His wife knocked on the door and without opening it, shouted that they were going to pick her up in a car. And that she’d be back some time the next day. He shouted “Okay” and remained lying in the same pose—on his stomach, face buried in the pillow.

He stayed that way for quite a while after the front door had clicked closed behind her. Then he lifted his head and shoulders so suddenly and violently that his back cracked. He’d realized there were terribly many hours until tomorrow and he didn’t know what to do with those hours.

He couldn’t keep sleeping. He’d slept on and off for almost three days now. Going out for a walk in the city was out of the question, that seemed scarier than starting school over from the first grade.

It was slowly getting dark in the room and he rather felt it with his temples than saw it, because he was still lying with his eyes closed. He felt the dark as a sort of coolness that was slowly enveloping him from all sides.

He sat up and turned the TV on. He clicked through several channels but couldn’t find anything to hold his attention and turned it off. He thought of all the time remaining until tomorrow again. He could go around the world and back in that time. Then he seemed to have fallen asleep again for a while. He woke up with his heart pounding, still under the impression of the dream he’d been having. The dream was a New York one. Which was really weird because he’d never been to New York and had only a very vague idea of that city and all those street canyons or whatever they were called and the skyscrapers. In his dream, however, he saw that very city with great clarity and detail, and particularly the place where he was. He was at Broadway. How he knew it was Broadway, he had no idea. He was supposed to go somewhere so he went into the subway. Then suddenly the entire street rose up and stood vertically, turning into a gigantic skyscraper itself. And the subway became an elevator that whisked him upwards. And then he woke up.

The temperature in the room had plummeted. Good thing he’d thought to throw a blanket over himself—when he’d done that, he didn’t remember. The little ruby-red numbers on the video recorder clock showed midnight. Years ago, he’d get up and pour himself a drink during those endless nights… The first one would be enough to relax him, and after the second he’d pick up the phone and start calling everyone he knew in alphabetical order—the way they appeared in the notebook. Sometimes he’d find kindly disposed interlocutors and wonder at himself—that he could lead such light, funny and cheerful conversation. Meanwhile he’d keep pouring himself drinks. He’d be done with the phone only after he’d finished the bottle. And often, he wouldn’t remember the last few conversations the following morning.

But now he was not supposed to drink anymore either, another refuge that had been taken from him.

Reading he’d given up long ago. Or rather, there was a book lying around on the nightstand next to his head. Sometimes he picked it up and started reading from the place he thought he’d left off. However, he could remember neither the characters, nor what was happening to them. He could as well be reading the hieroglyphs on the wallpaper pattern.

Back then, a long time ago, he used to write poetry when he was having one of those periods. The poems came to him on their own and deep inside he didn’t believe he was a poet because he couldn’t give himself any credit for writing them. He did send them to be published though and everyone always liked them and they received a great deal of praise. In recent years he’d tried the trick with poetry writing again but nothing came out anymore. That silver cord that used to sound from time to time in his soul was apparently ultimately and hopelessly broken.

He got up, went to the kitchen and had a glass of milk. He looked out of the window but there was a fog and he couldn’t see anything outside—only the light of the street lamps penetrated the fog in blurry yellow spots like windswept sunflowers.

He went back to his bedroom and lay down on the bed.

How many poems had he written so far in his life, both published and unpublished—perhaps over a thousand. With very few exceptions he could barely remember their contents.

The front door’s doorknob clicked. He heard footsteps.

Then he heard his wife’s voice: “It’s me. I’m back.”

Judging by the noises, his wife had gone in the bathroom and turned on the faucets.

Thank God! Nothing else mattered now, only that she was here, home.

He reached over and picked the open book next to his head—Conversations with Joseph Brodsky by Solomon Volkov. He turned back the page to catch up and immediately found the following passage, which stunned him:

Brodsky: … I do remember, though, what seemed to me like my first one hundred percent New York dream. I dreamed I had to leave here, leave Greenwich Village, and go somewhere on 120th or 130th Street, which required me taking the subway. When I walked up to the subway, though, I suddenly saw that all of Broadway—that is, from here to Harlem, say, or even beyond—was rising up and becoming vertical! That is, the entire long street was transformed instantaneously into an awe-inspiring skyscraper. The subway ceased to be a subway and became an elevator. So I went up, feeling all the while that Broadway was standing up too! It was a stunning sensation![1]

He couldn’t remember if he’d already read that passage or not. Nevertheless, that was exactly what he’d dreamed—Broadway standing up!

He put the book down and closed his eyes. And in that moment something sprang up in his head, something so distinct that at first he didn’t understand what it was. Then he understood. It was a small poem, only a few verses long, standing firmly underneath his eyelids as if carved there with a chisel. He was certain he’d remember it forever—so he didn’t even think of writing it down.

