Vera slowly nodded. “That was what she wanted. For it to be burned.”
Sredoje hesitated, finally got to his feet, picked up the little book from the table, and looked around for a suitable spot to carry out this decision. He moved slowly, as if hoping that Vera or something else would interfere, preventing the disappearance of the last thing that bound them together. Vera, too, hoped for that, but no hindrance, no disagreement arose. Their throats went tight; they would have shouted to each other that what they were doing was madness, but their voices wouldn’t let them. Sredoje’s eyes fell upon a corroded tin tray on the window sill; he walked over and picked it up. “May I use this?” he asked, looking at Vera.
“You may,” she said, fixing her eyes on the tray.
He placed the tray on the table, the diary on the tray, and took out some matches. He lit one and again looked questioningly at Vera, but she kept her eyes steadily on the tray; then he lifted the front cover of the book with the gold lettering “Poésie” and brought the lighted match to the first page, which had opened with the cover. The flame caught the corner of the page, crawled toward its center, then went out. But now, paying more attention to what he was doing, Sredoje took the book and stood it with the pages spread, lit another match and put it to each page one by one. A dozen little flames flared up, ran along the pages and into the heart of the book. But there wasn’t enough air for the fire, so Sredoje had to spread the pages more with his fingers. The little flames burned him as he pulled apart the book with a vengeance, pulled as if driven by a need, a conviction. Vera, frowning with impatience, watched the fire on the tray. Finally the flames caught on, licked around the covers, curling them and blackening them, joining in a single reddish-yellow flame, which flared and shot up high, then slowly sank, trembled, and disappeared, leaving behind nothing but ashes and cinders.