Moartea, moartea mereu...
în oglinzi
opaca
Cu gratii de sînge... 　　　　(*1)

These few worms of Vasile returned slowly to my memory... I had brought my last novel to Marika. She clapped her hands like a child. To make me, rather us, feel more at ease, I tried to summarize the story.
"It's about a man whose wife has just died. She was Russian. Insane with sorrow, he leaves for Moscow and decides to research his late wife's origins, to look for traces of her family. He wanders hopelessly along streets and around cemeteries, he sleeps anywhere he can, questions people in order to give life to her memory. Everyone thinks he's insane..."
I stopped. It was ridiculous. I could feel Marika's breath on my cheek, on my lips...
"You should leave now. Otherwise, we'll perhaps do something crazy."
Why is it now difficult for me to distinguish her face? Tiredness, of course, eternal tiredness! Why do we always hide the truth from ourselves? Why? It was too late to ask such questions. I knew the answer too well. The human being is weak... Why would I have made any departures from that rule?