I look up from the page covered with my scribbles. Suddenly I notice the single picture adorning the two pages of the thick, soft, almost new, dictionary I had opened a couple of hours ago. “Hansom,” I read under the small picture. A white horse pulling with ease a two-wheeled covered carriage with the driver’s seat elevated behind the cab. The driver in this picture wears a top hat. There is a lantern on each side of the carriage. I read that this type of vehicle is somehow related to a Joseph A. Hansom, an architect, who happened to have died in 1881. Ten years before Tito was born, it crosses my mind. An architect who resented his view being obstructed by a driver… With an unexpected jerk I bend over the desk: there is no-one in the cab! For a moment I feel that I have discovered an error, something essential missing from the picture. But no, I realize with a smile, and I lean back into my chair. Why should there be anyone in the cab? Did I expect Joseph A. Hansom in there? His wife maybe, or an acquaintance of his? Then I remember that the word I had looked up before was on the opposite page—”harbinger.” That is it, I conclude gleefully, and I slam the book shut. I tear another page from my notebook hardly a month after Tito died.