A Kind of Second Part

“This little creature is full of joy. He does not have food every day, yet he goes to the theater every evening, if he wants to. He has no shirt on his back, no shoes on his feet, no roof over his head; he is like the flies in the air who lack all these things. He is from seven to thirteen years of age, lives in gangs, roams the streets, sleeps in the open air, wears an old pair of his father’s pants that come down to his heels…” Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

* * *

August 1994

Off the plane and into an unexpected heat, the five of us pulled our bags quietly behind in tow, too tired from the four flights it had taken to get from Kansas City to Bucharest. In the parking lot, three small boys grabbed at my wrists; barefoot boys; brown boys.

“Baksheesh! Baksheesh!”

“What are they saying?”

They wanted a tip to carry my bags. I gave them the coins in my pocket. They coins were useless to them, and they jabbed the money back at me, “Baksheesh! Baksheesh!”

I shook my head.

They took the money to Mary and she traded a one dollar bill for the pocketful of change.

“I made seventy-five cents!” she exclaimed gleefully upon counting the coins.

All across the parking lot, there seemed to be a brown, barefoot boy for every bag.