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it, like his own street, that he had taken it for granted and not really looked at it. Anyway, it was time to close the museum, and what counted now was getting this man out of there and making his last round so that he could go home. And after that he still had at least half an hour of travel.
    “Sir, you cannot stay any longer, the museum is now closed,” he said more firmly, but still politely. The man seemed hypnotized by the Velázquez painting, which was pretty enough, the guard thought, though he could add little to that. He studied the elderly man more intently, and noticed his left hand was trembling. A tear was running down the right side of his face. It might be best not to antagonize him and instead say something innocuous.
    “It is a beautiful painting, Las Meninas. ”
    “Do you know who the meninas were?”
    “Those girls in the painting.”
    “The meninas are the two women on either side of the Infanta Margarita.
    Meninas is the Portuguese word the royal family used for the princess’s nannies.”
    “Well, there is always something to be learned.”
    “The artist on the left is the same painter who did this—he expected the nannies to convince the child princess to pose for him. As you can see in the image in the mirror, King Don Felipe and Queen Doña Mariana had already done their part. They brought the dwarfs and the dog to try to convince the infanta, but the princess didn’t feel like it, and the painting as planned was never done.”
    “Excuse me, sir, but it was. It’s there in front of us.”
    “I’m referring to the intended painting, as the image in the mirror suggests.”
    “Maybe you’re right, but the painting exists, and it’s done.”
    “I mean that the painting inside the painting was never finished.”
    “Well, if you look at it that way, you might be right.”
    “Just notice how a simple child’s tantrum changed the course of things by not allowing the completion of a family picture.”
    “It allowed another picture, a much better one, to be painted.”
    “Perhaps. The thing is that a decision at a particular time could affect a work, or a whole life, a whole personal behavior, a whole—”
    The man began coughing, and would have fallen were it not for the quick reflexes of the guard, who caught him. As best he could, he helped the man sit on the floor.
    “I’m thirsty,” the man explained in a hoarse voice.
    “I’ll go get some water.”
    The guard of the Prado’s gallery three left in a rush. The elderly man, still leaning against the wall, took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, a crumpled letter. He placed it on the floor beside him. Next to it he put a picture of Pope Benedict XVI.
    The water fountain was some distance away and the guard couldn’t return as quickly as expected. He had called another guard for help. When he finally got back, carefully carrying a glass of water, there was no one in the room but the sick man still on the floor, in the same position. The guard crouched down and saw that the man was not as he had left him. The elderly man sat motionless, eyes wide open. He was dead. The young man jumped up, startled, and called for help on his radio. Summoning all his strength, he took a closer look at the man—whose eyes were still fixed on the painting he had been looking at for hours.

6
    The Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires was the center of historical protests for the Argentine people. Both the Casa Rosada, the president’s house, and the Metropolitan Cathedral stood facing it. From its columns, a young man burst into the spacious nave, running as fast as he could.
    He was panting and covered with sweat after his mad rush from the residence of the parish priest, Padre Pablo—a simple enough name for a priest who didn’t particularly wish to be identified. At that moment, the cathedral was closed to the public, but the priest knelt at the foot of the altar, hands joined in prayer.
    Then he noticed the young man, who usually stood