It is strange that this letter should arrive just today, when thinking about how much I miss Oskar. Ten years already since he died, and still I am not over it, I probably will never be. He had so many strange friends, Oskar did. I wonder who this painter will be, and why did the man from the gallery send the letter. I am tempted to phone Judith first to ask her about Brian O'Donnel; she might also have known what his relationship with Oskar was, they had been good friends in their youth. Or Dieter Tsitra, whom Oskar interviewed a few times. I bet he would have been interested in the story... But no, this would take all the mystery away. That must not happen, I have to find something interesting in my life, something that quickens my pulse again: a mad trip could just be that something. I wish Marta would want to come with me... She is such an independent girl, how she left home when she was eighteen to live in that horrid shared appartment, and then that Catalan boyfriend of hers I never liked... I'm glad she's back in Madrid now, even if we don't see each other much.

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