I look at that African boy who offers me tissues around a corner or at the door of the supermarket and I wonder what his story is, what the place he had to leave is like, what chilling journeys he has made to get here, to this street in Madrid where his personal identity is reduced to a generic presence, a black man who begs or offers handkerchiefs, and who extends a hardened, concave palm when given a coin. I look at his eyes for a moment, but I immediately look away, out of shyness or embarrassment, like when I’m on the subway and I don’t have coins to give to the immigrant, in this case Latin American, who insists with exasperated sympathy on selling things he doesn’t want. no one, pens with inks of various colors, bracelets, bags of candy, going from one end of the carriage to the other, with the backpack of their merchandise on their shoulders. The Africans who ask are usually young and strong. The willing subway hustlers are older men, with accents from countries that are becoming easier to distinguish, because in Madrid, in recent years, the tones of American Spanish have added flexibility and sweetness to our harsh local Castilian: in the shops, in the bars, in the restaurants, even in the taxis, where the angry voices of the bilious radios are becoming rarer. Young Venezuelans risk their lives pedaling bicycles to deliver food and drinks to capricious people, in the middle of the aggressive traffic of weekend nights. In our homes, domestic workers accustom us to Latin flavors, teach songs from their land to our children and grandchildren, take the elderly out to sunbathe in their wheelchairs; and the delivery man who knocks on the door to deliver a package asks us for our license number with an accent from those lands, and also with a courtesy that can include the delicate question: “Can I have a signature?”
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