I asked him whether he knew when and how Grigore Manolescu died.
‘Seven years ago,’ he said. ‘He was only thirty-five! It was from smoking, he lit one cigarette after another –’ and here he glanced at Dan Crețu, like an upset father; you would have thought he had some right to scold him, but to Papa we are all like children ‘– and after his final performance he collapsed in his doctor’s arms as soon as he left the stage. They buried him with the pages of Hamlet laid on his chest, as he had requested in his will, and with a procession of weeping mourners. I was there too. It was like at the theatre, When I arrived at the cemetery and asked where the grave was, the man at the gate gave me directions and added: ‘But the dead man hasn’t got here yet, we’re expecting him to turn up at any moment!’ But anyway, I don’t have time to tell the whole story right now...’
Both Jacques and I were left open-mouthed, because Papa is very sparing with his words most of the time. To think what our parents conceal! I would have dearly liked to see Papa aged twenty, in Paris, when he was a student! Papa bid his guest farewell and we were served the Christmas sweet-bread. I did not want to share out the presents without him, and so I postponed it until tomorrow. Mr Crețu was very embarrassed at not having brought us anything, he mumbled apologies, but we knew that he did not have any money and Mama said, laughing: ‘The cobbler does not have time to make boots, and the forger does not have a chance to manufacture banknotes. I am joking, please do not take it amiss, but you are as dear to me already as Jacques and Julie, you may count yourself one of the family. The present you have given us is your being here, it has done us the world of good.’
Oh, this coming from my mother!... Dan Crețu does not even know what it means, for if he had known, he would have leapt up and embraced her. Now it is almost midnight, I look back and in my mind I thank Dan Crețu for having made me forget my misfortunes. He has been invited to come tomorrow, for lunch, when Mr Costache and Nicu will also be coming, and this proves that the new guest is dear to all of us. I did not fall in love with him (although his smile is the loveliest I have ever seen), but somehow he is like an older brother to me. It was the most beautiful Christmas Eve in the Margulis family. Dan Crețu gave my little brother a thousand signs of friendship. Jacques was happy too, and before we lit the candles on the Christmas tree, his eyes glittered in the dark like agates. Now I understand: Jacques has inherited Mama’s black agate eyes, while I have to put up with the age-old mistrust of green eyes. Papa has not returned yet. Will I receive a reply tomorrow?
6.
Marioara gazed with great concern at her younger, but much taller brother. Alexandru kept going out to smoke, he quickly ate what was served and rose from the table, which was inconceivable at the best of times, but unforgivable when you had guests. Each time, the company watched him in amazement, turning their heads as if on a signal, but nobody dared ask him about it. Mișu supposed that it must be connected to a woman, as it always was with his brother.
Conu Costache had arrived laden with sweetmeats from Inger’s confectionary shop on Strada Carol, which likewise surprised the family: it was a break with tradition, which demanded sweets from Capșa or Fialkowski, or ever since Fialkowski fell ill, Capșa alone. The Christmas tree reached almost to the ceiling, which was tall. Decorating it had required a ladder. The chandeliers were all lit, and the lights were multiplied in the mirrors of the salon. Nevertheless, Hristea Livizeanu was in a bad mood, as he always was during the holidays, and vented his nerves on his wife: ‘Be so kind as to tell your son that when we have guests...’
But his lady wife was never lost for a reply; she took pleasure in such battles with her husband. They were like two generals engaged in a war of attrition, she with her small, wrinkled head, but with a décolleté that revealed the splendid camellia flesh colouring of the women in the family, and he with his scarlet face and white side- whiskers.
‘Tell your son, you mean, I may have borne him, but as for his inheritance, that was provided by none but you. The other two have inherited me,’ and here the lady gazed first at Marioara, with her perfect little nose, and then at Mișu, with the lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead, lending him an impish air.
Maria’s older sister, Elena, a spinster, always took Hristea’s side, and had her reasons. Elena tried to divert Costache’s attention from the family scene: ‘Mr Boerescu, what is the news concerning the young Ochiu-Zănoagă? I do not expect you to know who shot him yet, but do you at least have a motive?’
