A tall, fat woman endowed with huge, bulging eyes. She is perilously short of breath, but well dressed, at least by the Croatian capital’s standards. In her late seventies or perhaps early eighties, she is on her hind legs already. A cane in one trembling hand, a basket on wheels in the other, she is dragging herself home. Step by slow step. Barely aware of her surroundings, let alone of my untoward interest, she is focusing on her next step. And the next. Out of the blue, Beckett comes to my mind. Judging by her attire, she might have heard of him, too. Or even read him in her youth. I stopped in my tracks. I turned around and watched her every step. Actually, I almost followed her home, albeit from a safe distance. Step by slow step. One step at a time. But I came to my senses after a short while. And I walked away as if nothing had happened. An hour later, though, I am still chasing Beckett out of my mind.