Kosta took off his watch and placed it on the table in front of him. His head was pounding from all the beers. He’d been drinking it up all night while waiting for Milena to call. He picked up the marker and started writing over the blank crossword puzzle in the paper: “I’m fine! I’m fine! I’m fine!” He wrote it seven times, then wrote the word “idiot” in big fat letters and looked at the watch. Three minutes had passed. He decided to wait for Milena’s call for another half hour, until two o’clock, and then go to The Old Pear Tree for a bite to eat.

A fly landed at the table, on the newspaper. It landed on the first square of the word whose clue read: An insect that spreads disease. Kosta stared at it. He had the feeling the fly was staring back. They were staring at each other and neither was looking away. That went on for too long. Kosta looked at the watch out of the corner of his eye. Another ten minutes had passed.

Kosta started imagining the crossword puzzle slowly filling up with the objects from its clues—square after square, vertical line after vertical line, horizontal line after horizontal line—with cities, poets, animals, villages, Nobel laureates… And so on. And so on. He had the feeling the interesting part always started after the “and so on”. He raised his hand and slammed it down over the fly. Then he slowly lifted it and peered underneath. There wasn’t a whiff of a fly there. The fly had fucked him over. Fifteen minutes to go until two. He put on his watch. This long-drawn drama with Milena had to end some time. He was not going to call her, period. Someone else was feeling up her chocolate legs right now. He took out the note he had jotted down at dawn, when his head had been a real jam, and reread it:

I am a point in the the Universe. Nobody knows what is going on in my head. There are cobwebs hanging in my head. I’m going out to shovel some snow. I want to shovel some snow but there is no snow, because it’s June. There is no snow, because it’s June.

All night long the cats outside were shrieking like wounded lieutenants. You have to believe you can collect the pieces, glue them together. Cheers, world. Cheers, Bulgaria. I’m coming.

A drinking fountain covered in foliage. The water is delicious and soft… and cold, bracing. You keep drinking and drinking, and drinking…

You need to be aware where a text can take you. Words ascend to the sky like a stairway. How trite. Like chewing on rotten hay. Have you ever chewed on rotten hay?

How pleasant it is to ramble away. To spew out rounds of words from your skull.

There’s a guitar in the corner. Who was it that wrote, the guitar in the corner will make a great birdhouse? Who wrote that? Wasn’t it me?

There are cobwebs hanging in my head. Everything’s piled high like in some attic room that hasn’t been visited in decades. Somebody opens the windows, sunlight streams in, the draught blows away the dust and the silver cross of my grandfather, Father Konstantin, flashed underneath. Funny thing. That’s the first time I’ve thought of Father Konstantin…

Kosta put on his shoes and went out. The Old Pear Tree was empty. Three dogs were lying around under the plastic garden tables covered with yellowish tablecloths. Kosta imagined a Dalmatian-patterned jeep stopping in the street outside and the three dogs getting out of it, pushing their sunglasses up on their foreheads, going into the pub’s small courtyard and sitting at a table, then making three orders for mixed kebab, gobbling them down, ordering another round of mixed kebab, gobbling that down, too, exchanging looks, burping and finally lying under the table, heavy with food, to take their afternoon naps.

The waiter boy came and handed him the folder containing the menu. Kosta ordered mixed kebab without even opening it. The boy took the menu back and went into the pub. Kosta didn’t know if he’d picked up his order. It was possible he hadn’t, because he looked like someone who’d gotten exactly 2.33[1] on his matriculation exam.

The dogs lying under the table next to his sighed and sank back into their afternoon nap. Lucky fellows, Kosta thought. He took out his marker and wrote “Change” on the grubby tablecloth. Then he signed his most presidential signature.

His mixed kebab arrived. The French fries looked like little fried splinters. And the kebab looked like a little torch. Insulting, yes, insulting. Kosta took out the marker and wrote “insulting” on the greasy plate. Then he started swallowing slowly. He ate everything diligently, down to the last splinter, the last coal. He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. He snapped his fingers for the check. He paid, tempted for a moment to imagine himself lying down next to dogs, snuggling his back against their warm hairy backs, but then gritted his teeth, dispelling the temptation, and headed home.

As he unlocked the door, he heard the telephone ringing. He threw the keys down on the granite floor and rushed to the living room.

“Milena!” he panted into the receiver.

“This is Ms. Mihaylova, Mrs. Elena Mihaylova’s daughter. Is this Konstatin?”

“The form tutor’s daughter?”

“Mother died this morning. The funeral is the day after tomorrow. I was constantly by her side at the end. She said a lot of nice things about you, and your entire class. I think she’d be happy, from up there, if you came to the funeral.”

“Yes. I’ll… I’ll be there.”

“Please call the others. I could only find your number.” She hung up.

Kosta sank into a chair. His eyes slid over the crossword puzzle. The fly was back on its square. Kosta started raising his right palm very slowly. Then he slammed it down on it. He was almost certain he’d squelched it. But he was afraid to lift his hand. Yes, he was afraid.