In Rome, at the Comboni House of St. Pancrazio north of Vatican City, Fr. Giorgetti, a missionary veteran from Sudan, who is a composer and music lover, always occupied the same place at dinner time. After saying the grace and resting his walking stick on the chair, he spread the linen serviette on his chest ready to do honour to everything available on the table. He never lacked appetite with his big size and sweet tooth. His memories of mission, the music programmes which he followed on his inseparable small radio with the help of an earphone, were the sparks that usually started the conversation. When for one reason or another, he wouldn’t come down for lunch or dinner, one had the impression that a dining room furniture had disappeared suddenly.

One day, in summertime, he arrived late. After sitting without greeting anyone, he began to eat. He had a rather sombre face, so at a certain point, someone asked him: “Is there anything wrong?” Finishing the soup, he answered: “It has never happened to me before. Blame it on the traffic. I was about to cross the road from the pavement behind our house, but I could not because the cars were passing continually one after the other. I waited and waited until a dog appeared on the sidewalk. I looked at it, he looked at me; then it approached, raised its leg and passed water on my right shoe. Seeing me so motionless, it must have certainly mistaken me for a light pole!” We, the community members, laughed for a week.