackers and handed hem to the boy. "Here! You can have these." Surely, he thought to himself that this token gift would appease the young boy's hunger and wash away his own guilt.

The boy grabbed the package with a quick, strong grasp of the hand. He ripped open the plastic seal which contained the crackers and proceeded to devour them as though they were to become his last meal. The sight of a child beggar was pathetic to say the least. The boy stuffed his face with the same gestures as that of a caged monkey. His catch for the day left him unsatisfied. Pointing to his lips he begged for something to drink. "Algo para bebir!"

The boy passed his tongue over his lower parched lip conveying very clearly the extent of his thirst. The dry salted crackers with hardly a hint of taste had only brought on more of a need for something to drink.

"Something to drink!" His request became a demand.

Inside Marco's rucksack there was a small container of orange juice which he had planned to drink for breakfast the following morning. It was a plastic container which could easily be bought for a few pesos at a kiosk in the plaza.

"Nothing. I have nothing for you to drink. Go ask someone else."

It was a selfish lie. The weight of Marco's lie hung heavily on his shoulders. He felt ashamed. He did have something tom drink and it has cost him only a few pesos. In his money belt alone, securely strapped to his bulging middle-aged waist there were several hundred dollars in cash. Yet, he refused to yield the container of juice.

From his well of associations came a passage from scripture. It surfaced in his thought and passed through his mind. It came in uninvited storming his head from a point in the not too distant past.

"I was thirsty and you gave me to drink. I was hungry and you gave me to eat." Marco had fulfilled half of the admonition but would not go the full distance. He was even annoyed that his conscience was moralizing him to help the poor. He himself had known poverty and the road to take to make one's own way.

"Go away, now. I'm busy. Go ask someone else. I have nothing. I gave you some crackers. What more do you want?"

When Marco's voice became louder, the little beggar became frightened. He grabbed the few crackers which remained and rushed to leave the plaza. In a moment the boy was across the street and fled down a side street disappearing into the folding shadows of the night.

Marco sat for a few moments collecting his thoughts. From a store across the plaza came the song of a sad lament. It was coming from an indian woman wrapped in a red shawl holding a child to her breast with a skeletal hand extended to receive alms.

He had come to sit quietly in the park, to read a bit and to enjoy the cool evening in silence, but somehow this beggar boy came from nowhere to disturb his peace. This land of beauty with its streets of beggars encircled him to invade his privacy.

The cathedral now shone in the glow of a full moon. The aged stones reflected the light down upon the plaza which appeared brighter than on previous nights. Some indians covered with blankets of their own weaving slept on the grass under the trees in the plaza.

Marco felt bothered and disturbed and found it difficult to disguise his annoyance. After a few minutes he got up quickly and started to walk back to his hotel. As he crossed the square another young boy no older than the one he had just dismissed was sitting on the curb of the cobbled street. The boy just sat there with his face resting on his knees. He sat behind his shoeshine box waiting for his next customer. He was also barefoot and obviously poor. His eyes were large and expressive glowing like lanterns in the night rather than tunnels leading into a dark and ominous void. When the young boy caught sight of Marco he sported a generous smile.

"Shoeshine, senor? Very cheap."

Marco looked down and muttered. "No, I don't need one."

After saying these words he felt that his tone was much too harsh and felt a tinge of shame and remorse. There was no need to vent his anger and annoyance on a street boy who gave a simple greeting.

The boy was not taken back but continued to smile.

Marco walked back and reached deep into his bag for the orange juice. He gave it to the little shoe shiner.

"Here, this is for you. Some juice for tomorrow."

" Gracias, senor. Are you sure you don't want a shine?"

"No, Not this time."

With this Marco began to feel better about himself even though he had only parted with a can of juice and walked briskly back to his hotel.



Stories