I shiver as I listen to your music!’

(Pokolgép, ‘Midnight Bell’)

I crawl out from underneath his bed. It’s midnight and he’s asleep, snoring under the blanket, reeking of booze. He drank too much again, beer and shots of pálinka. He should take better care of himself, but it’s not up to me to make decisions for him. I sit on the floor and observe the night; I’m hunting for signs in the shadows, in the barking of dogs, in the murmur of the boiler. No message for me tonight. I get up and look out into the street. Everything is still and quiet, almost like before the creation of the universe. Those were good times.

Cassette tapes lie scattered across the floor. He got drunk listening to his old demos again. There is a gutted computer in the corner. I think the video card is broken. Sometimes I have an urge to buy him a new one so he can finish his new album. I wonder how the finished record would sound. I hear it in his head, the ideas of it, but music is not made in the head, it’s made in the recording room.

I’m not a heavy metal fan. I listen to it because of him, Csaba, but I prefer Handel and Mozart. Call me old-­fashioned. Occasionally I go to Berlin and Vienna and New York to listen to the philharmonics or one of the string quartets that I like. I sometimes go to churches as well, mainly for Bach. A holiday, if you like. Even I need it from time to time.

I give him an hour, then I take out the nightmare. It’s hiding in my pocket; I’ve been working on it under the bed for two days. I shape it into a spider and carefully place it between Csaba’s lips. The spider crawls nimbly down Csaba’s throat and becomes one with him.

Csaba wakes up roaring an hour later. That’s how long the nightmare is; by then I’m back under the bed again, planning the next nightmare.

In the morning he can’t see me, but I’m standing right behind him. I watch him as he shaves. He usually doesn’t, but now he’s going to the welfare office for a subsidy. He won’t get it, I made sure of that. I study his face, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. I worry. He’s a little pale. I wonder if this face is up for second chances. I think yes, maybe. He still has that ferocity in his eyes that used to make women go crazy when he was on stage. He didn’t grow a belly, despite eating white bread and sausages all the time, canned beans too if they were cheap in the shop, and he often drinks red wine or beer in the evening. Good genes, I guess.