The Vagrant
He appeared at lunch time in a small town where all the townspeople knew each other, so the foreigner’s arrival evoked extraordinary interest, even more so because his appearance was really weird: imagine a gangly guy in an old hat with a wide brim, in a worn gray coat that reached almost to the ground, in well trodden shoes with toes turned up, covered with dried mud and dust, in laces of different colors; his face was long, overgrown with a plucked, very slight mustache and the same kind of beard, ash-colored hair in thick shaggy locks falling on his shoulders. And if you just look at his eyes—they were a miracle of divine providence, more than just eyes—they are gray and peaceful, but just like a saint on an icon—that’s it, all right. He’s walking and propping himself with
