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User: You do not often see a red-haired Mexican, and I wondered if he could be a sailor, English, Scandinavian or American, who had deserted his ship and by degrees had sunk to this pitiful condition. He disappeared.  
     Since there was nothing else to do, I stayed on till I got hungry and when I had eaten I came back. I sat on till it was bedtime. I confess the day had seemed long and I wondered how many similar days I should be forced to spend there. 
     But I woke after a little while and could not get to sleep again. My room was stifling. I opened the shutters and looked out at the church. There was no moon, but the bright stars faintly lit its outline. The buzzards gathered on the cross above the cupola and on the edges of the tower and now and then they moved a little. The effect was uncanny. And then, I have no notion why, I remembered that red-haired fellow again, and I had suddenly a strange feeling that I had seen him before. It was so vivid that it drove away from me the possibility of sleep. I felt sure that I had come across him, but when and where I could not tell. 
     As the dawn approached it grew a little cooler and I was able to sleep. 
     I spent my second day at Vera Cruz as I had spent the first. But I watched for the coming of the red-haired beggar, and as he stood at the tables near mine I examined him with attention. I felt certain now that I had seen him somewhere. I even felt certain that I had known him and talked to him, but I still could recall none of the circumstances. Once more he passed my table without stopping and when his eyes met mine I looked in them for some gleam of recollection. Nothing. I wondered if I had made a mistake. But I could not get out of my head the impression that at some moment he had entered into my life. I was sure now that he was either English or American. But I was shy of addressing him. The day wore on. 
     Another day came, another morning, another evening. It was Sunday and the square was more crowded than ever. The table under the arcade was packed. As usual the red-haired beggar came along, a terrifying figure in his silence, his rags and his pitiful distress. He was standing in front of a table only two from mine when I saw the policeman who at intervals tried to protect the public from all these beggars. He gave him a blow on the back. The beggar’s thin body trembled, but he made no protest and showed no anger; he slowly walked away. 
     Then suddenly I remembered.  
     Not his name, that escaped me still, but everything else. He must have recognized me, for I haven’t changed very much in twenty years, and that was why after that first morning he had never paused in front of my table. Yes, it was twenty years since I had known him. I was spending a winter in Rome and every evening I used to dine in a restaurant in the Via Sistina where you got excellent macaroni and a good bottle of wine. It was often visited by a group of English and American students, and one or two writers: and we used to stay late into the night engaged in endless arguments upon art and literature. He used to come in with a young painter who was a friend of his. He was only a boy then, he could not have been more than twenty-two; and with his blue eyes, straight nose and red hair he was pleasing to look at. I remembered that he spoke a great deal of Central America, he had had a job with the American Fruit Company, but had thrown it over because he wanted to be a writer. He was not popular among us because he was arrogant. He thought us poor fish and did not hesitate to tell us so. He would not show us his work, because our opinion meant nothing to him. His vanity was enormous. He was so certain of himself that he infected some of his friends with his own assurance. I recalled his high spirits, his vitality, his confidence in the future.
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In a small town in Mexico, I found myself observing a peculiar sight: a red-haired beggar who stood out among the locals. His fiery locks made me speculate about his past—could he have been a sailor from England, Scandinavia, or America, who had deserted his ship and ended up in this dismal state? As I pondered these thoughts, he vanished from view, leaving me with little to do but wait until hunger drove me to seek food.

The day dragged on, and as night fell, I returned to my room, feeling the weight of time pressing down on me. Sleep eluded me in the stifling heat, so I opened the shutters and gazed at the church illuminated by the faint glow of stars. Buzzards perched ominously on the cross, their stillness adding to the eerie atmosphere. In that moment, the memory of the red-haired man surged back, vivid and unsettling. I was convinced I had encountered him before, but the details of our meeting eluded me.

After a restless night, I spent my second day in Vera Cruz much like the first, but now with a keen eye for the beggar. When he appeared near my table, I scrutinized him, certain that our paths had crossed in the past. As our eyes met, I searched for a flicker of recognition in his gaze, but found none. Doubt crept in—had I misjudged him? Yet, the feeling lingered that he had once
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