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I told her to put her shoes on. She said she wasn’t so stupid
as to go in slippers. Mama, I said, those aren’t shoes, they’re
slippers. No, no, she said. You’re crazy, you can’t even buy
bread without getting lost in a square somewhere, you can’t
even get to Spain. Don’t you talk to me. I know what
slippers are. And she went. She forgot her bag and money,
too. She’s only getting some bread, I thought, she can go in
her slippers. Then she said that she would come soon and
that she would cook some pasta for me. Listen to some
music, she said and left. She was crossing the road, they
said, and lost a slipper. Then, they said, she turned round to
go and get the slipper, but a car came and ran her over. The
slippers were still there. I took them and cut them up. She
didn’t die immediately. When I telephoned, she was still
alive. She told me to look after myself and not to leave the
gas on because it was expensive and we didn’t have money
to waste, like others do. And then she died.
Srečko is quiet. Karlo says he will help him, if necessary,
and Mama also says something. She says he should come to
us if he needs anything. Srečko says nothing. I’m looking at
his thin hair, his eyes that are red. His arms are hanging by
his side as he sits there. I’m warm. I think of my dress with
the butterflies. I feel even warmer. I’m afraid, suddenly,
that the butterflies will suffocate. I get up, unbutton my
coat, walk to the door, open it and go out, to the iron door,
I walk faster, I open it, I walk on. I hear Karlo calling me. I
walk on. People walk past me, now they look at me. I know
they’re looking at my butterflies. I don’t want them to look