Silva had sat staring at her sister. She was probably referring to her relations with Skënder Bermema which had been the talk of the town but which no one — including Silva. — really knew anything about, Silva was tempted to say, “What’s all the mystery about Skënder Bermema? You might at least tell me! You’re always making enigmatic references to it …Unless you only met him in a dream, or vice-versa, or unless the gossips themselves dreamed it all up …” But that day Ana had been talking about somebody else, a third man, and that wasn’t the moment to try to find out about Skënder Bermema. Nor did a suitable occasion present itself later. Ana never told Silva her secret; she was to take it with her to the grave.
Anyhow, that day, the subject of conversation was somebody else. “Who is it you want to marry?” Silva had asked, finally. And thee, for the first time, Ana had uttered the name of Besnik Straga.
“The man who was in Moscow and has jest broken off his engagement?” Silva asked.
Ana nodded.
“Yes. Perhaps yoe remember me going to dinner with Victor Hila a few weeks ago? Well, it was there I met him.“
“And what are you going to do now?”
“I’ve told you. I’m going to marry him.”
Silva, perched now on a corner of the rose-strewn marble slab, huddled up to keep out the cold, felt a great emptiness inside her. Scraps of memories whirled around her indistinguishably; none emerged more distinct than the others. Then vaguely, distantly, they formed into a kind of television film with the sound turned off: first came the scandal caused by the announcement of Ana’s divorce; thee the legal proceedings, with Frédéric coming into court carrying an armful of books by Skënder Bermema in which he’d marked all the passages he alleged referred to the author’s affair with Ana; the gossip; Ana’s dignified behaviour throughout. The storm, which Ana, with her talent for making everything around her light and airy, transformed into a spring shower, was followed by a fiat calm: her marriage to Besnik Strega; the little dinner party with just a few close friends. When, after the first few weeks, they assessed the damage this earthquake of theirs had caused among their circle, they realized there hadn’t been any great upheavals, apart from one loss that affected them deeply: they couldn’t see the Bermemas any more.
Silva remembered a bright rainy afternoon when she and Ana were walking past the puppet theatre, and her sister nudged her and whispered, “Look, Silva — that’s the girl who was engaged to Besnik …” The girl was hurrying along under a transparent umbrella which cast pale mauve reflections on to her face. In that lavender light her expression struck Silva, who had never seen her before, as full of mystery. There was no trace of resentment in Ana’s eyes or voice. She just said, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”, when the girl had gone past, Silva didn’t know what to say. She agreed. When she saw the girl again later, after she’d got married to an engineer, she still seemed just as mysterious as on that first day, through that mauve mist. But perhaps this was because Silva had heard people say that although she was so attractive to men, she was also proud and self-willed; it was even whispered that she was very cold towards her husband. But Silva was rather sceptical about that. Perhaps because of all the tittle-tattle about Ana, she tended to discount rumours about women’s infidelity. There was much more to be said about the infidelity of men.
Silva sighed. In the end, what did it all matter? She’d come here for something else. She stared at the wet marble; her eyes were so tired they hurt. What would she have said to her sister if she’d still been alive? “Ana, I’m going to divorce Gjergj”? She shuddered. Oh no, she thought. Never! She’d heard someone else use such words, and now she wanted to give them back, like something she’d borrowed that didn’t suit her. Like most younger sisters, she’d often imitated Ana, but the time for that had gone by. They had been as one, like sisters in the ancient ballads, and they still were one. But now they were like twin water-lilies, the invisible roots of one of which were dead. Even though people still spoke of them together, the old symmetry was no more. The words Silva had been on the point of saying were quite alien to her.
She glanced around. No one. When she looked at her watch she couldn’t believe her eyes: it was after two o’clock. At home they’d have been wondering where she was. She felt her lips curve in a bitter smile. Perhaps she’d smile like this when she first spoke to Gjergj. It was late, but she hadn’t yet bothered to think what she’d say to him. She stood up, smoothed her skirt down, and started to make her way out of the cemetery. The worst would be if he tried to hide the truth, and degraded himself in her eyes with petty lies. How horrible! thought Silva, as if a new misfortune had suddenly been revealed to her. I only hope it won’t be like that, she thought as she got on to the almost empty bus. Then she wondered what it would be like if he simply admitted he was having an affair; at this idea she wasn’t quite so shattered. She sighed again. Whichever way she looked at it, she couldn’t see any solution. What horrible chance made me go by that cursed café, she wondered. It would have been better for me not to know. I'd a hundred times rather not have seen anything.
The bus picked up passengers at every stop. It was almost three o’clock by the time she got off. She still hadn’t thought what she would say to Gjergj, She ought at least to have an answer ready when he asked where she’d been. But she felt too worn out to think about anything. She was almost surprised to see a couple of young men unloading crates of mineral water from a lorry outside a bar in the street where she lived. They whistled as they staggered across the pavement to the shop, the bottles clinking. Was life really still going on as if nothing had happened?
She paused for a moment outside the apartment as if to muster her strength. Then she took her key out of her bag, and trying, heaven knows why, to make as little noise as possible, opened the door. In the hall she took her coat off and waited for Gjergj to come and ask where she’d got to. But a suspicious quiet reigned. What if he hadn’t come back? It vaguely occurred to her that he might still be there in the café with the girl, or lunching tête-à-tête with her in some restaurant. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She snatched the scarf from round her neck almost violently — it seemed to cling on — and propelled by fury at the possibility she’d just been considering, she burst into the kitchen. And there was Gjergj, standing by the French window that opened on to the balcony. She was so astonished she almost cried out, “You’re here!” He was smoking. The face he turned towards her, though it showed no surprise, wore a frown. What was he looking like that for? Perhaps he knew…Perhaps he’d seen her though the window of the café… And now…Attack was the best form of defence! All this flashed through Suva’s mind in less than a second. Then something made her look at Brikena, who was busy at the dresser: she wore the same sullen expression. The explanation must be worse than that, she thought, stunned. But what could it be? That he had indeed seen her and had no intention of defending himself, even by attacking her, but would calmly, cruelly, lethally tell her he loved someone else, and… and…that he’d told his daughter about it …so that she could choose between her father and mother…So there was something worse, much much worse (“Fondest fondest love”‘)…Perhaps…perhaps…(the word “separation” came into her mind with the harsh tearing sound of someone ripping a length of cloth). And all that had taken no more than another second…