early one morning while travelling to a nearby town I met a man by the name of Verissimo. You would not guess this just by looking at him. He had a slovenly if relaxed and altogether pleasant appearance, so that I instinctively offered him some candy. It was just the two of us waiting by the side of a wooded road at an unmarked bus stop. The bus would be a while yet and so we struck up a—conversation? Hardly! For I spoke not a word of his language nor he of mine. It was then, after we had run out of—not topics either, but the energy to attempt communication by gestures and monosyllables (far more demanding than speech), that he pulled out his government ID and showed me his name. Some minutes later, to break the awkward silence that followed my acknowledgment, he opened for me the corner of a parcel he was carrying under his arm: a small stack of panes of glass wrapped in newspaper. Have I met the most truthful and transparent man? Will I ever know for certain? He must have given up on the bus because he left me, lost in thought, without saying goodbye, so that my mind immediately fell prey to suspicion. Had I been robbed without noticing? Had I imagined this meeting in the woods?