It was closing-time in the cheap restaurant where I had just eaten, and I
was at the counter paying my bill. Outside a station-wagon was parked at
the curb, a well-dressed man in his thirties standing by the open tailgate.
He was delivering the next day's greens to the restaurant. A slight,
emaciated, bare-foot old man in worn black pants and a worn black cloth
jacket that had the look of having been slept in carried the heavy straw
baskets of groceries, perhaps 2 1/2 feet in diameter, the 15 feet from the
car to the counter. He was short; the counter was at chest level, and he
had to lift the baskets to place them on top. But he couldn't do it. His
whole body strained with the attempt, and his eyes were wide and staring
with the silent effort, and with the fear, I thought, of being found out as
useless, discardable, after a lifetime of lifting and hauling, no longer
worthy of the few centavos his labor could earn, no longer worthy of food.
The teenager behind the counter helped him with his load, before the boss
could see. The old man's feet were small and clean, like a child's, and
splayed like those of anyone who rarely wore shoes. Otherwise, he reminded
me of my grandfather.
Antigua de Guatemala
|