Zelda noticed that his movements were beginning to seem a little uncoordinated. Perhaps it was just the booze, but it was a good sign. He put his glass down on the bedside table after one large gulp. His hand brushed her bare shoulder and arm. She felt herself shiver, but not with pleasure. He clearly misinterpreted the signal because he took her cigarette from her hand, put it out in the saucer, then leaned over to kiss her. The next thing she knew, his rubbery lips were squirming on hers, tasting of cigar smoke, his hand squeezing her breast so hard it hurt. He took her hand and placed it between his legs, so that she could feel his erection. She thought she was going to be sick and disengaged herself as quickly and gently as she could. “Whoa. Easy, boy,” she said. “There’s no hurry, is there?”

“What you want? You don’t want coke. You don’t want fuck. What you want?”

“What I really need,” said Zelda, “is to go to the toilet.”

“I come with you. I like to watch.”

“No.”

Tadić grinned and lay back on the pillows, one hand casually stroking her breast. She thought she could see traces of confusion in his eyes; they were losing their sharpness and focus, as if becoming aware of something wrong. She got up and went to the toilet, closed the door, then put the seat and the top down and sat. How long would it take? How long could she get away with? She could hear the muffled sound of the radio—a song she knew from her childhood in the orphanage, Frank Sinatra singing “High Hopes”—but nothing else. The smell of cigar smoke had got everywhere and was making her feel even more ill than her nerves were.

Finally, she thought she couldn’t get away with staying in the toilet any longer, so she opened the door slowly and peered out. Tadić was as she had left him, slumped on the bed, only now his shirt was undone all the way. His trouser belt was loose, his zipper down, his eyes closed; his drink balanced on his chest, which rose and fell slowly. But he must have heard her come out, for he stirred as she edged toward the bed, and his hooded eyes half-opened.

“Take your clothes off,” he said, slurring his words. “Strip for me. Strip for Goran.”

“What?”

“Undress for me. Now. Please.”

He gave his head a shake, as if to clear the cobwebs, and let it fall back against the pillows with a dull thud. He almost missed the bedside table with his glass as he put it down to wave his hand at her. “Go,” he said. “Strip.”