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Now it’s evening. Mama and I are standing by the window.

Mama says I should look at the stars, I should find my own

star and give it a name. Then she talks. Poor Lucija, she says

… She experienced so little good, always in that hole with

no windows. Watching the door, all her life. Seeing who

came and who left, taking in mail for the other people in

the building and that’s how it went. Silvester was nice. He

played the organ in the church. Poor Srečko. What will

happen to him, eh? What do you say, my beautiful

Ballerina? And she takes me to bed. It’s dark. I listen to her

footsteps. They’re moving away. Now I know my mama is in

her room and that


is already asleep.

THE POSTMAN SAYS THERE IS no good in the world since

they went to the moon years ago with Sputnik. He says the

stars will take revenge and that things will be worse and

worse in the world. As he says this, he puts a telegram on

the table. I’m standing in the kitchen, looking at him.


is standing, too, looking through the window toward the

yard as if he can’t see the postman. The postman is

standing in the door, looking at the telegram he’s put on

the table. Mama is looking at it, too. I’m looking at the

postman. Mama doesn’t get a glass, she doesn’t pour him a

drink. I’m standing in the corner, watching. I’m wearing a

gray shirt and a blue skirt. Mama says that I got the skirt for

my twenty-fifth birthday, Mama says I’m thirty now and