Life Begins On Friday

by Ioana Parvulescu

  I asked his permission to light a cigarette from the tin I had received from Mirto, but he refused, saying that smoking was absolutely forbidden in his surgery. I contented myself with the rum tea, which was extraordinarily good and warmed me up. He told me that his instinct told him that I was not mentally ill, but rather a man who was sound and had his head fixed on his shoulders, although he thought that I should give up smoking, since in the long term so much smoke inside the lungs could not do any good.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ I went on, barely restraining a smile, ‘nevertheless, doctor, the world I come from is just as real as this one.’

  He pretended not to hear, but he fell to thinking.

  ‘You know,’ he said suddenly, ‘I would like to invite you to our house tomorrow evening, we will be en famille, maybe our neighbour, Mr Giuseppe, will also come, he is a very lonely man, he gives guitar and mandolin lessons, he is very short of money. Would you like to?’

  I would like to: a feeling I have felt for the first time in my new world.

  Wednesday, 24 December: Christmas Eve

  1.

  It is as if I were being punished. The cleaning yesterday was like a war, waged by Mama and from which Papa made a cowardly desertion: he did not arrive home until the evening and was rather pensive. He told us that he had met Dan Crețu and invited him to our house, but he is not certain whether he will come, and he is a case that preoccupies him. I do not think there is one speck of dust in the house. The carpets were laid on the snow face down, having been beaten thoroughly. When you lift them from the snow, they leave a large black square. Each carpet was subjected to the same treatment a number of times, until the snow beneath it remained clean. Personally, I would like to do this kind of cleaning in my soul, but a beater has yet to be invented for the carpets of the soul. We have not progressed that far, but perhaps next century, a new Bell... I cannot believe (but why should I not?) that he has not replied! Nicu did not come back last night. Poor Jacques and I sat up waiting for him until late. Jacques played the music from the figurine clock on his flute and I kept myself busy by writing a list of presents, after which I listlessly read a few pages of Vanity Fair, although my mind was still on the letter. I like Becky less and less. I do not wish to resemble her, although I feel sorry for her more than I do for Amelia. Maybe he felt offended? I do not even have a rough copy to see what I wrote, I remember the ideas vaguely, but I no longer have a precise idea of the tone and the words. Or maybe he did not find him at home and gave the letter to his brother, and his brother has not yet given it to him? It is very bad not to know into whose hands your most intimate thoughts have fallen. Most likely, he did not bother to write to me, he has no inclination to see me, if he was not able to do so when he wanted, or maybe he is punishing me for not receiving him. I have to keep my silence and wait, an utterly insufferable task. Nevertheless, marvellous news: the abscess burst by itself, after which I washed my mouth with camomile tea and the swelling subsided. Papa said that we may delay pulling the tooth. And my eyes are better, and it is my eyes I need, in order to finish reading the novel. But I have been too self-preoccupied; it is not a good sign.

  Better I see to the preparations. Decorating the tree takes me the longest; I do it all by myself. I am very happy that the mysterious stranger will be coming, Mr Dan Crețu, which is to say, I hope he will be coming, but we shall send Papa to fetch him, if he does not come, especially given that in the end Mr Costache will be visiting them, and will not be coming to see us until tomorrow. I would like to fall in love with him, with the stranger, I mean. I would like to forget Alexandru. No, I would not like to. In fact, yes, I would like to. Yes, I want to. This evening I will write what happened and whether I fell in love. But the swelling in my jaw has not subsided completely, so any chance of love is compromized.

  2.

  No sooner had Mr Costache lifted the thick knocker held in the muzzle of a gilded lion than the door opened and on the threshold appeared a rather irritated young man, who made to leave, while between his legs a striped tomcat slipped outside with a mouse in its teeth. The young man’s chest collided with that of the policeman. After they both apologized, simultaneously, the guest stated the purpose of his visit, and the young man quickly went back inside. He had a very strange walk. In the salon it smelled of hot tiles, from the tall stoves that rose almost to the ceiling. Costache regarded the young man with professional interest: he was a man who could not keep still for one moment, rather like a young child, and kept moving first his hands, then his feet. Then he started opening and closing his fist, as if trying to hold something that kept slipping from his grasp.

