Thessaloniki, I heard; I had arrived. I stood up, more cautiously this time, to avoid hitting anything; my hand searched, like a blind man's cane in the void, for my suitcase, but it seemed it had been stolen. In any case, I wasn't that upset about the few clothes I had just lost - although my pants had stains of vomit, but more about the gift I had hidden there for Arnold.

After all, I would be staying for two days, then I would pass through the narrow streets of Euboea. That's what some had decided. The filmmaker friend - and others, like in those years of exile - was waiting for me outside. Silence, be quiet, please. The last act was not progressing at all. Everyone looked visibly bewildered - perhaps I was to blame for this too - with the stage lights shining on us, highlighting the sweat.

I turned with a motion to dry my forehead. The usher was raising her voice in the crowded "Papadimitriou," threatening to throw them out. I went down. It made no sense, you see. After all, all those faces - the uncompromising ones - seemed familiar to me, most of them related.