of the soil, until now there is nothing left but rocks and gravel, and even that is very precious now. Yet only ten or twelve years ago, things were not so bad; we could still eat. Because of you, SeñorSeñor no offence! we are all of us slowly starving now." "Because of me?" I momentarily doubted his sanity, but he explained: "Your government-their foreign aid program-they decided to wipe out the fever in San Ambroso. Before that time, the fever made barefooted angels in heaven of two out of every three babies born here. The others could still eat. Yet after the Americans came with DDT, nearly all the children lived. A man has to feed his children-all of them; so now everyone of us is slowly starving."

As there came a look of trapped desperation on his face, I took the opportunity of suggesting more beer. His eyes brightened, "Thank you yes, Señor, and I have something you're bound to like only fourteen and almost a virgin." He sent Maria waddling off to fetch four beers and one Rosa.

"If things are so bad here," I asked, "why don't you move to a more prosperous place like, perhaps, Brazil, where they still have a frontier?"

"Move? Travel costs money. I couldn't even hike to the capital; I would starve to death on the road. Several have tried and were never heard of again. We live from one morsel to the next. We even eat snakes and rats, and smack our lips. Yet there is hope, for Pandora did not let hope out of her box. There will be an election next month, and the Liberal party has promised to practice the axioms of our patron, St. Ambrose. They will confiscate the land from a man who has, say, two acres, and then give one acre each to two men who have nothing. The Liberal party has become very popular in San Ambroso."

"Do you mean St. Ambrose would have approved of the policies of your Liberal party?" I asked, skeptical and amused.

"Of course, Señor. Did he not say, 'Hoggers of the harvest are accursed among the people?'

"I thought St. Ambrose was talking about grain speculators who. . . ." I was interrupted by Juan's sigh, "It's all the same; it amounts to the same thing, for only the foolish or the very blessed try to argue with the stomach."

Just then, Maria brought back the four beers. With her was a scrawny unwashed girl with bleached blond hair. She was utterly bored or else quite sleepy. I inquired, "How old are you, child?"

"I'm twenty-two," she lied glumly.

"Say you're twelve," Juan hissed.

"Twelve, Señor," Rosa dutifully replied, again lying.

"She is truly almost a virgin, Señor," Maria proffered, "She has only two babies. And for just a few pesos...."

"Unfortunately, my next three children are boys," Juan said, "We send them all to the market every day, so they can steal bits of food sometimes. There used to be schools, but not enough for all the children in San Ambroso, and there was no money to build more. The Liberal party said it was not democratic for some children to get schooling and others not. So all the schools were closed."

"Your boys are still quite young," I explained, thinking it safe to speak frankly, "but if you could introduce me to a nice young man over twenty-one, I might be more interested than I am in your pregnant women and almost-virgin girls.” "Good heavens!" Juan cried, and then whispered in my ear: "Do you mean you're a joto?"

"I guess that's what you might call me-a joto," I replied aloud.

"How dare you use that word in front of my wife and daughter," he stormed, "we are decent people. May God and His Holy Mother curse you!"

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