I am not trying to speak in praise my Monte (Mi Mosqueta), as in one way I have satisfied my "plush worm," as Wimpy said referring to the vanity of the "guy," and in another way it is a finished work, written for my colleagues both amateur and professional. In that piece I use new techniques of "lentidigitation," which broke the tradition of the so vilified "speed of the hands."

What I cannot let go of, is a special mention of a true artist, transcendent for the majority who saw him and marvelous for me.

Here is the story:

The organization for the World Congress of Magic (FISM) with great fanfare in Lausanne, Switzerland in 1991, drew approximately twelve hundred people: men, women and children of every possible level, who love the art. I was contracted to do two lectures and two performances. I completed my presentations successfully, and was ready to go and rest at the hotel, since the next day I would continue my tour through Austria and Germany. On my way out, my attention was drawn to a group of people who were in profound silence looking at something.

A friend of mine came over to me and said, "Watch that boy!" Between the heads of the people I could see a boy of seven or eight years of age sitting on the floor in a lotus position, with three cups in front of him and three balls, one for each cup.

The boy, Indian, dark, dressed in the costume of his country, surrounded by veterans, began the cups and balls routine, this time in its original version with three cups that we could have seen in a very ancient engraving at the Pyramids of Egypt. His dark face enhanced his white teeth and all this together configured a tender smile filled with purity, rhythm, musicality and beauty.

His Indian parents, dressed in immaculate and legendary garb, could not hide the pride of having brought to the world and to the convention that boy of theirs, who for those five minutes we all wish could be ours.

He began to move his hands with a cadence and harmony, appropriate to an ambassador artist of wonder. And his passes, and that play with flash effects of ball in ball and cup in cup, only saying in his native language, "It's not here... It's here." His angelic smile and his perfect technique (which is what was least important) impressed me so much that I was surprised to feel a tear rolling down my cheek, making me feel perhaps the weight of the years as was phrased by Adolfo Becquer, "When I want to cry I can't, and sometimes I cry without wanting to."

With shame, I concealed my emotional state and as I turned my head toward the right in a misdirectional gesture, I noticed my friend Arturo, who without shame was wiping a tear from his face as some others were. And those that did not feel the tear, perhaps didn't do it because, looking for the "strings of the marionette," did not know how to enjoy the privilege of having in front of mem a dark angel of only seven years that added beauty to amazement, that was doing at his age, what I have tried to do for sixty years.