These days, he is into music. His ears and nose are pierced, and he has a tattoo of a dragon in several colors above one elbow. He plays guitar, composes music, and writes the lyrics for his own music. The lyrics are in English. I think that he imitates Lenny Kravitz.

A young woman lives in the attic-apartment of our house. She works for Radio Television Serbia. She complains frequently that the loud music from the garsonyera disturbs her. Several times, she called the police. The policemen came very quickly, usually two or three of them. They were rather young. Initially, they are quite strict in their attitude, but then they settled down to listen to the music themselves. They were stern again as they departed. They said that their visit was a warning, and if the misdemeanor was repeated, there would be an exemplary punishment. These visits, like a game, were repeated several times.

These days, the woman from the mansarde has new method of argument. She rings the doorbell of the garsonyera. Inside, The Propellerheads’ song "Take California" can be heard. The tattooed lad with an earring in his ear is ready for her polemics. He says the music is not too loud, and besides, it's only eight o'clock. No one is asleep yet, and there is no one who could be bothered by music. This is good music, he argues, not like that which can be heard on the squares and bridges of Belgrade.

The mansarde woman is bothered by his music, even if not very loud. She works hard, and often at night. Does the young man know that the building of Radio Television Serbia (RTS) has been bombed, and that several of her colleagues were killed? And he keeps listening to "that American and English music".

“And which music do you listen to?”he asks. “Serbian spiritual,” she says.

A little later, I also have a talk with the young man from the garsonyera. I explain to him that these are"dark times.” I implore him to be more circumspect. Perhaps it might be better if he listened to "that American and English music" quietly. I do not think that his argument with the mansarde woman is a special cause for worry, but I know that in dark times, trouble may start that way.

I see that he is not going to accept the advice.

I return to my flat. For consolation, I quote Hannah Arendt to myself: "Wisdom is a virtue of old age, and it seems to come only to those who, when young, were neither wise nor prudent."