There was no sign of Sanja, so I went to help her with the shopping. I caught sight of her in the fruit section. I keep reliving the moment of our meeting. I remember, it was thirty years ago now, I was looking out the window of my student room at number 2 Franje Račkog and—there she was!—she was turning out of Vilsonovo Šetalište toward the window I was looking out of, her hair was wet from bathing . . . It must be that serotonin or some other neurotransmitter in my brain is automatically activated the instant I see her, because then my whole state changes for the better. I watched her secretly for a few minutes choosing fruit. The year when I had my heart attack, the grapes were very good, this year it’s cherries that are particularly delicious. Every year is different. I watch her smelling the peaches. But the fruit we buy today has no aroma.

The insurance company that is obliged to pay her sick leave is trying to free itself from that obligation. Since she had her stroke, the people who run the company where Sanja worked for eighteen years in the department dealing with the protection of refugees have not called once to ask how she is. Every time I call the insurance company, the person who answers the phone says that a certain Donna Pellegrini is working on “Sanja’s case” and will contact us and let us know about everything. Three weeks have passed, and Donna Pellegrini has not called. And so, in our world, Donna Pellegrini is the most important and therefore the most frequently mentioned person, although it is perfectly possible that she is an invented, nonexistent figure.

A quiet afternoon at work. With the volume low, I’m recording the speech of the Republican candidate Donald Trump, when I feel something warm on the back of my neck. I turn around and behind me is an ash-colored pit bull breathing heavily, one of those dogs with tiny eyes with small pupils, looking threateningly at me and growling, or I may have imagined the growling in my alarm. Fortunately, a woman soon appeared in the doorway, calling to the dog as though she were addressing a two-year-old. She apologized for taking it away from me. Exactly that: She apologized for depriving me of its company, convinced I was enjoying it. People here really like dogs. In the relationship between the dog, its owner, and me, I was actually the one at fault. The pit bull was not to blame for alarming me. My resistance to dogs is an absence of empathy, while dog owners cannot see beyond their emotional system; they expect the rest of the world to relate to their pets with the same fondness they do, because in the world of a person who loves, the only criterion is love.