The day is delicious, and I decide to take a walk. On my return to the town, I walk toward the cemetery, whence I will walk up Gradiziol. And then I notice Luciano Benčić leaning against the doorway of his house. About seventy, he looks at least ten years older. He has spent much of his life as an alcoholic. Which is how he has lost his feet—they froze one night in a ditch. A lovely man, though. I never walk past him without a chat. “Ciao, Luciano!” I salute him from afar. We shake hands. “Come for a drink,” he grins toothlessly. “Another time,” I promise. “Just a glass,” he insists, but I repeat my promise. “You know,” he says out of the blue, “you are the only good man in town.” I am taken aback. “Come on,” I protest, “that can’t be true!” “But it is,” he shakes my hand again and grins. “Next time for sure!” I promise one more time, and I wave him goodbye. “God bless you, my friend,” he waves back. As I walk up Gradiziol, Luciano’s blessing weighs me down. He has meant every word he has uttered. Now it is my turn to do something about it.