The Walkman spun its reels eagerly, as Balázs eagerly spun his dreams in his head. One amplified the other. At last, he could almost make out the melodies, a sort of hypnotic stream, like the sound of a river; a river that’s a street, a street that’s night and fog. The fog is the taste of cheap booze in your mouth, the neighboring houses are only phantasmagoric sets, just like the sky, just like you. Nothing is real, and yet it’s more real than your life. You grab the girl’s hand; you fear that the night will end – but you know that dawn will never come. The city is empty and yet filled to the brim with youth; the pubs are all closed and yet they are all open, your money is barely enough for a beer but it also never, ever runs out. Daytime is a distant memory, you’re only really alive when . . .

Here the click of the Walkman woke him up. The cassette had ended.

The last time anyone saw Balázs was one Friday in the Rathole. He sat by the counter drinking his beer. Rat gave him another one. He asked Balázs how the book was going. Balázs nodded, giving a thumbs-up. He was lying, of course. Nothing was all right. Everything was wrong. He thought about killing himself, removing himself from this desolate, empty age. Maybe tonight. Why wait any longer?

He left the bar around midnight, walking home through the empty streets. A heavy fog was descending, and in his mind’s eye Balázs saw his own body lying in the grass, dew settling on it when a passerby finds it in the morning. But how should he do it? A jump? Sleeping pills? A blade?

A person was standing in the fog, waiting for him. Balázs stopped daydreaming about death, because he could recognize this shape out of a thousand.

‘Hey. You’re late, as always,’ said Brigitta, and she smiled. She was just as Balázs remembered her from their teenage years, not yet undone by years and sickness.

He knew he had arrived home.

Brigitta reached out her hands to him.

‘Let’s hurry, the show is about to start!’

Balázs took her hands; they were cold and wet, as if made from the fog itself. He didn’t mind; right at this moment nothing was amiss.

‘Fogtown is playing tonight?’ he asked.

She laughed.

‘You dummy. You know they always play. We just have to find them!’

With that she led him into the fog, and he was never seen again.

This is what happened. This must have happened.

Márton Kopaszhegyi-Kézi was found dead one March morning by a passerby. There were no bruises or wounds on the body, and no sign of toxins in his blood. His body was cold and wet, just as he described Balázs.