We meet in the garden center.

We are separated by a huge trolley, some three meters by eight, filled with thousands of pansies. An unruly blue and purple sea, with flashes of yellow like waves glittering in the sun.

She is standing directly opposite me, and her face reflects my own delight. I gesture towards the flowers, saying something about how wonderful they look. She smiles broadly and replies that there is nothing like flowers for making you feel that life's worth living. "Or maybe small children too," she adds. This startles me. She speaks good but accented Swedish and I realize she must be an immigrant, perhaps from Chile.

"I haven't thought about it like that," I say. "But you're right, of course."

Then we both react to the wind rattling the panes in the roof of the tall greenhouse and agree that it is too early in the year to plant our pansies. Every night still brings a touch of frost. "And then there's the wind," she says.

We hug our coats tighter as we walk from the greenhouse to the shop.

"My name's Ingegerd," I tell her. "People call me Inge."

"And I'm called Edermira, but here in Sweden it's Mira."

We nod, as if to signify that things somehow feel right. I am curious about her.

A little later Mira is speaking quickly and eagerly to the girl behind the counter. She is asking for the bulbs of . . . She is forced to halt, close her eyes, think and find the right name. In Spanish.

The shop assistant twists the corners of her mouth into a smile that is both anxious and scornful. Then she laughs, shrugs and says, turning to me, "Do you know what she's on about?"

I answer awkwardly, blushing with shame: "She's asking for African blue lilies."

I try to catch Mira's eyes and say, "They stick to tulips in this place. Let's go."

But my voice falters when I register how furious she is. It is a deep black fury shot through with red, and crackling like electricity. Her entire being seems to spark. Instantly, I realize her inner force.

We leave, and trudge along in a wind that pierces our coats and sweaters.

I am freezing.

Mira seems unaware of the cold.

Down by the water's edge the sun slips through the gray. We find shelter behind a rock and turn our faces up towards the light. There is so much I want to tell her: how ashamed I am and how it is true that every nation has its share of stupid people. That the girl in the garden center was just being silly, not nasty. And probably nervous, I also want to say.

But I stay silent, because these are the kind of words that fall flat, the kind that leave no trace, let alone grow any roots. A kind of hopelessness is gnawing at my insides; nothing can put this right.

On an impulse I put my arm round Mira's shoulder, but realize at once that I am overstepping the mark. I withdraw and instead point at the sky. "See those gulls? They're heading for my lawn to hunt for worms."

Mira is not interested. She says, "I'm always so concerned about my dignity."

Overhead, the gulls are now screeching so loudly I have to shout to make myself heard. "I'm just the same. I think it has something to do with getting older."

I fall silent for a bit, ashamed again, then add, "But, of course, it's different . . ."

"Yes, that's right. I'm sure you're respected wherever you go."

The sun succeeds against all odds and breaks through. The sky has a purple tinge.

The sea turns blue.

We look at each other and smile. I note that the sheen has returned to her honey-colored skin. Her hair seems to have settled back into place; she wears it in a smart, short cut.

"I went to Madeira last autumn," I tell her. "In November, when the weather here is at its worst. There were rootstocks of Agapanthus africanus for sale in Funchal market and I bought about a dozen. I've potted them and keep them in my greenhouse. At least three are in leaf. Why don't you come home with me and I'll give you some?"

Then I feel uneasy: maybe this, too, is intrusive. "I've only got a small house with a terrace, you see, and the garden is small too. There's no room for ten new pots. Besides, these Afros grow into big bushy things."

And we laugh together, at last.

We get up and walk along the beach. She moves quickly, with long purposeful strides.

I follow her, calling, "Slow down!"

She stops and waits for me, with a small apologetic grin.

"Gosh, you're fit," I say.

Later I see that those big strides are second nature to her. She leaps along as if over hurdles, up steps, across floors and lawns.

"I'm always in a hurry," she says.

Then the path along the beach comes to an end and the suburban streets begin. I stop and say as I look out over the water, "I was born near the sea. It pulls at me--sometimes it even seems to be part of me. I feel a kind of affinity with it."

I am embarrassed but she listens seriously, nodding as if she understands. "I, too, grew up near water. It was a river. I would slip off down to the bank when I was little. Though we were not allowed to."

Her eyes look far away, lost in memory. They are not as brown as I had thought, they have green lights.

"I love thinking about the Rio Mapocho, how it tumbled from the snowy peaks of the Andes, rushed down the mountains, picking up speed and power on the slopes. How, up there in the mountains, the river flowed with pure clear water."

She is quiet for a while, her face seems to tighten.

"But then the Rio Mapocho has to run through Santiago and picks up so much filth. By the time it reached the suburb where I lived, it was brown and sluggish."

I nod, and say that my sea is dirty, too, that the entire Baltic Sea is polluted; the bottom is lifeless.

"Oh, how awful," she says, but her voice sounds sour. I say nothing.

We are both still silent as we walk the last stretch to my house. She is trying to adjust her speed to mine. Suddenly she says, "I'm sure you must have seen my river on television. Pinochet's soldiers threw corpses into the Mapocho."

I do not dare tell her the truth--that I closed my eyes when the images on the screen became unbearable.

Excerpted from Two Women © Copyright 2002 by Marianne Fredriksson. Reprinted with permission by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House. All rights reserved.