In the beginning he had asked her a great many times, clinging to her, and she moved about arranging her trays with a slight smile, and in the end lowered her hand and stroked him gently.
He immediately became excited. “Let us dance,” he cried, “I have a great capacity for happiness.”
“Yes, you are very happy,” she said.
“You understand, don’t you?” he asked abruptly.
“What?”
“That my tears are nothing, have no significance, they are just a protective fluid—when I see anything happening that is about to affect my happiness I cry, that’s all.”
“Yes,” Lydia Passova said, “I understand.” She turned around reaching up to some shelves, and over her shoulder she asked, “Does it hurt?”
“No, it only frightens me. You never cry, do you?”
“No, I never cry.”
That was all. He never knew where she had come from, what her life had been, if she had or had not been married, if she had or had not known lovers; all that she would say was, “Well, you are with me, does that tell you nothing?” and he had to answer, “No, it tells me nothing.”