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 Bol