August opened the window, and a heavy swirl of warm air hit his face. No help here, either. The nights were warm and sticky, and he stayed up late, waiting for some freshness and thinking, thinking. He'd feel beaten up at work. Like now. He shook his thermos, only to hear there was no more coffee. Normally, it would mean he was through with his work and could go home. Not today, with the final exams coming and papers being collected and corrected. Beside his part-time teaching assignment, he did administration, with an unrivalled zeal.

A cheerful female face smiled at him through the door. Kathleen, a postgraduate specialized in Wordsworth and co., a good-humoured brunette with a brutal grin. She watched him pull his feet off the desk. 'Care for a drink, Gus?' - Ah...I'm afraid I'm stuck here for a while...for ages, actually. Not tonight. Thanks, anyway,' - OK, maybe next time.' She disappeared, not at all discouraged. He is lame tonight, too lame even for the most stupid jokes, let alone something more serious she might expect from him. But she will wait. Women have always been willing to wait for you, my dear little August. Who said, no messing around at work? You must be kidding.

The phone rang. Stanley Nozick.

'So, what do you think? About the forum, next Tuesday?' his sleepy voice said. Stanley slept very little, indeed, but he didn't need more than that. Sluggishness was his disguise, for both his sharpness and his fragility. August had known him for more than twenty years and was the closest to what you call the 'best friend.'

'Hm.' He had seen the invitation to a forum of English departments, but still hoped to be spared. 'Why me?'

'You need reasons? So old-fashioned. Let's see. Hm. You've got the looks,' Stanley said, imperturbably.

'You little bastard,' he sighed. Stanley was absorbed by South Africa, the apartheid, Coetzee, Antjie Krog, and took the suffering of the world personally. August's task - at least one of the reasons he was hired - was to tackle Stanley's everyday nightmares, such as facing large groups of people, be it faculty meetings, literary matines or fora of English Departments.

'On Tuesday?' he asked, unnecessarily.

'On Tuesday,' confirmed Stanley. 'Wait...Oh I don't know, ask Kathleen. You should at least be glad to visit your alma mater, for God's sake.'

'Alma mater,' the same for both of them, was the NYU. Inattentively, he listened to Stanley's usual phlegmatic digressions into his numerous other anxieties, he chuckled and he laughed. Whom are you kidding, he thought. NYU meant Grace. In 2005, it was virtually - laughing out loud - impossible to disappear if at least five other persons were interested in your whereabouts. And even less possible with the kind of work he was doing. He came across Grace's name in 'West 10th' and other university journals, and in 'Open City,' once; most probably, she majored, or at the very least minored in creative writing. She was good, no, she was in top form, and she was probably happy.

One of his first strolls outside Chris's apartment was to the university campus; it was not that far, he went on foot. He made a full circle around the Washington Square Park, watching young fearless faces who inhabited another world. It was normal, the world - everyone's future world - was being rebuilt here, in places like this, every six years from scratch and taken outside, either to destroy the old one or to sustain it, and both was necessary to keep everything going. August saw familiar places haunted by ghosts only he, - and Stanley, and Chris, - could see.

Especially one old cafe - the arty tent, an early home to Bob Dylan, the Raves, Kool and the Gang - gave him an eerie feeling, being the place he once took Stanley to to meet Chris, at last, and Stanley blushed at the royal calm and beauty of Chris, August hadn't seen Stanley blush before, and it was awkward at first, until they had had their weed, and they became one soul in three bodies, or maybe one body with three souls in it, and they were a karass, August said, and Stanley said, Aha, you've read the Cat's Cradle I gave you, and Chris said, I was there when the bomb exploded, and she said I love you to August, and she said I love you to Stanley, and it was a perfect piece of foma, or harmless lies, which make your nights tender and your days worth living... Busy, busy, busy...

He didn't feel sadness or nostalgia, was too impatient for that now, the old ghosts made place for a new one, the one he was now expecting to meet behind every corner. Could He, would He send Grace to him sometime? He, the great master of foma? He struggled to imagine this place without him, but with Grace, it was weird. The same place, two different moments. The circle was complete and they both were in it, but at the opposite sides. and that was what was wrong with all encounters which do take place, but miss each other in time.

Eventually, he'd visit the university many times more. He did not expect to meet Grace, and he didn't.

But it simply couldn't last this way.