Marc received an email from Sandra today. They haven’t seen each other in a long time. She writes that London is an incredible city, that her research is going very well, but that the best thing is the pace of life there. She has met an artist from Eastern Europe called Jodorkovski whom, she says, Marc would love. ‘He’s a genius.’ She began noticing coloured circles on the pavements around her neighbourhood, polka dots the size of coins. The more she looked, the more she found. Some, perfectly circular and gently rounded, were black or white, whereas others, with more broken, uncertain edges, were miniature representations of colourful men and women walking hand in hand, of animals grazing, of houses and palaces, of cars driving along and many other kinds of urban scenes. The phenomenon interested her so much that she came up with an excuse and stayed behind late at the museum one night so she could monitor one of the few sections of pavement that did not yet have any polka dots. She had prepared a thermos of coffee, some biscuits and a Beta Band CD whose melodies emanated from the small speakers on the PC to be absorbed by fossils and Victorian bricks. At about 11 p.m. she parted the curtains and stole a look out into the street; behind her in the Main Hall, T-Rex, all 18-metres-long and 9-metres-high of him, stood watch over a darkness that was virtually solid. She waited but saw nothing. Tired at 3 a.m., she removed her dress, turned off the music, put the compass down next to the keyboard and, now in her underwear, lay down to sleep on the mattress her colleague William had brought in one day, in case anyone should have to work late. This sequence repeated itself until the eighth day, when a silhouette which had gradually been growing less faint took form at the end of the street pushing a shopping trolley ahead of it; it was around 1 a.m. It halted more or less directly outside the museum. A corpulent man, taking cans of paint out of the trolley, knelt down and began to spatter the pavement. And Sandra, suddenly and unexpectedly overcome by prudish feelings, couldn’t bring herself to look any longer, put the compass down next to the keyboard and got into bed. Sleep would not come until she heard the creak of the trolley wheels as the man moved off. She looked out the next morning to find monochrome dots on the pavement, none decorated with any figures or designs. A few days later, arriving for work in the morning, she came across the same man in the same spot, and stopped beside him. He looked at her. Do you like it? he asked. Well, I mean, it’s… What is it? I hate chewing gum, he said, eyes fixed on the ground, I’m finishing off the job I started the other night. She said nothing for a moment, then asked: What do you mean, chewing gum? He looked up and held her gaze for a moment before answering: There’s a café over there, buy me breakfast and I’ll tell you. My name’s Jodorkovski, but I like to be called J, the first letter of my name, J. Once they were seated he told her, in grave, confident tones, that he had become fed up of seeing the pavements plastered with chewing gum and taken it upon himself to paint it. Taking in the words of this fair-haired, blue eyed man, his fingers fat as cigars, she asked: But what’s the reason for doing the perfectly round ones black or white, and the ones with uneven edges in colour? Do you know what cancer is? he asked. Of course. Do you know what melanoma is? Yes, of course, I’m a biologist; melanoma is a cancer that manifests in a kind of mottling on the skin. Exactly, he said, cutting her off, but I wonder if you know that in melanomas the edges around the spots always have irregularities – that’s why I do the uneven edges in colour, to beautify this London cancer of chewing gum on the pavements. I didn’t have a chance to finish that night because I was on my way to the cinema, a late night screening, that’s why I’ve come back to do more painting today. I see, said Sandra. Neither spoke for a few moments, and then she asked: Which film did you see? Rossellini’s Journey to Italy, he said, it was on at the Royal Box. ‘After that, Marc, I found out that J was from a city named Ulan Erge, which is in Russia, a region called Kalmykia to be precise. I’ll send you a photo of him, he’s very good looking. I’m really taken with him. Tell me your news. Did you listen to the Sufjan CD I sent? Is the hut still standing? Write soon.’