Jasmina Žugić called today. She talked to my mother first. As we had just returned from a visit to my father, my mother mentioned it to Jasmina. “Tell me about your father,” she said when we started talking. My mother already told her that he had looked at me for a long time, but my mother thought my father was pleased to see me. “No,” I said, “it was impossible to tell why he was looking at me so intently.” Indeed, he was just staring at me, perhaps pleased to see me, perhaps perplexed about who I was to him. God knows, he might have recognized my father in him. He also stared at my shirt for a long time. “Will you write about this?” Jasmina asked. “No,” I said, “I have already written many things concerning experiences of this kind.”