The women with jugs of water on their heads wore shoes. The men returning from the tobacco plantations wore shoes. The civil guards, marching outside the town hall, wore black leather boots. Even a gypsy, saddling his burro, wore sandals of rubber and string.
   It seemed that wherever he cast his eyes upon the plaza, there were shoes…
   There were the shoes of the barman, Franco Ruiz, with one sole thicker than the other on account of his clubfoot. Down in the gutter were the shoes of the drunk, Osvaldo, the left shoe on his right foot and the right shoe on his left foot. Next door there were the bulky wooden clogs of Bernardita Cruz, keeping her feet dry as she mopped her front step. And coming up behind there were the dainty black shoes of her daughter, tied to her legs with white ribbons, skipping over the mop and disappearing under the colonnade from where there appeared the shoes of Padre Rodolfo and Sister Gilberta. The priest with humble shoes and the nun with timid shoes, just peeking out from under her long, draping tunic.
   Yes, he could scarcely open his eyes without noticing a pair of shoes…
   The doctor wore them. The butcher wore them. Naturally, the shoemaker wore them. Some old timers playing cards did. Two sisters weaving sombreros as well. There were shoes of patent leather, calf hide, and canvas. Some in brown, others black. Some in flats, others heels. And when the muleteers passed through the plaza, and he heard the mules tread upon the cobblestones, he realised that even those filthy animals were wearing shoes, too!
   Juanito had seen enough. It seemed as though everyone was rubbing it in! The little boy leapt down from the wall and scampered off in the direction of home, wary that wherever he placed his small bare feet there wasn’t a puddle or a pile of shit — of which so many varieties lay around the pueblo like landmines — waiting to blow up his day.
   When Juanito arrived home, he smiled until his teeth showed. What luck! No one was in. He had the run of the house. There was nothing to stop him from entering his mama’s and papa’s room, clambering up on a chair, and reaching into the closet for the box with his father’s dress shoes. There was nothing to stop him from applying a little spit to the leather, slipping into the shining shoes, and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There was nothing, in short, to stop Juanito from wearing a pair of shoes — even if they looked clownish on such small feet — like everybody else.