Interiors, she refurbished her kitchen on modern lines, had the walls newly painted, chucked out her clumsy old gas convector, and completely refitted the bathroom. She knew no fatigue, she was, as her neighbour, Mrs Virág, acknowledged, bursting with energy; but she only began to feel really in her element once the major work was over and she could start prettifying her ‘little nest’. She was full of ideas: her imagination knew no bounds and she would return from shopping expeditions with, now, a hall mirror in a wrought-iron frame, now, a ‘so-practical’ onion-slicer and now, some eye-catching clothes-brush with, wondrous to behold, an inlaid panorama of the town on the handle. Despite this, some two years after the sad memory of her son’s departure — he had left in tears, she could hardly get him out of the door, and (‘for whole days!’) she was unable to shake off a fog of depression — and despite the fact that, thanks to two years of feverish activity there was hardly a square inch of unoccupied space remaining in the flat, she still felt strangely disorientated by a sense that there was something missing from her life. She bought the last of a set of sweet little china figurines to complete the collection in her cabinet, but realized all too soon that it was not going to fill the void; she racked her brains, reviewed matters, even asked her neighbour for advice, then, one afternoon (when she happened to be working on the latest piece of ‘Irma’ embroidery in the comfy armchair), while her eyes were resting on the china swans and gypsy girls with guitars and had moved along the rank of tearful little boys to the recumbent young girls, so conducive to daydreaming and feelings of happiness, it suddenly occurred to her what ‘important thing’ was missing. Flowers. She did possess two rubber plants and a sickly asparagus that she had brought over from the house, but these fell some way short of providing a satisfactory object for what she referred to as her newly resurrected ‘maternal instincts’. And since, among her acquaintances, there were many who ‘liked pretty things’, she soon acquired a range of beautiful cuttings and buds and bulbs, so much so that within a few years spent in the company of green-fingered friends such as Dr Provaznyik, Mrs Mádai and, of course, Mrs Mahó, not only were her window-sills densely populated by carefully tended miniature palms, philodendra and mother-in-law’s tongue, but she had to order, first one, then three more flower-stands all at once, from a locksmith’s shop in the Romanian quarter, because eventually there was nowhere else to put the numerous fuchsias, aluminium plants and armies of cacti, in what her feelings told her had become a ‘heart-warmingly homely’ little flat. And could it be that all this — the soft rugs, the gaily coloured curtains, the comfortable furniture, the mirror, the onion-slicer, the clothes-brush, the much-praised flowers, and the sense of calm, security, happiness and content they provided — was really all as wood to the fire, finished and done with?! She felt utterly exhausted. The slip of paper in her left hand slid from her fingers and fell to the floor. She opened her eyes, looked at the clock on the wall above the kitchen door, watched the frisky second hand skip from digit to digit, and though it seemed impossible that any further danger should threaten her, however she yearned for peace her feelings of insecurity persisted; her mind was racing furiously, now this or the other experience assumed major significance, and so — having taken off her coat, pulled off her boots, massaged her heavily swollen feet and tucked them into her warm comfy slippers — she first cast a careful eye up and down the deserted main street from her window (but there was ‘not a soul to be seen, no one prowling in the shadows … only the enormous circus wagon … and that unbearable puffing sound …’), then, to check that everything was there, she went through all her cupboards and wardrobes, and finally interrupted a thorough handwashing, thinking that she had better check all the locks just once more in case she had forgotten the most important one. By this time she had calmed down a little, picked up, read and furiously discarded the note into the kitchen litter-bin (four lines, one under the other, saying ‘Hello, Mama, I called,’ three of them crossed through), then went back into the living room, turned up the heating and, to put an end to all her anxiety, examined each of her plants in turn, for, she reasoned, if she found nothing wrong with them, everything else would fall into place. She had no reason to be disappointed in her obliging neighbour, who, as well as giving the place a daily airing, had been urged to keep a careful eye on her jealously tended flowers: the earth in the pots was nicely damp, and her ‘slightly simple and outspoken but essentially good-hearted and conscientious friend’ had even thought to dust down the leaves of some of the most sensitive palms. ‘Dear Rózsi, so utterly priceless!’ sighed Mrs Plauf, in an excess of sentiment, and now that she could see in her mind’s eye — however briefly — that ample figure forever bustling about, and could settle back into one of her apple-green armchairs to survey once more her undamaged possessions, everything appeared in perfect ‘ship-shape order’: the floor, the ceiling, the walls with their floral patterns, all surrounding her with such an air of unshakeable security that her previous sufferings seemed merely a bad dream, the ugly product of strained nerves and a sick imagination. Yes, it might all have been a dream, since she, who for years had lived out a routine of spring-cleaning in the spring and jam- and preserve-making in the autumn, of crochet work in the afternoons, and a daily round comprising the usual cares and joys of passionate indoor gardening, had got used to observing the crazy whirlpool, the mad comings and goings of the outside world, from the decent distance and kindly shelter of her inner one, knowing that whatever fell outside its scope was cloudy, formless and uncertain, and now — when she could sit in peace behind the never-yet-disturbed security of her closed doors it was as if she had turned a lock on the whole world — the unfortunate experience of her journey began to seem less real, and a translucent veil seemed to descend between it and her, so she could only just make out the raucous passengers on the branch-line, the petrifying look of the man in the broadcloth coat, the fat woman tipping over to one side, the darkness in which some poor unfortunate was being silently beaten by the crowd of shadows about him; only indistinctly discern the peculiar circus, the thick cross drawn through the yellowed paper of the timetable; and, even more faintly, herself, like a lost soul, trying desperately now this way now that to make her way home. The outlines of her immediate surroundings grew progressively more distinct as her sufferings of the past few hours lost their reality, though the terrible images of the urine-smelling privy, the filthy gravel between the rails and the circus employee waving to her from his cabin still swirled rapidly and unbearably around her mind. Here, surrounded by her flowers and furniture, in the deepening consciousness of her invulnerability, she no longer feared an assault and felt the tension due to her constant vigilance slowly dissolve, though this did not alleviate her permanent state of anxiety, which had settled like gruel in the stomach and permeated her whole being. Besides, she felt more exhausted than she had ever felt before, and therefore decided to go immediately to bed. It took her only a few minutes to shower and wash out her underwear, then, drawing a warm dressing gown over her thick nightdress, she looked into the pantry, so that while ‘she couldn’t really settle down to a proper supper’ she might at least pick at a bit of preserve before sleep. Considering the times, the pantry, which served as the hub of the whole flat, contained a surprisingly rich store of food: joints of ham with strings of paprika hung like necklaces about them, spicy sausages and smoked bacon suspended from high hooks and, in their shadow on the floor, a low barricade comprised of bags of sugar, flour, salt and rice; neatly ranged on either side of the cupboard were further bags, of coffee beans, poppy seeds and walnuts, not to mention spices, potatoes and onions, a complete bastion of provisions whose copiousness bore ample witness — much as the beautiful forest of dazzling plants outside did — to its creator’s foresight, the whole crowned by ranks of benevolent-looking jars of preserves arranged with military precision along the shelves lining the middle wall. Here was everything she had had time to bottle since the beginning of summer, from fruit in syrup and various savouries, through tomato juice to walnuts preserved in honey, and she ran her eye over the glittering glassware in her usual way, not quite knowing which to choose, finally returning to her room with a jar of boiled cherries in rum; then, before settling back into the apple-green armchair, more out of habit than genuine curiosity, she turned on the television. She leaned back and stretched out, resting her tired feet on a little pouffe, and, refreshed as she was by her shower, in the by-now-pleasant warmth, she was delighted to see that it was operetta time on TV again: perhaps there was hope after all, perhaps the old sense of peace and calm was returning. For she knew very well that while the world remained as infinitely beyond her reach — in her star-struck son’s idiotic phrase, the one he loved to repeat