this monstrously huge living space – at least fifteen square metres – there was a chair, and in front of the chair a microphone on a stand, a good quality professional amplifier and two enormous speakers.

Over by the wall there were three immense Bosch fridges. The guitarist opened the biggest one – it was empty – and put the bottle of vodka in the freezer. He explained:

'It's warm.'

'I haven't got a fridge yet,' I said.

'It happens,' the bard sympathised. 'Las.'

'What do you mean, "las",' I asked, puzzled.

'That's my name, Las. Not the one in my passport.'

'Anton,' I said, introducing myself. 'That is the name in my passport.'

'It happens,' Las sympathised again. 'Come far?'

'I live on the eighth,' I explained.

Las scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. He looked at the open windows and explained:

'I opened them so it wouldn't be so loud. Otherwise my ears can't take it. I was going to put in soundproofing, but I ran out of money.'

'That seems to be a common problem,' I said cautiously. 'I haven't even got a toilet.'

Las smiled triumphantly.

'I have. I've had it for a week! That door over there.'

When I got back, Las was melancholically slicing the salami. Unable to resist, I asked him:

'Why is your toilet so huge and English-looking?'

'Did you see the company label on it?' Las asked me. '"We invented the first toilet". Just had to buy it, didn't I, with that written on it? I keep meaning to scan the label and change it a little bit, write: "We were the first to guess that people need . . ."'

'I get the idea,' I said. 'I do have a shower installed, though.'

'Really?' Las said, standing up. 'I've been dreaming about having a shower for three days . . .'

I held out my keys.

'Meanwhile you organise the hors d'oeuvres,' Las said happily. 'The vodka has to cool for another ten minutes anyway. And I'll be quick.'

The door slammed shut, and I was left in a stranger's apartment – alone with an amplifier that was switched on, a half-sliced stick of salami and three huge, empty fridges.

Well, how about that! I would never have expected the easygoing social relations of a friendly communal apartment – or a student hostel – to exist inside buildings like this.

You use my toilet, and I'll get washed in your jacuzzi . . . And Pyotr Petrovich has a fridge, and Ivan Ivanovich promised to bring some vodka – he trades in the stuff – and Semyon Semyon cuts the sausage for the snacks very neatly, with loving care . . .

Probably the majority of the people with apartments there had bought them 'for posterity'. Using every last bit of money they could earn – and beg, steal or borrow. And it was only afterwards that the happy owners had realised that an apartment that size also required major finishing work. And that any construction firm wouldn't think twice about ripping off someone who had bought a home here. And that they still had to pay every month for the massive grounds, the underground car parks, the embankments and the park.

So the huge building was standing there half-empty, very nearly deserted. Of course, it was no tragedy if someone was a bit short of cash. But for the first time I could see with my own eyes that it was at least a tragicomedy.

How many people really lived in the Assol complex? Was I the only one who had noticed the bass guitar in the middle of the night and before that had the strange musician made his racket entirely unchallenged?

One person on each floor? It was probably even less than that . . .

But then who had sent the letter?

I tried to imagine Las cutting letters out of Pravda with nail scissors. I couldn't. Someone like him would have come up with something a bit more imaginative.

I closed my eyes, picturing the grey shadow of my eyelids falling across my pupils. Then I opened my eyes and looked round the apartment through the Twilight.

Not the slightest trace of any magic. Not even on the guitar, although a good instrument that has been in the hands of an Other or a potential Other remembers that touch for years.

And there was no trace anywhere of blue moss, that parasite of the Twilight that feasts on negative emotions. If the owner of the apartment ever fell into a depression, then he didn't do it here. Or else he had such a genuinely good time that