‘This is Mr Dan Kretzu. Are you by chance a relative of Kretzu the pharmacist?’ asked Peppin.
Seeing the editor-in-chief’s look, the turn of phrase he had been seeking earlier suddenly came to him, as sometimes happened when he was translating and the right word popped up out of the blue: ‘If a man sits in a newspaper office with his hat and coat on, it means he does not belong there. Allow me to share this observation from a long-standing newspaperman, in the hope that we shall soon be colleagues. Perhaps you would like to hang your hat and coat on the rack?’
And he accompanied that wonderfully articulated sentence with a gesture of invitation towards the coat rack, next to which could be seen, just as in every other office, the calendar with the Canadian lady skaters. Unconvinced, the man took off his hat and sat holding it. He held it like a ball of rags. For the moment, Peppin Mirto did not feel any great sympathy towards the stranger, who was neither young nor old, and was pale, with dark rings under his eyes. Mr Costache had asked him as a personal favour to help discreetly. He did not very well understand why. As for the editor-in-chief, he fixed the man with a gaze that might mean anything at all.
‘Allow me,’ said Procopiu, and hastened to take the hat from his hands.
But instead of taking it to the coat-rack, he looked at the lining and let forth an exclamation that astonished the translator. Surely there must be something that eluded him.
‘He has come about a job,’ Peppin began, ‘he is a newspaperman... where have you worked, probably abroad, am I right? We do not wish to be indiscreet, although indiscretion is part of our trade, albeit not between colleagues, and I am sure you will tell us in your own good time, when you feel like it, and so until then.’
Peppin liked the sound of his own voice. Neculai Procopiu interrupted him: ‘If you will be kind enough to provide a sample of your work, Mr Peppin Mirto will give you instructions, and when you are ready, bring it upstairs to me, the last door on the right after you climb the stairs. I shall be waiting. Goodbye!’
Peppin felt rather awkward, without knowing why. He helped the stranger to take off his coat with the bone buttons, hung it to the coatrack, under the hat, and then handed him a bundle of letters: a questionnaire that the newspaper had conducted on the subject Why Do You Fast?, which was due to be published on Wednesday, 24 December. But the answers received from various subscribers, one hundred in number, had to be grouped by categories, then recopied, with the addition of an introductory sentence and a few closing words.
‘I have already started it, so you won’t have much to do,’ said Peppin with a trace of regret. You see, I am the proof-reader and translator, not an editor, but given our lack of people I do a bit of everything, rather like a housemaid. I translate from Italian, because my mother was from Arezzo, and from English, when the need arises, but with far greater difficulty. As for orthography, we use the new standard, as you will see here, in the work I have done. Please ask me if anything is unclear.’
Peppin poked his head out of the door to call for some coffee and in a short while Nicu arrived with it. On his own authority, Nicu had also asked for two pies, ‘on the Universu’ slate!’ and winking at Dan once again, he placed them on the desk, wrapped up in paper. The stranger greedily ate one pie, almost without chewing, and then even more greedily smoked the cigarette offered by Mr Mirto.
After an hour or so the job was done, during which time Peppin dedicated himself to his translation about the genius of evil and the stranger wrote without stumbling – he preferred a pencil to pen and inkpot. He had worked without saying a word, as if he were dumb, and smoked another two cigarettes from Mirto’s tobacco tin, until Mirto secreted them in the drawer of the desk and discreetly locked it. At one point Dan Crețu did lift his head and asked what the verb merimetisi meant, with reference to the stomach. Peppin hastened to explain the meaning, although he was rather intrigued by the stranger’s unfamiliarity with the word, which he could only explain as being a result of exile. He concluded that the man had lived abroad since he was little and who knows what dubious business he was mixed up in; which was why the Police were interested in him. Peppin cast a glance at the pieces of paper, out of curiosity, and it seemed to him that the handwriting was not at all elegant, although it was easy to decipher and that was the principle behind it. But far be it from him to judge the result.
Mr Procopiu made the exact same comment immediately: ‘The handwriting is not elegant, but it is easy to read, and that is the main thing.’
