With the Last Light

The only thing I heard that dark night was the sound of my own footsteps—the heels of my new shoes striking the damp pavement, step after step, in the first chill of winter. I kept looking over my shoulder. In those unfamiliar streets, it seemed all too likely that some thief might try to rob me.

I tried not to torment myself with the thought. Tucked inside my coat was my entire salary, freshly collected, though no thief had any reason to know that. I did not want the coming rain to soak my new black suit, even if my brand-new raincoat would protect it to some extent.

The past hour and a half had brought one misfortune after another. It began when I left the office for home with my long-awaited pay. The bus I took every day broke down in the worst district of San Felipe.

It was late, and that had been the last bus of the night, so I had no choice but to walk to the next station. As I made my way through those dark, silent, dangerous streets, I suddenly sensed that something was wrong. Did I have four feet, or was someone walking behind me?

However much I regretted it, I realized the second possibility was the truth. I stopped looking back as I had been doing every few moments. I could not do it now—not after hearing those hurried footsteps. Nearing a corner, I saw, halfway down the next block, a single wan yellow light casting a cone over the pavement and road.

Nothing could have been more comforting in that tense moment. I quickened my pace, eager to reach that warm light amid the darkness. A fine drizzle was falling. The wind blew. It was freezing. The footsteps behind me quickened too, closing the distance.

My nerves broke and I began to jog. For the final few yards, I ran. At last I reached the rusted post from which the streetlamp hung. At the end of its curved arm, one small bulb cast the only yellow light. It faltered now and then, flickering from time to time, but—thank heaven—it remained lit.

Then, beneath the dying beam that finally illuminated me after so much darkness, I saw myself for the first time in a very long while. I was barefoot, dressed in rags, filthy—and no one was following me. My hair was long, tangled like a swarm of flies, and matted with grime. Almost none of my teeth remained. I had not collected any salary. I did not even have pockets in which to carry one.

I was thirsty and, above all, hungry—desperately hungry. I was starving. Before the night was over, as though subjected to some private torture, I remembered once again the first day of the rest of my life.