Iza's Ballad

The pill she took was taking effect. How useful, she thought, hating herself. A person feels she is falling apart, then one pill and it's already better.

It had been weeks since she had thought anything at all; at most she had remembered events.

Iza had calmed down by the morning but she decided not to show it.

She didn't need to ask her gerontologist friends for advice in order to know that the old woman needed something to do in order to exercise her remaining energy, that work was the strand that connected the old to life.

Iza took care of everyone and if she ever left anyone out it was most likely to be herself.

'No, don't come now, I can hardly speak, I'm going to lie down. You must understand I have to be by myself, I can't go on like this. I'm like everyone else, I need a couple of hours to myself alone when I just lie there and look at the ceiling.'

'How frenetic her love is!' she thought in horror. 'How unrelenting! Does everyone love like she does, demanding every moment of the day?'

Iza needed silence to function: she needed it for both work and rest.

Everything required for comfort was present and correct but she still felt as though she had been robbed.

She sat in the armchair and tried to cry silently, afraid that Iza would hear her through the thin walls and come in and accuse her of being ungrateful. As indeed she was.

In fact, the old woman was as terrified of the phone as she would have been of some tamed but unpredictable wild animal.

She tried starting on a small star, crocheted for a few minutes, then dropped the yarn because it wasn't going well. What a shame, that was on less harmless pastime.

She didn't dare say anything since all her life it was someone else who arranged things, but deep inside her she would have been willing to let the house go at any price Antal offered, provided the dragon spout was looked after and Antal was conscientious about watering Vince's flowers.

But it was a shame about the little things that would have to be left behind. Never mind,, there was no way round it. When Vince was alive he arranged everything for her, now it would be Iza. Wasn't it great that she wouldn't have to negotiate with the property office!

Picture postcards from foreign places. He collected them though he never travelled anywhere; by the time he was ready to do so he wasn't well enough.

Iza never needed anyone's help: if something went wrong she took it on the chin with no complaints, and when it came to decisions she didn't ask for advise, she simply announced what she was going to do.

Antal said Vince had been unconcious since sunrise and would probably not recover consciousness by slip into death as he slept. Yes, but if she walked in he might wake; it couldn't be that forty-nine years of physical and spiritual union should prove weaker than death.