There were about fifteen of the Cubans. Mostly men in their late fifties or early sixties. Many of them dressed in black slacks and the traditional white guayabera shirt with short sleeves. They were wearing sunglasses, which did little to disguise the hate twisting their faces. The man who had pulled his compatriot off the young demonstrator stood near me, silent now. He was about my height, paunchy, light skinned. His naturally wavy hair starting to recede in a widow’s peak. Although he had restrained his friend, he himself was enraged. He looked over at me as though he might take a step toward me. I had been staring. I crossed the street to the side of the demonstrators.

I collected a lot of paper and signed a few petitions before I located a woman handing out Partido de Libertad fliers. I was willing to bet my last dollar she had known Cathy Vega. She was pleasant looking, with very Indian features, a mole next to her nose and long straight hair to the middle of her back. She wore flat shoes and a baggy multicolored flowered dress with thin black straps. When I walked up to her and asked for a flier, I thought she seemed vaguely startled.

“What’s this about?” I asked her.

“We are against foreign intervention in Guatemala and the rest of Central America. We want the American people to know what is happening in our country.”

I imagined her saying the same words to Cathy Vega. She was a person who looked right at you when she talked. Her voice was musical and strongly accented. She talked like a grade school teacher. Continuing to study me in a direct way, she didn’t disguise the suspicion she felt.

Maybe she had seen me standing by the Cubans. Maybe she thought I was CIA. FBI. This had been in the news lately, the infiltration of a Salvadorean solidarity group by government agents. “You’re from Guatemala?” I asked, persisting.

“Yes.” She started to say something more, but she was interrupted by a man’s voice speaking Spanish. I don’t know what he said, but his voice sounded angry.

I turned to see who was talking. The man moved in and stood next to the woman. He was a classic latin dreamboat in black pointed shoes, black slacks and a fresh white shirt. He nodded at me, smiling, modulating his voice. Words I didn’t know flew between them. I knew he was talking about me. A few more sentences were exchanged before the woman spoke to me again.

“Tonight we’re having a screening of a video about Guatemala,” she said.

A screening. Do they call it a screening anywhere besides Hollywood? Or were they having screenings all over the Third World?