His face appeared on the television screen, then disappeared again. We won't see Radovan Karadzic, the alleged Bosnian war criminal and former president of the self-styled Replika Srpska again until the end of August, when he will appear at the international criminal tribunal for the former Yugoslavia to plead guilty or not guilty of crimes against humanity.
But before he appeared in the courtroom on Thursday, in the institution that he describes as a "natural disaster" - there was a moment of suspense. After seeing the blurred photo of the so-called Doctor Dabic, everybody wanted to know what Karadzic really looked like after his disappearance more than a decade ago.
His disguise was as unexpected as it was clever. Letting his hair and beard grow very long, he achieved anonymity, and with it freedom of movement. Nobody guessed who Dr Dabic was, except those who gave him that identity in the first place and waited for the right time to pick him up, like a ripe fruit.
Finally, there he was, sitting behind a desk, clean-shaven and dressed in an elegant blue suit. What a remarkable difference. But there is something in us that expects to see an outward sign of evil - as in medieval times when a woman was burned because a mole was taken to be the devil's mark, we monitor his facial expressions for signs of his extreme cruelty.
We look for anything that might possibly justify our belief that he is different, that he is a monster and nothing like us. That is the most important thing, to convince ourselves that an alleged war criminal is different from ordinary people. But time after time, from the Nuremberg trials onwards, all we see is our own reflection in a mirror.
In court, Karadzic did not display any emotion whatsoever. All he cared about was demonstrating that he was in control. His body language, the way he held his head high and looked directly at others in the room, betrayed the kind of arrogance typical of ideologues who believe in their cause above all other things. A sneer changed his indifferent expression when he was asked if he intended to defend himself. "Oh, but I have an invisible adviser!" he announced to the unimpressed judge.
In the Scheveningen detention centre he will enjoy friendly surroundings, much like a three-star hotel, with clean rooms, television sets, a library in his own language, newspapers from home, and even the possibility of cooking one's own food, or ordering a delivery from a restaurant.
For some of the other detainees there, he will be a star. With his attention-seeking character and his profession of a psychiatrist, perhaps Karadzic will start a therapy group for inmates, regardless of whether they are Serbs like him, or Muslims or Croats. Yes, of course they were recently killing each other in the wars, but that wasn't a personal issue. And there are so many volumes of poetry for him to write in his free time, of which he will now have plenty.
But what the new detainee does not know yet, and what will most certainly be very difficult and depressing for him, is the incredible boredom of a long trial that wears everybody down. Building a case and trying it is a slow, painstaking process. There are no chances for general statements, as the accused are forced to deal with the most banal, minute details of their case. To live through this, Radovan Karadzic will really need all the help he can get from his "invisible adviser".
Slavenka Drakulić, the author of the book They Would Never Hurt a Fly - War Criminals on Trial in The Hague.