“Mother â do you know what? The lemon tree has produced a lemon! It's absolutely lovely!”
“Really?”
“Come and look! It's only small still, but.”
“I'll come and see later on.”
“Can't you come now?” said Brikena, disappointed at her mother's lack of enthusiasm.
Silva didn't like to let her down, so she followed the two girls out on to the balcony. It was all cluttered up, as such places tend to be during the winter: there was a deckchair that needed mending, lying around from last summer; some plastic containers; a pile of empty floor-polish tins.
“There!” exclaimed the girls, pointing to a tiny little lump, hardly distinguishable among the leaves.
“My goodness â yes!” cried Silva,
“Poor little thing!'' said Veriana.
Silva did her best to smile. She remembered the day when the lemon tree had been delivered - on Birkena's birthday. Then that night, and the icy moonlight, and her fears about Gjergj on his way to China, How much had happened since then! Could so much have taken place in the time it took the lemon tree to produce a fruit?
She looked at the little plant tenderly. The world was full of political meetings, plots, commotions and tragedies, while here in its little corner on the balcony, careless of everything else, the lemon tree devoted itself to its own raison d'être â bringing forth fruit. Compared with the tumult going on in the world as a whole, it seemed so frail, so lonely you couldn't help pitying it.
Silva smiled thoughtfully. Perhaps the lemon tree, if it had been able to think, would have pitied the rest of the world.
As she shut the door on to the balcony behind her, Silva for some reason thought of what old Aunt Hasiyé had said: “The Chinese? There have never been any Chinese here. You must have dreamt it.”
Tirana, 1978-1988