My second voice

In 1939, a young country girl walks through the streets of the Panamanian capital, Panama city, when she comes face to face with another girl from her village. They hug each other with tears on their faces because they thought they would never see each other again. One of them escaped a year ago in search of a new world without anyone knowing her whereabouts. The other girl was brought in a few days before to take care of a sick relative. Now the friends hook each other's arms and walk on the sidewalks, talking and looking at everything... Suddenly, one of them stops at the entrance of one of the n e i ghb o r h o o d houses because she i s curious about something that called her attention. At the end of a dark hallway, she can see a sunny patio and a man maneuvering with a strange device. Oh, he's a photographer! Come on! She says to her friend. Excuse me, sir, how much does it cost to take a picture? Asked the other one. They have never taken a photo. They rummage in the...

It's cold. It is the third day that I wake up at 4 in the morning in this Central American town, which is fiery in the day and very cold after midnight. It's not like Toronto winter, but it's like those treacherous early spring mornings when the icy breeze coming from Lake Ontario catches you off guard. I wrap a scarf around my neck and press my fingers into the pockets of my jacket. My husband walks 4 or 5 meters in front of me. Behind, looking at the tips of my boots, I recite a poem that speaks of an indigenous woman who always walks slowly behind her stern man. Along the avenue a street repair is in progress. A worker in a helmet and vest who gives instructions to the others, sees me go by and approaches. I become irritated by him, but he only tells me what anyone would say: "It's cold, eh!". How nice! He looks like Robert Redford, an actor my mother liked. "Oh yes, it's cold," I manage to answer. The man walks beside me and talks to me. He...