The beggar always sat in the same spot, from dawn to dusk, whether the rain poured or the sun blistered or the wind filled the air with dust. He was well used to this spot, and to all those who crossed his path every day; to those who looked at him with contempt, and those who sympathised with him, and those who insulted him. No-one is born a beggar; it is an occupation born of necessity. The beggar waited, his straw hat upturned at his feet, for a piece of bread or a coin. He begged for alms, and hoped. When he heard a coin fall he dared not look to see what it was, for fear he would not receive any more – he was superstitious that way.
Every day after school, a little girl came to look at the beggar. “I hope he’s still there,” she would think to herself as she left the classroom. She came every day to mop his face, as if she were playing with a doll. She wiped the grime and the sweat from his brow, and she refreshed him as he felt her child’s breath and saw the innocence on her face. Every day she observed his face blackened with dust, wrinkled by wind and fatigue. She found him beautiful, and yet the world went on as if he did not exist. The pair had never exchanged a single word. She had no bread to give him, and had no money of her own. She thought about him when she was at school, and at home. He was her only friend, a being who saw every slightest gesture in his waking sleep. The only thing that brought her joy as she finished her school day was the beggar, and so she watched him.
He had tried everything; polishing shoes, helping people carry their bags, reciting poems. He tried to move them with his appearance and his language. He would clown around or recite a speech by Winston Churchill. He made himself hideous to become eloquent. Yet it was clear that none of these actions would help him feed himself, or find shelter from the cold. There was only the girl. The beggar was not a bad man; like a guardian angel, he saw all that came to pass on this corner of the little street. He saw women being accosted, money changing hands – he knew all that went on. The beggar often joined his hands and held them up to God, thanking him for this sad and lonely existence. Every day he breathed anew. What helped him make it through the nights was the touch of that little girl, the way she tenderly wiped his face and whispered: “Don’t worry! Everything will be alright.” And the beggar would smile. He never forgot. Legend told that the Roman soldier, Martin of Tour, cut his cloak in two and gave half to a beggar who was really Jesus in disguise, for beggars were poor men and Jesus often sought refuge in them.
The little girl gazed at the beggar; it was comforting to look at him. He neither lied nor lied to himself. He embodied his doctrine, cultivating the condition of his freedom. His only master was his own thoughts. Tomorrow is another day, god willing. The little girl finished wiping his brow, and contemplated his face.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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