He had lit the lamp on his desk, since the shadows of dusk already enveloped the room. Outside it snowed without surcease, but the wood fire and electric light (electricity had been installed a few years earlier along Strada Brezoianu, as far as number 11, which is to say, as far as the newspaper offices) lent the office a pleasant air. Then he carefully read through the material.
(Margin) TRADITIONS: CHRISTMAS FAST
Our questionnaire (centred)
WHY DO PEOPLE FAST (bold)
(Chapeau) The editors of Universul asked this question of 100 respondents. For the benefit of our readers the following are the answers we received. Some serious, some humorous, depending on the person.
21 answered: I for one fast because it is the custom.
13 To keep fit.
13 To gain my neighbours’ respect.
1 To keep in with my mother-in-law.
3 To cleanse my stomach.
3 Because my grandmother (mother, father) asked me to in her (his) will.
3 Because I like beans.
4 Because a good fast is better than a bad dessert.
2 So the grocers can sell their octopuses.
1 Because I am a friend of the Metropolitan Bishop.
4 To get rid of my belly.
3 Because that is how our cook cooks.
1 Because my father is a market gardener.
4 To make fun at our priest, who does not fast.
7 So that there will not be any arguments at home.
2 To please my prospective in-laws, who will not give their daughter away to a heretic.
2 It is the fashion.
9 I have no idea why.
A single respondent answered: ‘Because I am a Christian.’
Whether you have fasted or whether you have not, our newspaper wishes you a Happy Christmas in the company of your dear ones.
While he read, Mr Procopiu kept fingering his waxed moustache, as if to make sure it was still there. From the top of the page he struck out the word ‘respondents’ –’it doesn’t sound good, we avoid radicals’ – and replaced it with ‘Christians’ and at the end, instead of ‘a single respondent’ he wrote: ‘a single subscriber to Universul, of those questioned.’
‘My congratulations, sir, it is very good, you may consider yourself hired,’ said the editor-in-chief. ‘Welcome to our newspaper! But allow me to tell you that we are two of a kind. I was born in 1854, like the late George Lahovary.’
The man shuddered. Procopiu interpreted it in his own way.
‘To die pierced by a sword at the age of forty-three because you have written a political article is some fate, is it not? Well, here at our newspaper we do not write about politics, or at least not for the time being. It is plain that you have had a good education,’ said Procopiu, returning to the subject at hand: ‘Everything is neat and concise. Our rule is that we avoid adjectives wherever possible. You will receive a list of the new abbreviations. And... I would like to give you a... a new hat from our storeroom, employees receive a present at Christmas and it seems to me that you could use some new galoshes,’ he went on, looking in embarrassment now at the new employee’s head, now at his feet. Mention of the word ‘hat’ abruptly caused a sort of unpleasant complicity between the two men. For very different reasons, neither of them was prepared to get to the bottom of the midnight encounter, Procopiu’s flight, and the loss of his hat.
‘Tomorrow you should be here at nine o’clock in the morning. As you probably know, we work
on Sundays and we take it in turns to come in to the office. As for the remaining matters, a place to sleep, meals, wages, Mr Mirto, whom you already know, the man with the deep voice, Peppin, will make arrangements. We have another man, Mirto – Păvălucă, Pavel that is – who sits at the same table, but he took the day off today, as he has to see to slaughtering his pig, today being the feast of St Ignatius. On Christmas Day, he brings us all kinds of good things. He has an excellent cook, as you will see. Here we are like a family. A few good editors happen to have left us and Călăuza Bucureștiului and Adevĕrul take swipes at us for not having staff . Once again, welcome,’ he added, rather perplexed that the stranger did not respond or react, and, above all, did not leave. He stood up, opened the door and made a polite bow. At that very moment the telephone rang down the hall and Procopiu rushed to lift the receiver.
‘Hello, Mr Boerescu, my respects! Of course, it is on the front page, who wouldn’t wish to have exclusivity in such a matter? I will come right away.’
6.
