Of Hope and Other Things

When he wakes up, the space next to him in bed is empty. It's been like this every morning for quite some time now. A weary man can't make love to his wife. Not if he feels as desolate as the salt desert of Uyuni.

Just when the first troubling thoughts about his family's future arise on this day as on any other, he smells freshly brewed coffee coming from the kitchen. As if his wife knew his pain, she sends him these wholesome whiffs like a daily greeting or a promise, saying, remember, there's happiness in the small things of life.

He closes his eyes, slides his hand across the warm dent her body has left in the sheets and, for a moment, tries to forget the night that is behind him.

* * *

Until a few years ago, he worked at the Hospital Santa Maria. When the Bolivian government changed after the last elections, the hospital management disappeared with the money. For months, no one could pay the nurses.

The personnel were exhausted, but everyone continued working.

Now he has his own medical practice. He treats everyone who comes to see him. Some patients pay him in installments, some bring fruit or llama meat. Others give him pendants and charms bought at the crowded Mercado de las Brujas, the witch market behind the Plaza San Francisco. For good luck in marriage, for fertility and longevity. And some have nothing to give but a smile and blessings for him and his family. He has three daughters, each of them a gift. Perhaps one day they too will have to rely on the kindness of a stranger.

When he arrives at his office, his waiting room is already packed. He greets his receptionists Rita and Anabel, pretty girls with hope in their eyes.

"Buenos dias."

"Buenos dias, doctor," they reply, smiling at him. He knows it's a privilege if a man can inspire trust. Even the priests don't always achieve that, although their churches are full.

The people who come to see him look into his eyes for answers. They trust the eyes of el médico. He treats minor ailments and injuries as well as leprosy and Chagas' disease, the South American killer of the poor.

After his last patient is gone, and Rita and Anabel have left for the day, he closes the door to his office, sits down by the window and looks out over the roofs of his city. La Paz has many faces. Modern high-rises stand side by side with colonial buildings from the time of the Spanish invaders. Storefronts are weathered but maintain a sense of grace, like a woman who doesn't forget her worth. Cholitas, native women, walk the streets wearing bowler hats and layers of colorful petticoats in the way of days past. Up here, thirteen-thousand one-hundred twenty feet above sea level, people still worship Pachamama, Mother Earth, and her lover El Tío, the evil spirit of the mountains. Andean souls are indigenous mysteries. But the doctor's English, as that of many others, can keep up with the rest of the world. Some Bolivians study at universities in Argentina. Few, like him, make it to the U.S. or Europe. He was in Texas for a year, on a medical scholarship sponsored by the U.S. embassy. Sitting in The Blue Rose Café in Houston, he had no idea about his worries of today. He had no idea about Raúl.

Darkness settles in. The doctor locks his office and wishes the cleaning ladies good night.

His old Toyota is in an underground parking lot. He puts the keys in the ignition and drives. The heavy metal gate opens automatically.

Avenida Mariscal Santa Cruz is a familiar mix of exhaust fumes and bustling activity. Cars, bicycles, and pedestrians occupy every available space on the road. Street vendors in front of the church sell jewelry, leather purses, Tiahuanacu souvenirs, Che Guevara stickers, and everything alpaca, even tapestry and slippers.