 That year—1946—winter was a long time going. Although it was April, a freezing wind blew through the streets of the city and overhead the snow-clouds moved across the sky. The old man, who was called Drioli, shuffled painfully along the sidewalk of the Ruda He was cold and miserable, huddled up like a hedgehog in a filthy black coat, only his eyes and the top of his head visible above the turned-up collar. The door of a cafe opened, and the faint whiff of roasting chicken brought a pain of yearning to the top of his stomach. He moved on glancing without any interest at the things in the shop windows, perfume, silk ties and shirts, diamonds, porcelain, antique furniture, finely bound books. Then a picture gallery. He had always liked picture galleries. This one had a single canvas on display in the window. He stopped to look at it. He turned to go. He checked, looked back. And now, suddenly, there came to him a slight uneasiness, a movement of the memory, a distant recollection of something somewhere he had seen before. He looked again. It was a landscape, a clump of trees leaning madly over to one side as if blown by a tremendous wind, the sky swirling and twisting all around. Attached to the frame, there was a little plaque. And on this it said, Chaim Soutin, 1894 to 1943. Drioly stared at the picture, wondering vaguely what there was about it that seemed familiar. Crazy painting, he thought. Very strange and crazy. But I like it. Chaim Soutin, Soutin. By God! He cried suddenly. My little cow-muck. That's who it is, my little cow-muck with the picture in the finest shop in Paris. Just imagine that. The old man pressed his face closer to the window. He could remember the boy. Yes, quite clearly he could remember him. But when? The rest of it was not so easy to recollect. It was so long ago. How long? Twenty? No, more like thirty years, wasn't it? Wait a minute. Yes. It was the year before Sample complete. Ready to continue?