Hans-Pieter and Damjan are already there. A few weeks have passed. Murray has not been seen much in that time, though Maria has sort of forgiven him – will let him sit quietly in the Umorni Putnik, even if she is still not speaking to him. He has not seen much of Hans-Pieter either. Hans-Pieter has been painting Maria’s flat, painting out the fluorescent orange with something less oppressive, less like living inside a migraine. Murray fetches a Pan from Matteus, and joins Hans-Pieter and Damjan at the table near entrance, under the mirror. ‘Živjeli!’ It is the only Croatian word he knows. He takes off his scarf. A cold front is moving across the flat land, laying down frosts in the morning, frosts that quickly melt to leave everything shining wet. ‘So,’ he says, sitting. ‘So,’ Hans-Pieter echoes, his face stippled with paint. Damjan says nothing. There is a TV showing a Champions League match, with the sound off, and he is watching it. ‘We’ve not seen much of you, Murray,’ Hans-Pieter says.
