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MAGAZINE - JUNE 2012
with a physician of her same age
and everything augured good
times for the future.
It seemed that her life was so
perfect, that she needed a quota
of suffering not to offend the
resentful, hungry, unemployed, sick
and homeless people with her
bonanza.
She got up from the bench where
she was sitting in the park and
started walking towards her house.
Her nose was red and congested
due to her recent tears; and her
eyes hidden behind sunglasses,
would have moved a hungry hy-
ena if it had seen her eyes uncov-
ered.
It was early and bookstores were
still open. She decided to divert
a little from her way home, and
stop by a bookstore that she liked
in particular because of its wide
selection of books which were for
sale. The book that she had just
finished rested in her big purse that
she usually carried, and which al-
lowed her to put the endless things
that she considered essential.
She entertained herself rummaging
in the shelves, looking in the “Ro-
mance” section for something that
could make her cry again, and if
possible from the first to the last
printed page. A good three-hun-
dred-page book with literary onion
extract in its plot would guarantee
her a waterfall of tears, and the
satisfaction of feeling that the price
she had paid had been worth it.
She smiled longingly when she
saw on one of the shelves the
book “Maria” by Jorge Isaacs. She
recalled that there was a film that
starred Tyrone Power based on
that book, which introduced her,
when she was a girl, to the pleas-
ure of crying in front of a sad love
story. She was no more than ten or
eleven years old. Her mother used
to watch a TV channel that aired
old movies. It was then that the
story of Maria, her tears, and her
taste for suffering with sad stories
met for the first time.
Her fingers caressed the spine
of that book, as a woman who
places them over her lover’s lips,
and then continued their search.
“My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi
Picoult tried to tempt her, so did
“Night” by Elie Wiesel, and “Anne
Frank’s Diary.”
However, the story that she had
just read about the man who had
to emigrate, motivated her to find
a book about the plight of those
who left their homeland for new
ones. She looked for one along
those lines, first by title, and then,
after she selected them, she read
the synopsis on the back cover,
one that concerned immigrants.
The title could not be clearer: “The
Immigrant,” by Joe Anthony Archos.
It was just what she was looking
for.
The fact that the book had only a
hundred and fifty of pages disap-
pointed her a little. If tears to be
shed were directly related to the
number of pages, this book was
not promising her anything extraor-
dinary. Nonetheless, the review on
the back cover seemed to ensure
what the number of pages could
not. On the other hand, sometime
ago she had heard good reviews
about another book by Archos:
“Beyond the Dreams,” and this
memory made her decide for it.
Some people may blame fate,
chance, or causality. Others will
argue that in some way each one
finds the solution to one’s own
needs, even when those solutions
are only in the subconscious; but
the truth is that when she left the
bookstore, she could not avoid
noticing a man who, sitting in a
small square across the street, was
looking at some pigeons eating
the crumbs that he was throwing to
them.
The face of that unknown man was
what, perhaps, captured her atten-
tion. His face was different from
ordinary men in that city; it was