The name of the Spaniard who worked with me was Alfredo. In the apple picking field that was too demanding a name to remember. They usually called him Alfonso or Antonio. His main tragedy was that he didn't speak French, but besides that, he also carried certain sadness in the way he walked and dressed. His clothes smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the first day he came, he coughed hard. It sounded like lung cancer had already knocked on his door. The rest of the team took pity on him but from afar, as they might have caught a kind of virus or infection, or the cancer itself, if they'd stood too close to him.
