In Amsterdam every morning at seven o’clock I walked to the bakery around the corner to buy bread. In front of the baker’s shop, on a wooden bench, sat Pieter. He was a man of about sixty, though he might have been younger. Or older, for that matter. A fierce, bristling beard, worn shoes, and, above all, a loud voice, in which he commented on everything and every- one. “So, Pia” — he never forgot my name — “here you are again!”