  ‘The lawyer is not at home, he is out on business, he...’ and lowering his voice, he added: ‘he... well, he has a mistress. Since you work for the Police and are tight-lipped by the very nature of your profession, I will not lie to you. He spends a fortune on her. Madam suspects, but does not know for sure. The gentleman is away every day, and madam constantly has headaches and makes the servants’ lives a misery. But please sit down, forgive me once again, but I was in a hurry, I am the lawyer’s right-hand-man, I want to study the law at university, and I was on my way to settle some urgent business.’

  Costache asked him about the announcement and what the wallet contained to warrant such a large reward. At that moment, the door to the salon opened with a creak and the master of the house entered. He was quite an imposing figure, with a potbelly, probably furnished by his wife, and a young smile on his smooth face, probably furnished by his mistress. He walked straight up to Mr Costache and stretched out his hand in a friendly manner, even before discovering who he was. When he found out, he became even more amiable. He dismissed the young man with a gesture and then immediately provided the information required.

  ‘It is a wallet with a key to a safe. It was entrusted to me by a friend.’

  ‘Who is the friend? What is his name?’

  But before the lawyer could reply, the mistress of the house entered. She was small and bien en chair, scowling, furious even, her face all red. When she saw there was a visitor, her anger seemed to melt away, and she extended to Costache a chubby, dimpled hand, which he raised to his lips without touching it, and then the lady asked the maid for two cups of coffee. But the lawyer probably could not bear her presence, for after two minutes of conversation about street vendors, even now, in December, and after inquiring in a neutral tone about her migraines, he asked her to leave them alone to discuss some matters that did not concern her and would only bore her. The anger once more appeared on the lady’s face and Costache was afraid lest there be a scene. Nothing irked him more than to be forced by circumstances to witness conjugal quarrels. Fortunately, the lady withdrew, insulted, without saying another word, not even to the guest.

  ‘And so who is the friend who entrusted you with the key?’ said Costache hastily, trying to dispel the awkwardness.

  The lawyer was curt: ‘You know, Mr Boerescu, by the nature of my profession I come into contact with all kinds of people, whom I do not know well, but whom I must grant my trust and the guarantee that I shall keep the secrets they entrust to me. But for you, sir, I can make an exception,’ he hastened to add, on seeing how Costache’s velvety eyes became flinty and menacing. He stood up and gasping slightly, said: ‘It was Rareș Ochiu-Zănoagă, you know, the young man who was shot, as I read in Monday’s newspapers. It seems that the poor man died near here, at the House of Health, but I had no idea.’

  The policeman concealed his surprise. He had not been expecting anything so important and could only wonder yet again at the perfect mechanism that guided the reasoning of his former head of department.

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘He came to our house, he had found out from the newspapers that I am a lawyer, I have an advertisement in Adevĕrul, although I do not agree with their orientation and methods, but that is a different story: lawyer Movileanu, Strada Teilor, the new houses. He said it was an affair ‘of the greatest
importance, perhaps even dangerous,’ and told me he was going to reveal everything to me soon, before the New Year. He seemed an honest man, and we lawyers know a thing or two about people, perhaps not as much as yourself, of course. He was to come here this morning, before leaving for Giurgiu, if I recall rightly. I found out from the papers that he would not be coming and that he had not yet reached the age of twenty-two. I do not know what is happening, it is as if the whole world has gone mad, nothing goes smoothly any more and everything is askew. I am afraid that the twentieth century will be very difficult and I think of my children, if I ever have any.’

  His face darkened and Costache could see that he was not acting a part, although he did not understand exactly what the lawyer was thinking at that moment.

  ‘But what about the wallet? What did he tell you about it? How did you come to lose it?’

