Moving through the shop when someone suddenly steps in front of you, and when you stop to let them pass, a book catches your eye, for no reason other than your eye is perfectly focused on it, and yes, you have to ask it why.
You take the book from the shelf -- Monica Ali, yes, I've heard of you -- and you read the first two pages, lost in its lyricism, but knowing that an old man discovers the body of his old friend hanging from a tree (like "a scarecrow"), and he cuts him down to tell us the story of their lives.
Four pages later, on Page 6:
"Excuse me," said a little vole of a man sitting by the window, "but do you accuse Salazar of fascism?"
"Accuse?" said Rui. "I certainly accuse him of nothing. In 1945, when he decreed all flags fly at half mast as a sign of respect for our dear departed Hitler, I saluted him. We supported the Germans, so of course it was a sad day for us all."
"But no," cried the little man with his lip aquiver, "we weren't with anybody."
"Oh," said Rui, stroking his nose, "I forget. But nevertheless I am sad when I am told to be sad."
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