The Dream of the City by Andrés Vidal Page B

But before going out, he had to change to avoid staining his Sunday clothes. Not happy with just that, his father also insisted he put on his cap; that summer was a very hot one. Finally he could leave for the place where his friend Tomàs was waiting for him.
    Tomàs was a sheepherder. His family lived not far from there, in an old and run-down house standing alone in the middle of the fields. He was nine—one year older than Guillermo—and he wasn’t one for words, but he did have a little pocketknife, which Guillermo marveled at, because he had tried more than a few times, without success, to convince his father or Dimas to let him have one.
    They had met because Tomàs normally passed with his flock through the lands that bordered the schools next to the Sagrada Familia. Guillermo approached him one day to look at a little lamb among the sheep and goats that wouldn’t stop leaping around and giving off funny little cries. From that time on, he knew when Tomàs would appear in the late afternoon with his animals, coming down the muntanya pelada of Guinardó. That terrain, with its abundant crop of wild grasses, was his last stop before returning home.
    When Guillermo arrived at the field, he saw that Tomàs wasn’t there. That wasn’t strange to him: The sun was still out and it was very hot. He looked around for something to do and found a group of boys playing marbles. He put his hands in his pockets in a panic but immediately felt relieved: He had brought his with him. He took them out and looked through them, trying to find the orange one, his favorite, his lucky marble. He approached the kids.
    â€œWhat are you guys playing? Keepsies? Can I get in?” He showed them his hand with his marbles. The others looked at him and nodded.
    Guillermo smiled at them, and the three boys got down to the game. One of the others, his head shaved nearly to the skin, had managed to maneuver his marble into the hole and now had the right to hunt down his challengers, to try and knock his opponents’ marbles away with his own. If he managed to do so, he could keep them; if not, his rivals would have the chance to respond in kind. Using his thumb like a trigger, the boy knelt on the ground, closed one eye to steady his aim, and stuck his tongue out between his lips while he decided where to shoot his marble. Another other boy shouted impatiently.
    â€œCome on, man! At this pace you’ll still be aiming when they finish that church over there!” He pointed toward the Sagrada Familia.
    After some hesitation, the boy fired off the marble. Though it came close, it didn’t manage to touch the other.
    â€œGreat! Now it’s my turn!” the second boy shouted, raising his arms in the air.
    The other, visibly upset by his failure, shot back, “But first, you have to get it into the hole, you know.”
    â€œWhat?” he shrieked. “I already got it in before!”
    The three boys fell into a heated discussion about the rules of the game, resorting many times to the words, On my street that’s how we play it . After a few minutes it was over, thanks to Guillermo, who persuaded them to start another game. They made it clear beforehand this time that to be able to hunt down the other players’ marbles, you had to get your own in the hole first.
    The sun was beginning its slow voyage toward twilight when Tomàs arrived with his flock. By that time, Guillermo was resting with his opponents under the spare shadow of an almond tree. They were savoring the glasses of water they had been served by a passing water carter. The man was pulling a small cart of jugs, which he filled with water from the fountains and sold to people in the neighborhood, many of whom had no running water at home. He didn’t charge the boys: The afternoon was getting hot, and he had already sold most of his supply.
    When Guillermo saw Tomàs coming over, he stood up and waved his hand.