My very first memory is that of a balcony. In my mind, it appears like a black-and-white photograph. Looking up, I can still see a gray corner of the balcony to my right and the sky above it. There are long and straight slits to the left of the corner, but I cannot see through them. The memory comes from my parents’ apartment in Zagreb when I was about two years old, for they moved to Belgrade around that time. I just searched through my writings, but I could not find any mention of my first memory. Judging from my mother’s recollections, the balcony was important to me (“Throwing,” March 21, 2000). And so I went to see it today. Feeling sentimental, I took a walk to Martićeva 18, where my parents used to live at the time. To my chagrin, there are three balconies on the building, though: a big one just above the ground floor, and two small ones to each of its sides one floor above. There is no way for me to tell exactly which balcony it was without ferreting through dusty papers in some musty municipal office. But one of those three balconies it definitely is. The balcony, as it were. The slits are just as they are in my recollection, too.