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Kolman.’
    She felt ashamed and sank back on to the sofa, throwing the shawl across her knees. She understood from Iza’s tone that she didn’t want to be left alone with him, that she shouldn’t leave them, so she remained where she was despite all her instincts to the contrary. It was silly, of course, because they always behaved as though nothing had happened between them and she wouldn’t have to witness any embarrassing scenes. While the marriage lasted – that tense, nervous love – they were always disciplined in company, almost unnaturally so, and now they would continue to be courteous. They had been like this ever since they parted seven years ago, ever courteous.
    But she still didn’t like seeing them together. Iza had loved Antal, not that she ever spoke about her feelings, but you could hear it in her voice and see it in her eyes, the way they followed him, even though she didn’t know why he had left her. Something terrible must have occured, which was all the more terrifying since they had lived here together with them, under one roof, with only a wall to separate their bedrooms, and they had never been heard to quarrel or to raise their voices, no, there was never a cross word between them. Then one day they simply announced it: they were separating and Iza gave no reason for it. It was not as if Vince would have asked; his face simply clouded over, he shook his head, kissed first Iza, then Antal, then went out into the kitchen.
    ‘Mama is very tired,’ said Iza. ‘Don’t stay too long, please.’
    She spoke gently as if sister to brother. Antal was carrying a suitcase, their suitcase, and she immediately recognised it. Guessing what would be in it, she took a great gulp and turned away. She felt that if Antal opened it and she had to set eyes on Vince’s grey housecoat and the mug with the forget-me-not pattern that Lidia had already hidden away that morning, she’d have to leave the room.
    Antal shoved the case under the table as if he shared her feelings: let it be hidden.
    ‘I’m not even going to sit down,’ he said, bending to Captain, who had pushed his way through the half-open door into the room, and starting to stroke the dog’s ears. ‘I just wanted to see if mama needed anything. You weren’t sure this morning whether you could get here today. When did you arrive?’
    ‘At twelve.’
    They both looked at her. The old woman’s head suddenly cleared: she had not felt so awake since the morning. She must have misunderstood something, or Iza had misread the clock. Her father had died at a quarter to four. It was impossible.
    The silence in the room seemed to have thickened. The old woman stared at her daughter. Iza’s face was flushed, even her brow. Antal looked away and stared at the carpet.
    ‘Last time I saw him we were playing cards,’ said Iza, the most frightening thing about her voice being that it was calm, not angry, not defensive, not offering any explanation. ‘He’d had a really good day, he was fully conscious and laughing. I’ve seen enough people die to last me a lifetime, I want to remember my father’s living face.’
    Iza was always right. That was the strange thing about her: she had been right about everything, ever since she was born. When she was told off or accused of something as a child, it always turned out, sooner or later, that no one had any reason to be cross with her: Iza simply knew something that they, the adults, did not and when they apologised to her they did not even have the satisfaction of seeing her sulk or pull faces or so much as complain. Iza simply looked at them in a matter-of-fact way and declared in her thin little voice, ‘You see!’ And she was right now, too, to preserve the memory of her father’s laughing face from that previous day rather than the one with the silvery glaze this afternoon.
    Antal lit a cigarette and played with the match a while. His expression was blank, empty of everything including understanding.