“One such afternoon, I noticed, among the men in frock coats and hats and the ladies in long white dresses, a stout elderly woman pushing a small cart on wheels, bent over almost at right angles, walking in my direction with a slow, waddling gait. I was drawn to her as soon as she appeared from a block away. I studied her approach, stopping at the café terraces and offering her wares to the patrons until she was shooed away by a waiter. When a customer took some semblance of an interest in what she was selling, as if in accordance with some unwritten code, the waiter would leave her to her commerce. She was an unforgettable sight. Her body was twisted forward with age, her fingers were gnarled and her face seemed no less wrinkled than a walnut shell. Even in the bright summer sunshine, her clothes were colorless rags. But her expression was cheerful. She was one of those old women whose demeanor has naturally withered into a permanent beam of light. As she drew closer, I noticed her lips were in constant motion, as if she were murmuring something intended only for herself, which is not an uncommon sight in any city. Finally she neared the terrace where I was sitting and caught my eye. ‘Would you like a book, sir?’ she asked. She had an accent, but I couldn’t pick it. Perhaps, I thought, she’s a foreigner like me. A waiter saw her from inside the café and rushed out, barking at her to leave the customers alone. I waved him away.