THE GIRL ON THE SIDEWALK

THE GIRL ON THE SIDEWALK

It was cold. Not as cold as it gets in Mid America, or in New
England, but somewhat like the cold we knew on St. Michael\'s
Island. A cold that justified a warm drink. The difference was
that, whereas on St. Michael\'s the cold was often accompanied by
rain, that evening\'s cold was only accompanied by the nocturnal
humidity of Lima. Sitting on the sidewalk, at the intersection
where the Hotel Crillon meets Nicolas de Pierola Avenue, but
across from the hotel, the Indian girl sat begging from the
passersby. Nothing unusual. Lima probably has more beggars than
any other Latin American capital. It didn\'t bother me to pass
her by without giving her anything.

I don\'t know if she is still alive. In the Americas many of the
indigenous people don\'t seem to live long where they are not
welcome.

She must have been around fourteen in 1964.

I entered the Crillon and headed for my room, where I had to
prepare my luggage for the next day, when I\'d leave for
Santiago, Chile. Once done with the task, I stretched in bed
with a book. The image of the girl on the sidewalk, however, for
reasons which I couldn\'t explain, seemed to prevent me from
concentrating on my reading. Perhaps she was hungry, I thought.
In fact, perhaps she wasn\'t even a professional beggar, but
someone who needed my help. Furthermore, I reasoned, what harm
would it have done me if I had given her some \soles\? The
company I worked for had never protested my expense account, or
the costs of my trips. In fact, it hardly ever perused through
my bills. Mine was a situation whereby I presented my expenses
and would be reimbursed immediately.

Somehow, to either clear my conscience, or to get the girl out
of my mind, I decided to go down to the street, this time with
money at hand - perhaps more than the girl had seen that
evening, or that week for that matter. I knew that if I didn\'t
do it, I\'d would have a hard time falling asleep no matter how
long I tried to read.

The night had become colder. I crossed the street to where I had
at first found her. The neon lights of the nightclub, located
about four or five meters from the intersection, shone on the
wet pavement, including the spot where the Indian girl had sat.
She was no longer there, though. In fact, she seemed to have
left no clue as to where she had moved. I looked in both
directions up and down the avenue as if expecting to find her.
Without success, I then walked towards the Plaza San Martin,
hoping that by walking fast, I would eventually catch her.
Amongst the noises and the people on Nicolas de Pierola Avenue,
I started feeling as if I were in a desert where the Indian girl
would be my oasis. As I reached the door of the Gran Hotel
Bolvar, however, I finally realized that I had failed. I
entered the hotel, and, without knowing why, sat down on one of
the comfortable armchairs in the luxurious lobby. Defeated. Yet
I could have stayed there all night sure that no one would have
asked me questions, or chased me away. I did, however,
eventually return to the Crillon.

When I was still a student years ago, I chanced upon Thornton
Wilder\'s THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY, a book which other students
and I discussed at a symposium. Although the work dealt with the
lives of six victims who perished when a peruvian bridge fell,
the book\'s theme is that whatever happens to us is often more an
accident, or coincidence, than anything else. In every life
there is a \rendezvous\ with death, it seems, where, in spite of
all precautions, we shall be victimized by the simple reality of
our existence. As I remember the Indian girl on the sidewalk,
for example, I simultaneously recall, not that I didn\'t have
sufficient funds to stay at any hotel without anyone protesting
my being there - as was the case at the Bolvar - but that it
was only by an accident of Nature, or by the grace of God, that
I wasn\'t the one begging at the corner.

One day I discussed the theme and the incident with a friend,
Wes Krebill. \You\'re exaggerating,\ he told me. \You\'re not an
Indian and, even if you were, you have the capacity to surpass a
beggar\'s condition. Forget the incident and go on with your
life.\ While we spoke, I thought of the parable about the man
who had left his home one morning to sow his field. I remembered
the seeds that never had a chance since they had fallen where
they could not produce, seeds like all the others, some,
perhaps, even better than the successful ones, but without a
chance. Once again another situation completely out of the
victim\'s control. \Perhaps,\ I assumed, \our destiny is no
different. We\'re seeds that succeeded - but accidentally. No
more, no less.\ In the meantime, while meditating, I couldn\'t
help asking why I had to be one of those chosen. For, after all,
who am I?

Those who know me intimately insist that I am occasionally given
to depression while simultaneously an optimist. A friend, Allen
Ehrblich, for example, criticizes me for my inability to cast
out guilt which is not mine. In the meantime, he forgets that
whatever we accumulate doesn\'t come solely by what we
accomplish. If I once had a job that allowed me to see the
world, or at least sixty-five of its countries, while being
honored in Mexico and Colombia, I don\'t owe it solely to my
skills and ambitions, but to the fact that I live in a country
whose economic means and scientific research were already
powerful a long time before I got here. I am the product of
evolution for which my success has contributed little. If my
earning capacity is owed in part to the fact that I speak
Portuguese, for example, I do not owe it to my genius, but to
the simple fact that I spent the first fourteen years of my life
on St. Michael\'s Island. In fact, I would say that I owe my
success to my parents who, by never having had the time to learn
English, opted to speak at home the only language they knew.
When one considers the English language, for example, my mother
is a beggar, somewhat comparable to that Indian girl on the
sidewalk, a person looking at the passing scene with a blankness
in her eyes incapable of penetrating what she sees. In short,
her lack is the sacrifice that eventually became my benefit.
Perhaps that is why the gaze of that Indian girl seems incapable
of disappearing from my soul, for, in some aspects, she may just
be something which is very much a part of me.



Translated from the Portuguese original, A INDIA SENTADA NO
CHAO, by Manuel L. Ponte,(\Portuguese Times, June, 1992; Luso
Americano, July, 1992; Aoriano Oriental, June, 1992).