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had never even thought of it. No, Vince should not be buried in the garden, no, he should be buried in Pest so that they could both visit his grave.
    Iza kissed her and now at last she felt secure under the shawl; they could relax. The girl’s mouth was cold as if every part of her felt the cold separately, her lips most of all. She was thirty-nine years old when Iza was born and didn’t think she’d ever hold a child in her arms again, and that they’d remain for ever as they were, with just the memory of the dead little boy. Then one day she was there, she had arrived, quicker to speak than to walk, a serious, wise, grown-up sort of child. She had never known anyone like Iza and there was much she couldn’t understand about her: she could only grasp a fraction of her life, of her books and the world she moved in. She didn’t know Iza’s new flat, the place she’d moved to somewhere on the Ring. Vince was already ill by then and they couldn’t take the trip to the capital to visit her there. How comfortable to live in a new flat! How astonished Captain would be to find himself on an upper floor.
    She only realised she had dropped off to sleep when she woke with a start to the sound of the doorbell.
    At first she thought she was alone and threw off the shawl in panic, but then she saw that Iza was standing in the room, her forehead propped against the window, examining the dark yard outside. The clock had hardly advanced from the point when she fell asleep; a dream was about to overtake her when the bell rang and dispelled it. Who could it be? Their old circle of friends had dispersed after 1923. Until Vince’s rehabilitation they lived like hermits. Those of their old acquaintance who would have returned to them after the war, when Vince’s reputation was spotless once again, were dismissed by both Vince and Iza – she herself would have let bygones be bygones, but not those two. At home – their home ! – they entertained only the most select company: Kolman the grocer, their neighbour Gica who stitched cloaks, the newsagent, the tobacconist, a retired postman, a female teacher with whom they spent the evenings on the bench in front of the museum, Dekker, Antal and a few students with catapults and grazed knees from the school on the corner, invited into the garden by Vince who taught them how to make arrows and hooks for fishing. Everyone knew that guests were not welcome after six in the evening because they’d be drinking their last coffee of the day, and once Vince was approaching eighty he tended to go to bed at seven. ‘It must be Kolman,’ thought the old woman and hastily warned Iza. Kolman knew nothing as yet and would keep them talking for ages. He was always interested in what was going on and there wasn’t a day when he didn’t drop in if he failed to see her in the shop.
    ‘I won’t let him in,’ replied Iza perfectly calmly. ‘Go and lie down, I’ll send Kolman away.’
    How good she was here, she couldn’t send him away by herself. She had never been able to turn anyone away. She heard the hall door open and was sure she’d been right because she heard Captain’s happy snuffling. Captain was scared of strangers but not of Kolman because he always brought some leftovers from the shop, some cabbages or carrots. She couldn’t hear anything else, only the animal snuffling and the patter of his nails as he entered the house. Kolman made no noise of greeting, neither did Iza. Why the silence? Kolman was a loud man usually. It must be that he had heard all about it, that’s why he was so quiet. She sat up and straightened her skirt. There was something strangely unsettling about the silence.
    It was Antal.
    She didn’t recognise him at first, seeing only that he was a man to judge by his outline, but Iza turned on the light again, which frightened her so much she leapt off the sofa and looked to escape into her bedroom.
    ‘Where are you going?’ asked Iza. ‘You see, it wasn’t