She brushed her teeth and went to bed. Feeling her heart pounding, she cursed herself for that last cup of coffee, realising she would not get to sleep until the birds began chirping in the predawn twilight—that irritating morning reprimand to the sleepless inhabitants of a metropolis.

Chapter 12

To begin with, I made fun of him. But within a couple of months the structure of the novel began surprisingly to take shape. Comments, details of characters’ lives, traits and goals: the words were so tightly packed and so many lines crisscrossed that on parts of the wall there was no longer room to write anything new. Once all four walls were covered, he hauled a stepladder from the neighbours and his scribblings rose to the ceiling. The windowpanes, floor and other rooms were left untouched.

“Everything is connected,” he murmured, showing me the new arrows that had materialised overnight. “See? Everything in the world is connected.”

He spoke so passionately that it sometimes seemed like he really would finish his work on this occasion. But time progressed and all he did was draw squares and circles.

Was I a part of his scheme? Often, when I entered his sanctuary and looked around, I would furtively try to find my name. I explored and examined, but it was a hopeless task. It was almost impossible to decipher the abbreviations and crooked handwriting. And it was foolish to think I could inspire his interest. I was too ordinary to be a hero in his book. I was preoccupied with tedious affairs: his state of health, whether he was getting enough to eat, whether he was getting plastered; I wanted my presence at least to be of some help. During those months the country was gripped by a fever. Everybody was in a state of expectation, brimming with scepticism or hope, and waiting with bated breath for the outcome of this cruel revolution. Then there was the annexation of Crimea. It was awful, sad, and yet somehow distant.

I looked for work and new friends, and I slowly settled down into my life at the dormitory. I didn’t want to put away the suitcases, I didn’t want to settle down and make connections. The sense that this city would soon become a trap seemed to be in the air.

“What’s your novel called?” I asked him one time.

Instead of answering, he jabbed a finger toward an upper corner to the left of the door. There was one word, the only one in the whole room written in red marker. I drew closer and studied the word, which crawled from the wall onto the ceiling. “Dreamtime.” I read out the syllables, barely making out the handwriting.

“This is a book about a new prophet, dear daughter. A Bible for the new era!”

“Oh, God, Dad, that is terrible. Was writing one vengeful, spiteful book not enough for you? And now you want to write another one?”