The empty planter, on the other side of the window, stared at this new tenant like a sphinx: "germinate me or I will devour you." It was about three meters long, matching the living room window, forty centimeters wide and the same "deep," as they say in good Portuguese. It was like an Olympic lane in a gnome club, some 15 years after the gnomes abandoned the club. There were missing pills, plenty of pigeon droppings, a volume in the corner could be either the remains of a mouse or a crumpled insert from Mappin or Mesbla, subjected to the caresses of time since 1987.