  I do not know, I cannot understand how it disappeared. It was here, on the table. He asked me whether it would disturb me if I kept it here for a few days, because he was afraid lest he lose it, and it was a precious item. He told me that it was the key to the safe, but he did not tell me what the safe contained, money or other valuables. I had no reason to ask him any further questions, or to refuse him. I went out to post something urgent, and on my return, wishing to lock the wallet in my own safe, I found it was no longer on the table.’

  The lawyer’s amazement could be read on his face with surprising clarity. He looked at the lyre-shaped table, dumfounded, shook himself, and then said: ‘The young Trajan, who just left, was not at home. My wife was upstairs with the curtains drawn, with a headache. The servants had the afternoon off, and the two who did not were working in the yard; I know them and trust them. I thought perhaps I had taken it without me without realizing – because I am rather distrait – and that maybe I had dropped it on the street, hence the announcement, but between ourselves this explanation was for the want of anything better; it is true that I am distrait, but not irresponsible. It is more likely a thief entered the house after I left...’

  ‘Was the front door unlocked?’ asked Costache, merely doing his duty. He knew what the answer would be. When he entered, he had seen that the door had a Yale lock.

  As he left, his host wished him a Happy Christmas, and it was only then that Costache remembered that he had accepted the Livezeanu family’s invitation to visit them that evening, and that tomorrow, in order not to disappoint his friends, he would be having lunch in Strada Fântânei. Curiously, he too was distrait, but maybe for the same reason as the lawyer, une jeune femme, except that when you worked in the Police such a thing had unpredictable consequences. And the young woman was not a suitable choice, that he knew.

  3.

  The Universul questionnaire on fasting had been published that morning, signed by Dan Kretzu, and occupied half of the front page. Most of the newspaper’s articles were unsigned, so when a name appeared on the front page it was seen and remembered. Procopoiu had intended it as a surprise, wanting to help Kretzu stand out. And there had been talk of their new employee, he was well known, and so his name could only help sales of the paper. Even now the ladies from the Materna Association, meeting at the crèche on Strada Teilor, were talking about menus for the fast, about the findings of the questionnaire and the mysterious stranger who had written them up.

  ‘Dr Istrati, whom my husband has known since he was a medical student – now he is a chemist – has harshly criticized the way people fast here and the way they then stuff themselves from Christmas until the feast of St John, so that their stomachs, shrunken from the fast, come under attack, bombarded with food,’ Agatha attempted to explain, but the ladies did not laugh at her joke, preferring to continue talking about Dan Crețu. Each of them knew from their servants various details worth sharing. Lucia Argintaru, a fidgety and still quite young-looking brunette, replied. ‘Everybody knows that Dr Istrate is an atheist, and so don’t let him tell me about fasting...’

  Agatha looked at her in amazement, because she had thought her more intelligent, but Lucia brought the conversation back to the topic all the women wanted to discuss: ‘That stranger shaved off his moustache and beard in order not to be recognized, which is what people do when they want to go unrecognized.’

  ‘He was mixed up in a life and death love affair, it seems that he was being pursued by a cuckolded husband,’ added Marioara Livezeanu, Alexandru’s sister, ‘my children’s nurse told me.’

  Since her divorce, Marioara had been reading novels and dreamed of stories full of passion. Normally, she had her feet on the ground and had enough common sense not to listen to rumours. She was beautiful, like her brother, her skin was the colour of camellias, inherited from their mother, with a small nose and dimpled cheeks.

  Agatha expressed her astonishment. She knew of nothing of the sort and in her opinion the man was a stranger in hardship who did not have any source of income and was looking for a position in our Capital, which was full of opportunities: ‘Don’t you see how many foreigners come her and start businesses. On the street you hear all the languages of Europe! I think Mr Crețu is a decent man, who has lived abroad. If the Police immediately released him and Universul has employed him, it means that he is an honest man.’

  ‘Pas du tout, ma chère, the Police are following him, Budacu, a very good coachman, has kept an eye on him the whole time, and so he cannot be an honest man. He is sooner un voyou who has not yet been exposed,’ interjected the corpulent wife of Caton Lecca, who did not flinch from divulging the secrets of the Prefecture, which was why she was highly prized in ladies’ circles. ‘Your friend Mr Boerescu is the one who placed him under surveillance.’

