Ten years had passed; you stopped the car, we got out and crossed the road, and only then did I see that at its edge was a sheer drop. “We got off easy!” We looked into the abyss, and from under my shoes pebbles started rolling downhill.

But do you remember the snow in Sarajevo? In the winter of 1988, we took the cable car up Trebević Mountain. The road from the overlook was icy, but some rare cars passed us nevertheless. The snow was deep, we had brought a sled. The photograph taken at that time by the photographer from Our Days magazine is a reminder of the month in which I let my beard grow, for the first and only time in my life. We had met him on the way, before the path began to go downhill toward that mountain hut, whose name I’ve forgotten. Walking down the icy slope was more effort than sitting on the sled and letting it take us where we were headed. However, the road here runs along dangerous edges above steep drops, which I hadn’t taken into account. The sled sped up dizzyingly, and I remember my inexpressible fear that a late vehicle could appear from the opposite direction. Sanja went silent, you covered your eyes with your little hands, while I had no choice, I hugged you to me and threw myself, together with the sled under me, to the right. I tore my jeans, Sanja injured her knee, and I think she hasn’t forgiven me to this day. But had the sled taken us to the left, into the abyss, that photo of the little family in the snow would have been our last photo. And, I remember, that same evening, when we got home, I shaved off my beard.

We drive through Flagstaff. This is the town where Harun lives now. I want to stop, to see his apartment, to look around the district where he lives. Simple curiosity. But he refuses. “It’s not important,” he says. It’s more important that we should reach the desert as soon as possible in order for him to photograph the night sky in time, because the map of clouds on his mobile forecasts rain before midnight. He’s a photographer. And I like his pictures. But there’s something natural in my wish to get to know the area where he lives. If he had come to my new address, I would have been glad to show him the place, because I think that the space where we live redefines us, shows us changed, the way we are now. That’s why I want to see what he is like now. “I want to see the view from your window,” I say. And he raises his arm irritably from the steering wheel, points at the glass pane in front of us, and says: “That’s my window!”