When I returned to the dancing room, Karolina was gone. I sat on the couch next to a kissing couple, watched the people on the dance floor, and fell deeper and deeper into a sense of alienation. And just when I was wondering what I was doing there and had resolved to leave, the music stopped mid-song and the lights turned off. The crowd came to a baffled standstill, and from the corridor a halo of light, and a set of deep voices began to sing: “Sto lat, sto lat . . .” I got up to see. You and Maksio appeared in the door with a cake so big you had to hold it between the two of you. A circle of candles burned in its center. Within an instant the whole room had joined in: “Sto lat, sto lat,” they sang. “A hundred years, a hundred years shall you live for us.” Even I joined in, swept up by the momentum. The cake traveled slowly through the crowd toward Hania, who stood in the middle of the room, beaming with delight. You and Maksio reached her just as the song came to an end, a storm of cheers and congratulations raging through the air, boys whistling with fingers in their mouths. Hania bent over the cake. In the darkness of the room the candles were the only source of light. They lit her face from below. She took a large breath and blew out the little flames, her eyes half-closed, her painted face strained with effort. I told myself that she looked like a witch, but I hardly believed it. I couldn’t bring myself to hate her. The applause was deafening. Hania kissed Maksio on the cheek and then threw her arms around your neck. Someone called out a toast, to which the whole room lifted their glasses. And then the low lights came back on and the music started up again. I sat down, finished my drink, and resolved to leave. That is when I saw you making your way toward me through the crowd with a piece of cake in each hand. You were smiling at me, and I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. Sitting down next to me, you passed me a piece of cake.

“Are you all right? You look a little . . . something.”

“I’m OK,” I lied. The cake was a layered chocolate-and-cream affair, surprisingly heavy and wet. I could feel it through the flimsy, Bible-page-thin napkin.

“Have some,” you said, biting into your piece. “It’s good.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and looked me over.

“What is it?”

For a moment I said nothing, determined to punish you through silence. But then the need to speak up became inevitable and the words came to me all at once, rising up and taking shape like a balloon.

“She’s your contact, isn’t she?” I said.