Martin Boyd
In Mexico City, we used to live in an apartment on Calle de la Higuera in the district of Coyoacán, a little street that ran between the bustle of the famous Plaza Hidalgo, with its myriad candy vendors, organ grinders and street comedians, and a peaceful, shady little park named “La Conchita”. Many a Sunday afternoon, to escape the madness in the centre of Coyoacán on the weekend – when the whole area filled with tourists who came to visit Frida Kahlo’s famous house, Casa Azul, or to buy souvenirs in the open-air market, or simply to soak up the atmosphere of one of the oldest districts of colonial Mexico City – Paulina and I would go and sit on one of the seats in La Conchita, to take refuge beside the little chapel there and breathe the almost soporific tranquility of that solemn place. On one occasion, while we sat contemplating the last rays of sunlight that filtered through the branches of one of the large old trees of the park, I imagined that I heard a faint voice in the whisper of the leaves, like the weeping of a woman in mourning. I turned around to look for the crying woman, but nobody was there. A moment later the sound stopped, and I was about to dismiss it as a product of my imagination when Paulina turned to me and asked me if I had heard a woman crying.
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