1 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, 13
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