  Agatha felt a blush begin to colour her cheeks, because the wife of the Prefect of Police wasted no opportunity to wound her and to impute to her the tension between Messrs Lecca and Costache. It was known that the Chief of Public Security had been in love with Agatha and although she could not abide him, the Prefect’s wife admired him, and perhaps in different circumstances she might have abided him very well: to her it was not all comprehensible why their friends had preferred to be Mrs Dr Margulis, an ordinary physician who had no fortune and who, unlike Mr Costache Boerescu, did not command respect by his mere presence. Had she been in the place of Agatha Margulis...

  ‘It is true, now I realize that I too saw a police carriage near him,’ said a timid young woman with a round face and grave eyes. She had been introduced as ‘Miss Epiharia Surdu, the most devout parishioner from the Icoanei Church, who regularly lent a helping hand at the children’s crèche and lives on Strada Teilor.’

  ‘I met the stranger,’ continued Epiharia, ‘in our church. He was like an angel from far away, not a man of our world.’

  Lucica Argintaru regarded her with a mixture of surprise, scorn and envy.

  ‘I would be delighted to meet him. What if we invited him, as a journalist, to...’

  In that moment an elderly, voluminous (she was not wearing a corset) woman stood up, having thitherto sat withdrawn and not taking any part in the conversation. She was dressed without grace, in a thick skirt and a dark coat of simple cut, but her still chestnut-coloured hair, parted in the middle, was carefully arranged. She wore no jewellery apart from a wedding ring. Her nose was rather aquiline, and her mouth and eyes lent her an expression of boundless sadness, but also a determination that immediately silenced the other women’s twittering.

  ‘Let us not forget, if at all possible, why we have come here,’ she said in a tone whose harshness came not from its timbre, which was pleasant, but rather from some inner suffering.

  Her name was Mrs Elena Turnescu, and she was the wife of an eminent surgeon. The renown preceded her wherever she went. She had inherited a large amount of property, and had had two husbands and four children. After the death of her second husband, the doctor, to whom she had been a wife, nurse and confidante, and after losing two children, a son and a daughter, she had been left with two sons. Accumulating human misfortunes in her
eyes and heart, Mrs Turnescu had dedicated herself with all her strength to charitable works. Not only did she make more than generous donations to people who had fallen into misfortune, but also she did everything in her power to found institutions such as this shelter for orphaned children, for example, and to make sure they functioned well. And so people’s feelings towards her were of admiration, love, but also a kind of respectful fear. For a long time nobody had heard her laugh. Sometimes, very rarely, she smiled.

  Epiharia met her in the only place where she ever met people: at church. She came the next day, as modestly dressed as she was now, but accompanied by two servants, who were carrying large cardboard boxes. The lady opened the boxes and took out some curtains for the icons, which were so beautiful that they took Epiharia’s breath away. Mrs. Turnescu explained that they had been embroidered by ‘her’ girls, from the charitable home. Then, the lady had gone to the deacon and given him a hundred lei, whispering something to him. She had probably discovered that he had many children and scant means of raising them. Seeing Epiharia’s interest, she had spoken to her and warmly invited her to help twice a week at the new Elisabeta orphanage on Strada Teilor. As for the fact that the young woman lived on the very same street, both women had agreed that it was one of those coincidences that have a source higher than the level of humanity.

  After Mrs. Turnescu’s reprimand, the ladies quickly stood up and each went to the dormitory and the children in her care. Agatha found that a little girl who resembled her Maria had a fever and took fright. The girl’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes glassy. It was lucky that Agatha knew what to do: like Mrs Turnescu, she was cognisant of the diseases her husband fought. But the little girl seemed delighted to have visitors; she threw her arms around Agatha’s neck and told her she had learned to sew. Before she left, Agatha gave the presents for Christmas Eve to the woman who ran the orphanage.