1<br >One day Mandragon toured a personal future. One day I<br >had a vision of myself:<br > A street slopes between three-story buildings hung with<br >balconies. It is crowded with brown-faced people. Young<br >men in undershirts， in T-shirts blazoned with soft-drink<br >logos， in brightly colored sport shirts. Older men in flowing<br >white four-pocket guayaberas， in linen suits. Girls and<br >women in thin dresses， in slacks and brightly colored<br >blouses， some with heads kerchiefed and their hair in roll-<br >ers. The mulato-mestizo crowd of a Latin city.<br > They fill the walks and spill into the gutters， closing the<br >greater portion of both lanes so that barely a yard is clear<br >along the center. They push and iostle lor a better vantage.<br >They rise on tiptoe， peer up the street into the lifting sun.<br >The sun roars at them from a hazy sky.<br > Above， the balconies are packed， the windows gargoyled<br >with thrust torsos and craned faces. Everyone peers up<br >along the street， which is overhung with leaning balconies<br >and buildings， and widens toward a plaza higher up. Bolivar<br >Avenue.t Ciudad Tinieblas!<br > Four guardias on motorcycles lead a patrol truck down<br >from Plaza Cervantes. Sirens on moan， bikes weaving in<br >slow S curves， they carve a channel through the crowd.<br >They ride straight-backetI with elbows arced at shoulder<br >level， and their mirror-lensed glasses， their plastic casques，<br >13<br ><br >
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