After finding out who the newcomer was, the nurse with the white apron conducted Costache Boerescu to the blond man who had been brought in the evening before. The woman felt sorry for the poor boy and sensed, from experience, that he had neither sufficient vital force, vis vitalis, nor sufficient will to live. Which is to say, his vital principle was as murky as the waters of a river after rainfall. He had elegant clothes and highly polished boots, and when they had removed his suit she saw that he had the underclothes of a rich gentleman. On the shirt, covered now with clotted blood, was sewn a handsome monogram: three letters with curlicues like snails’ shells spelled R. O. Z.
The first thing that Mr Costache did was to hold the gas lamp close to the shirt that hung from the back of the chair and to study those three letters. His journey had been worth it for that alone. He sat down at the wounded man’s bedside and lost himself in thought, ignoring the grumblings of the well-fed man whose leg was in plaster. It was too hot, the room was too small, and the stove was too close, and so he opened the window a crack and took a deep breath of the cold outside air. He saw a cab stop at the entrance and shortly thereafter the nurse showed Neculai Procopiu inside. Silently, Procopiu sat down on the other side of the bed. To him, a hospital, a sanatorium, was a kind of church or temple, where it was not fitting to speak. Dr Rosenburg also made an unexpected appearance. He had been informed that he had important guests, and although on the Sabbath he tried not to leave the house, he reckoned that an exception would not go against him in heaven. He was not at all a religious fanatic. He ordered that the second man be moved to a different room, and applied gentle persuasion when the man protested and complained of boredom, and then he called for a chair to be brought. Then he sat down with difficulty, for he suffered from osteoarthritis. Being a physician does not exempt one from diseases, as would be fitting in a just world.
In a low voice they spoke together about the strange aspects of the case.
‘Do you think there is any connection between Mr Dan Crețu, whom I have just hired – he is well educated and I think he is from abroad – and this young man?’ asked Procopiu with a trace of alarm.
‘Probably. Coincidences are rare in our trade, but not out of the question,’ replied Costache, in an equally low a voice. ‘Usually two or three matches will give you a definite answer. For the time being we have only one, connected to the finding of these two.’
Dr Rosenberg, whose hair was completely white and whose voice was of exceptional gentleness, informed the two men as to the young man’s condition.
‘Dr Margulis sent word that I should come, if I could, because he expected a brief interval of lucidity before... And I think it would be well, as he also suggested, if I give him an intramuscular injection of caffeine, which helps to revive, so that he will have the strength to speak clearly.’
But he warned them that some dying men passed their moment of lucidity in complete silence, while only their eyes spoke, while others spoke in a deceptively logical manner that was hard to understand, and others still let out heart-rending cries or were gripped by ecstasy. And he recounted a number of cases, the most encouraging of which had been that of a woman a few days previously, who before dying said she could see a powerful light and was flying towards it. When she gave her last breath, she was bathed in a beatitude that could be read in her eyes.
They were silent for a long while. Procopiu stood up and went to the window, Dr Rosenberg looked at the patient, almost dozing off, and Mr Costache took refuge in his own thoughts. From time to time he twirled the points of his auburn moustache, twisting them down from their wonted upright position. He had given up wearing a beard a few years ago, after much hesitation. He now thought he looked younger without it. All three gave a start when the patient opened his eyes. For the first time they saw his eyes and were struck by limpid brown depths. His huge eyes were full of astonishment: the patient was trying to understand where he was.
‘Be calm, you are in good hands,’ said Dr Rosenberg in a caressing voice. Remembering the advice of his fellow physician Margulis, he left the room almost at a run to fetch a syringe from the pan of water boiling over a low flame on the stove in the next room.
When he came back, the blond man had sat up in bed and was saying something in a slurred voice. Costache took out a visiting card and a pencil, trying to write down what he heard: light, Popescu, light, stars, Holy Mother. He also thought he heard something like dar (“gift”) or sar (“I leap”), but then, as if relieved of some unknown burden, the blond young man exhaled and stopped breathing. Dr Rosenberg, holding the syringe in the air, had managed only to squirt a test droplet, like a tear. All he could do now was close the man’s eyes, confirm the death – at eleven minutes past six pm, Saturday, 20 December – and record it in the register. Procopiu was clasping his hands together. Costache had fastened his eyes on the words he had written on the visiting card and avoided looking around him.
