a, o, and u with such skill that Yma Sumac might have envied her. I know what people think of pornography, but I am not at all interested in what goes on in the movie, not even if the plot gets intricate or ends in a mass orgy. At first I used to feel a certain measure of excitement that soon turned to boredom, what with the endless repetition of the same movements; the pornographic movie then lost all its erotic power and turned into a medley of attractive geometric patterns, which helped me think calmly about other things. About a pocket full of infinity, for instance. I turned the sound down, and while the unsheathed members of two detectives penetrated simultaneously the vagina and anus of the female protagonist, I reread Dragan Mišović's message. So the triangles are opening, fine, but where? And what does infinity have to do with it? Or maybe, I thought, as the heroine gnawed the corner of the pillow, everything should be understood as a sign of transformation, as an introduction to change. The six-pointed star, of course, has a clear meaning; something, however, was eluding me here; I knew that individuals from the Jewish community were involved, but clearly there was an aspect to their involvement I had paid no attention to, or else had not realized was there. Perhaps there was more than one aspect? My eyes began to shut, though on the screen the rhythm of ins and outs with every possible orifice was growing overzealous. The camera slid almost tenderly over the female protagonist's face, and her gaping mouth and darting tongue, probably meant to suggest passion at its peak, are the last images I remember. I know it is not healthy to sleep in an armchair in front of the television, not only because of the radiation emitted by the television, but also because of the consequences to the anatomy, the twisting of the spine and the harmful pressure on the joints, but this is a habit I cannot shake. So I fell asleep, and when I opened my eyes, electronic snow was streaming across the screen. I struggled up, my body cramped, my mouth dry, and went over to the window. Across the street, in front of the pharmacy not a single car was parked. I looked to the left, I looked to the right, then up at the sky. Gray, black in some places, it offered no hope of clearing, and I nearly retreated again to the armchair. I had to write that piece for Minut, which was threatening to turn into a nightmare: I hated writing in bad weather. It sounds childish, I know, but creativity is a game, and some games can't be played unless certain conditions are met. In my case, the game of writing was tied to weather. Some people require a particular kind of pencil, some absolute silence, others have to shut their eyes for a long time; I expect the sun's rays to fall on the paper and my hand, or on the keyboard and my fingers, and if the sun is not there, writing turns into torment, greater torment, because writing is a torment like no other in and of itself. I know what Marko would say: he would laugh and say with scorn that everybody wants to be a martyr: the writer, the baker, the postman, and the hatter. I'd like to know where Marko is now. The void I feel from his absence is as enormous as the mountain I stare at every day from my window. Absence is absence, he'd say, why measure it, and that, along with his lack of presence, is what disturbs my equilibrium. It was his commentaries, sometimes biting, sometimes searing, often on the mark, and seldom malicious, that held me back from plunging into all sorts of ventures, they forced me to question myself and tested my every fl ight of fancy. There are times when I think that if anyone were ever to come knocking at my door, this door here, it would be Marko. I am waiting in vain, of course, because if someone does knock, it will not be Marko, nor should I open the door but rather leave by the planned escape route. The details don't matter, let it suffice to say that it would begin with my pulling up the trapdoor in the kitchen floor. So I raged at the overcast sky, I raged at raging, I raged at admitting this and I raged because of something that was beyond my control, and who knows how much longer I would have gone on raging had the phone not rung. I didn't recognize the voice at first, but then caught on that it was Jaša Alkalaj. It would be good, he said, if you could come to the Jewish Historical Museum right away. He didn't say anything more. I scrambled to change my clothes, wash and shave, ate a piece of bread spread with margarine and honey, then hustled down the stairs and straight out into the street, where I flagged down a taxi. The taxi, a prehistoric Mercedes, was on the verge of falling apart, it looked as if only its own supernatural will was holding it together. The taxi driver, who tapped the ash off his cigarette into an ashtray above which there was a THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING sign, said not a word as we drove into Belgrade. He nodded when I opened the door; he nodded when I gave him the address; he nodded when we stopped at Kralja Petra Street; he nodded when I handed him the fare; he nodded when, saying goodbye, I left his vehicle. I thought that I ought to jot down his number; by my standards he was the perfect driver; however, as I patted my jacket pockets for a pen, the taxi dipped into the next street and the number soon evaporated from my memory. I nodded in parting and walked into the museum. At the entrance I was stopped by two young men. The museum is closed, they said, but when I gave Jaša Alkalaj's name, the shorter man of the two stepped into the glass booth and called someone. That's fine, he said, Jaša was expecting me, but up in the offices of the Jewish Community Center rather than in the museum. I called the elevator, one of those old-fashioned elevators in which the ride is always unpredictable, and slowly, as if I had several eternities before me, it took me to the third floor. The door opened, and I headed toward a room from which I could hear voices. I walked cautiously, as if afraid someone might jump on me through one of the many doors, until I made it to a large room where chaos beyond description reigned. No chaos lends itself to description, but how many instances of it had I witnessed in my life? Not counting the chaos in one's soul. No theories or mathematical explanations can describe that chaos, even if it can be simulated in a laboratory or in hospital and prison camp conditions. I stared in disbelief at this chaos, overturned tables and chairs, strewn papers, smashed glass, slashed paintings, and spilled paint. The words JEWS ARE VERMIN were scrawled on one of the walls, while on another wall was painted a yellow Star of David crossed with a black swastika. Not far from me, on the floor, I saw a painting by Jaša Alkalaj that had portrayed the figures of Slobodan and Mira Milošević; where the figures had been, there were yawning holes. Just beyond, on another painting full of Jewish symbolism was a yellow fluid, which, thanks to my experience with the doormats in front of my apartment, I recognized as urine. I saw Jaša Alkalaj and Isak Levi in the far corner with a group of people speaking in whispers, and I made my way toward them, carefully stepping over the rubble. Jaša saw me and came over. His face was part of the surrounding disarray: it looked as if it had come undone and then been slapped back together again. I extended my hand to convey my condolences, and he clutched it as though he was on the verge of an abyss. Meanwhile, the police arrived and generated even more chaos. In short, three or four days earlier, Jaša had brought the items to be exhibited to this room. The show, he said, was supposed to be set up on the floor below of course, in the museum, but since the space there was limited, it was agreed that over the First of May weekend they would leave everything in the room, and that on the Monday following, all the preparations for the opening would be made. That night, some people climbed up the courtyard side, no way of knowing how many, said Jaša, smashed the windows, broke in, and did this. He gestured around, even stepped aside so I could get a better view. But why? I asked, needlessly. They didn't destroy everything, he said, maybe because they didn't have the time or because they weren't interested in certain paintings. We'll wait, he continued, for the police to finish their investigation, then we'll have a look at what can still be shown. Wouldn't it be better, I asked, to cancel the show? Jaša gave me an angry look. Why cancel? he asked. Everything is ready, the invitations have been sent out, the catalog printed, people are curious; giving up now would mean admitting that those who did this accomplished what they set out to do. I looked around, scratched my head. His eyes less angry, he asked whether I thought that giving up meant admitting defeat. Yes, I said. Jaša looked at me again, this time without a trace of anger, and urged me to go home. This would take time, he said, and at home, he added, I had work to do. What? I protested, I have nothing going on. The piece for