It’s a gloomy weather. It’s gloomy and it rains. It’s rainy and foggy. This fog reminds me of Kogălniceanu. Not the politician. But the village where my grandparents lived. My grandparents sitting on the stoop within their curtilage. In the curtilage, Azor is barking. It is barking and weaving its tail. We are standing in line, exchanging embraces and cherishing the happiness of the encounter. Encounters as rare and fragile as smoke. Smoke comes out of chimney stacks, and the air around us smells of crushed black grapes, and the tip of my fingers, imbued with stum, shiver with cold. I rub them against the back of my hand, but they dance sticking and unsticking to it, and then sticking to it again. Again!