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One day Mandragon toured a personal future. One day I
had a vision of myself:
A street slopes between three-story buildings hung with
balconies. It is crowded with brown-faced people. Young
men in undershirts， in T-shirts blazoned with soft-drink
logos， in brightly colored sport shirts. Older men in flowing
white four-pocket guayaberas， in linen suits. Girls and
women in thin dresses， in slacks and brightly colored
blouses， some with heads kerchiefed and their hair in roll-
ers. The mulato-mestizo crowd of a Latin city.
They fill the walks and spill into the gutters， closing the
greater portion of both lanes so that barely a yard is clear
along the center. They push and iostle lor a better vantage.
They rise on tiptoe， peer up the street into the lifting sun.
The sun roars at them from a hazy sky.
Above， the balconies are packed， the windows gargoyled
with thrust torsos and craned faces. Everyone peers up
along the street， which is overhung with leaning balconies
and buildings， and widens toward a plaza higher up. Bolivar
Avenue.t Ciudad Tinieblas!
Four guardias on motorcycles lead a patrol truck down
from Plaza Cervantes. Sirens on moan， bikes weaving in
slow S curves， they carve a channel through the crowd.
They ride straight-backetI with elbows arced at shoulder
level， and their mirror-lensed glasses， their plastic casques，
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