Minut, I went back to the studio, this time resolved to put several clearly formulated questions to Jaša Alkalaj, about the people and events mentioned in the manuscript, to prevent him from straying into his meandering associations. I rang the doorbell, but there was no response. I decided Jaša wasn't there and, following his instructions, I looked for the key under the mat. Then I changed my mind, pulled my hand back, and set the mat down. I couldn't go in, I told Marko later, because I am incapable of entering anyone's apartment in the owner's absence, so I walked to the elevator at the other end of the corridor. While the elevator was on its way down, it occurred to me that I should have left a note, but by then it was too late; and besides, it is better, in terms of fending off bad luck, not to retrace one's steps, or, in this case, to use the same elevator, and I was not about to walk up to the fourteenth floor. I thought about waiting for a bit at the entrance to the building, because who knows, I said to Marko, maybe he'd just stepped out to the supermarket or a liquor store, or to the corner kiosk, and would be back in no time. A boy in a leather jacket was perched on the entrance steps; he was staring, head bent, at a magazine spread open on his knees. I probably wouldn't have noticed him, or maybe I would have just glanced at him while pacing back and forth in front of the building, but he looked up, and his eyes opened wide in an expression of disbelief. I took a few more steps, and only then did I stop and turn. The boy, his back to me, was punching numbers into his cell phone. When he put the phone to his ear, he turned around. We looked at each other, and though I don't know why, as I told Marko, I started for home right away. I didn't look back, I didn't want to find out whether the boy was following me or still standing at the entrance, listening to what they were telling him to do, so I lowered my head, hunched my shoulders, and walked faster, and the only thing I could think about was that I couldn't think. My head was a vast, deep void in which the blood throbbed painfully, and where, despite the void, there was no room for thought. It was only after I'd crossed several streets that I had a clear thought: I'd escaped. Then I turned, looked to the left, looked to the right, and decided that no one was following me. No one is following me, I thought, but I wasn't sure. I'm not sure, I thought. I entered a shop and stood by the display window. Several people walked past in the street, but none looked like the boy. I ought to give Jaša a call, I thought, and then I remembered he wasn't home. He is not home, I thought, which was irrelevant since I didn't have his phone number. I went back into the street. The boy was not after me, I could breathe a sigh of relief. That is when I noticed, as I told Marko, that I was no longer thinking in sentences, single words were all that was going through my head: house, for instance; I thought "house," and not, as you might expect, "I am going home," then I thought "joint," though I wanted to think "I could use a joint right now," then I thought "solitude" and then I knew that what I'd really been thinking was "one of these days my solitude is going to cost me my mind." And how long, Marko asked, did that go on? When I got home, I said, I thought "water," though I wanted to think "I'm really thirsty," and after I'd gulped down a glass of water, everything reverted to normal. In the bathroom, looking into the mirror, I even smiled at my fears, but my hands, no point in hiding it, were shaking. If you had told this to anyone else, Marko said, they'd think you'd gone off the deep end or that you suffer from paranoid delusions; first the man in the black trench coat, then the mysterious ad, then some crackpot manuscript, and now this boy getting instructions on his cell phone. And you, I asked, what do you think? I'm your friend, said Marko, and handed me a new joint, and friends don't ask, they know. The next day, however, he shook his head, he didn't know how something like this could ever happen, he said. Scrawled on the front door to my apartment in heavy black marker, in letters of all different sizes, were the words THOSE WHO KEEP COMPANY WITH JEWS WILL BE SWALLOWED BY THE NIGHT. The message started in the upper-left-hand corner, the first three words were in the top row: the word WITH, written smaller than the previous words, was in the second row, alone, probably because of the desire to make sure that JEWS was prominent and suitably visible; that word took up the third line, but for some reason it was on a slant, as if aiming for my doormat; it was followed by the first part of the warning, written in what were surprisingly regular and even letters, almost pleasing to the eye; and then everything dispersed with the word NIGHT written in erratic letters, probably to convey the horror of the night. Around this word, like little celestial bodies, floated swastikas (three), stylized skulls (two), penises (two), various symbols I was unfamiliar with (four), and one eye, which Marko claimed was a drawing of a vagina. I didn't wish to discuss this any further, since we were soon joined by neighbors, and each had a suggestion for what I ought to do. The neighbor from the apartment across the way started rubbing at one of the letters with the tip of his forefinger. If it smudges, he said, no problem, it will wash right off, if it doesn't smudge, that means they used permanent ink, and you'll have no choice but to paint the whole door. The letter he was rubbing was the initial J in JEWS. It smudged and we all breathed a sigh of relief. That filth should be washed off right away, said my ground-floor neighbor, and that very instant I was about to go and get water, detergent, and a rag. I was stopped by my upstairs neighbor, who insisted that the police should be called first, or at least a picture taken of the door, otherwise, he said, we would be considered co-perpetrators with these evildoers, giving them the go-ahead to commit more reprehensible acts. Fine, I said. I brought out my camera, clicked twice, it didn't work the first time, then went to get my washing paraphernalia. While I was dragging the rag across the door in broad sweeping motions, I listened to my neighbors and Marko berating and cursing the government, and then someone spotted a rat in the stairwell and the conversation took off in a new direction, following the trail of filthy, overflowing garbage bins, neglected parks, unswept streets, and the general sense of things falling apart. Meanwhile I finidied wiping the door. The letters were no longer visible, but the door was a shade darker, like a patchily erased blackboard on which the curving path of the sponge and layers of chalk are still visible, despite the class monitor's best efforts. Now that's better, said Marko. Go ahead and call the police, said the upstairs neighbor. Next time use more detergent, said the ground-floor neighbor. Those idiots should be put to death, said a neighbor I'd never met. Vim works wonders, said the ground-floor neighbor. It is astonishing that I didn't hear a thing, said the neighbor from across the hall. Scum of the earth, said the neighbor I'd never met. I would send them all straight to the quarry, and then you tell me if they'd ever do something like this again, said the neighbor who lived in the converted laundry room. Only a maniac would do something like that, said the neighbor I'd never met. Worse than maniacs, said Marko. Damn right, said the ground-floor neighbor. I took the rag out of the bucket, wrung it, and wiped the door once more. The stain turned a little lighter. The neighbors began to disperse. If you need anything, said the neighbor I'd never met, you know where to find me. I didn't, but I was reluctant to say so. Marko also had to leave; he had a date with a dealer near Hotel Slavija, and he was running late. In no time I stood alone in front of my messy door. I picked up the bucket, walked into my front hall, shut the door behind me, locked both locks, hooked the chain. I poured the dirty water into the toilet bowl. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands. Then I returned to the front hall, undid the chain, unlocked the locks, and opened the door. The stain looked darker, but otherwise nothing. I closed the door, locked the locks, and hooked the chain. I looked through the spy hole: the hallway was empty. The phone rang. It was Jaša. He wanted to know when we would be getting together again. I told him what had happened, and after a brief silence, he said that, sooner or later, everybody shows their true face. What mattered the most for me, however, he went on, was that I should pay no attention to that silliness, but stay on track. So which track is mine? I asked. In the Talmud it says that if you don't know where you are going, he said, any path will take you there. But what happens, I asked, if you know where you are going? Then the path doesn't matter, said Jaša, and hung up. Something stinks here, mumbled Marko. We were sitting in a pastry shop on Makedonska Street, across from the Youth Center, eating cream puffs and drinking