Dr Rosenberg asked: ‘who will take care of the funeral if we know nothing about him? Shall I inform the Town Hall, as usual? Mayor Robescu is away in Vienna until the New Year, but Mr Bursan is on duty and in fact he deals with such matters.’
‘Be so good as to wait until tomorrow. As it is winter, I think it will be possible for you to move him into an unheated room. I will let you know, since I hope to discover his family. And you too,’ said Costache, turning to the newspaperman. ‘Have somebody waiting by the telephone, please: number 297, if I remember correctly?’
As they left, they met the priest from the Icoanei Church, who had come to administer the last rites, but had arrived a few minutes too late. Nonetheless, he went in and performed what was needful, reckoning that it is never too late for important matters. Costache spoke in a low voice to Procopiu. It seems that not everything he had learned should appear on the front page, where some things were best said and others best concealed; in any event, it should be printed no earlier than Monday, because he hoped to have new information the following day. The editor waited for the tram and went home, to recoup the hours of sleep he had missed the night before.
Conu Costache set off on foot. He had given Budacu the day off so that he could go and slaughter his pig. He strove not to give his men cause for smouldering resentment. It had now stopped snowing and the fresh snow sparkled here and there in the glow of the street lamps. Costache’s feet left large prints in the white of the pavement, with a line of small, deep points on the right, left by his cane. Popescu was a common enough name; it would be difficult to find out anything about it. Light, stars, Holy Mother: these were all things that probably pertained to a man’s last moments. Although... He had not heard the rest clearly. Was it gift? On the other hand, R. O. Z. would be an easier clue to follow. At home he had an alphabetical list, which he himself had compiled, of all the monograms of Romania’s important families. And the young man had spoken Romanian without any trace of an accent, and so he was not a foreigner.
Although Costache was kno
wn for his brisk gait, he now trod slowly, heavily, and felt overwhelmed by melancholy. The friendly face of the young man and his dark eyes blended with the shadows of night. Yet another child who had been fooled by the feeling he was immortal! He thought that without doubt, in that very instant, a mother or a father or sisters or brothers were experiencing dreadful fear, because the boy had not come home for two days. Perhaps they had gone to his friends and with each negative answer another hope had been dashed and the conviction that some disaster had befallen him took ever-firmer hold of their hearts. Such agonizing fear is only the beginning. Worse still is the hope. Why do hope and worry exist if they have to end like this? It is as if despair has need of a prelude full of cruelty. And if in the case of joy many believe that the waiting is the most beautiful part, when it comes to pain, the waiting is the most horrible part; the waiting for great pain. And pain, as he knew all too well, has a multitude of tentacles, like an octopus. You lop them off in vain; there are always enough of them to choke you.
He did not look up the monogram that evening, as he was invited to the Margulis house for dinner, and only had time to change quickly, otherwise he would be late. The dogs barked in people’s back yards as he approached, and even more loudly after he passed. He saw that the clouds had broken up and in the gaps there gleamed a few stars. Stars, light? The smoke from the chimneys rose in straight lines, a sign that tomorrow, Sunday, the weather would be fine.
7.
‘A bath in a tub with a shower, please,’ said the man, in a strong Moldavian accent, and handed over two lei. He remained with his hand outstretched, waiting for the change.
It looked rather shabby, but to the Grivița Baths came all varieties of the unwashed. The bath attendant was very proud of the fact that he had been born in Bucharest, although he was short on other merits. On Saturdays in particular, it was crowded, as people came to freshen themselves up, ready for Sunday, and the bath attendant hated Saturdays. And ever since Mayor Robescu started giving out free bath vouchers to the poor, it was dreadful! Not to mention the fact that they were insolent and wrote in the complaints book: ‘He gave me a dirty towel!’ Or ‘Down with the Mayor!’ and ‘Long live the King!’ ‘The bath attendant is foul-tempered!’ One of them had even copied out an obscene joke from The Ant, about a woman who was looking for a watch that had disappeared from her house and just when she thought she had found it in a young man’s trousers, her husband turned up.
Life Begins On Friday Page 8