‘Miss, I must disappoint you. I do not know, we do not know, the Police do not know anything yet.’
Mr Costache was out of his element. The evening promised to be hard, and was presently intolerable, whereas he had been hoping for a little peace. The roast was insipid, although it looked marvellously browned and garnished, or perhaps the atmosphere altered the taste of the food. He sipped the wine, which, on the other hand, was impeccable, since the Livezeanu family had the best wines in the Capital, and he felt slightly heartened. Marioara smiled at him, with her dimpled cheeks, but it was an unconvinced, almost frightened smile. In that moment, from the street they heard a choir singing shrilly and with false notes: the carollers had arrived. Mr Hristea began to sing along, immediately followed by his wife, drowning out the children’s voices; he in a baritone of extraordinarily pure timbre, she in a soprano, whose velvety warm voice was unexpected from one so war-like. Their voices interwove tenderly as they looked at each other as if they had not seen each other for a long time: they formed a happy couple, their mouths opening together in harmony as they sang the same words. Costache suspected that music was one of the reasons they had stayed together for so many years and looked pityingly at Elena, who was suffering and had hunched up, with a pained look on her face.
After the carols outside had finished, Alexandru came in, said that he had taken care of the gifts for the carollers and asked Costache to grant him two minutes of his time after dinner. Marioara’s fear turned to horror, and Mișu too began to realize that something was wrong, and that his previous suspicions had been off the mark. Their parents, on the other hand, feeling better thanks to the communion of their voices, were oblivious of everything else, as if they were on their second honeymoon. Costache had remarked a visible brightening on Alexandru’s part since he had come back in and was intrigued as to what had happened outside.
Thursday, 25 December: Presents
1.
Up until last year I wrote my diary in French, but after I attended a lecture at the Athenaeum about the poor Romanian language and how many tempests it had weathered without it being uprooted completely, I made the grand decision to write only in Romanian. But sometimes it is hard, because intimate things are much easier to put down on paper when you write them in French. For example, this evening, I would have very much liked to hide behind a foreign language, like behind a carnival mask, to write how excited I am and for what reasons, mais puisque j’ai promis d’écrire en roumain, je dois tenir promesse. And so courage, let me take a deep breath and write in the language of my ancestors (which is not entirely true, since some of them were Greek). Today Nicu, Mr Costache and Dan Crețu came for lunch, and also Signor Giuseppe, I almost forgot. I began with Nicu, my brother’s official guest, because I kept trying to catch his eye and divine whether my envelope had arrived where it had to arrive and whether he had brought a reply, but as if on purpose, the lad was always looking at somebody else. It was not until he left that I was able to take him aside and ask: ‘Did you give him it?’ He nodded, but still without looking at me. Then I asked him whether he had brought me a reply and he shook his head. It seemed to me that he felt sorry for me, maybe he suspects something; maybe he saw that the addressee did not care. But then he added: But I think he is coming at five. Green and red. I kissed him on the top of the head; for me it was the best of presents. I did not get a chance to ask him anything else, about what green and red might mean – it sounded like a password – and whether Alexandru had tol
d him specifically to say those words, because Mr Costache came up to us to say goodbye. He irritated me, angered me even; it was as if he were following me. He had been moody throughout lunch, annoyed, which is not in his nature, and now he said rather abruptly: ‘Who is coming?’ But Nicu vanished, and I pretended not to hear. He has no right to interfere in my life and usually he is so tactful that you would not even think he were a policeman. He asked me to come to the Prefecture of Police tomorrow morning, if I can, because he has to talk to me about something privately. He had already spoken to Papa and asked him to accompany me there, on his way to the surgery, and either he or somebody else will bring me back home. I do not understand what it could be or how I could possibly help him, and the invitation to the police station is the most unusual rendez-vous a man has ever given me. And the day after Christmas too, when everybody stays at home! But most of all I am preoccupied by Nicu’s words: ‘But I think he is coming at five. Green and red.’ Why does he only think so? Why is he not sure? Perhaps he did not have time to write a reply? Or is he playing cat and mouse with me?
After lunch, Jacques and I gave everybody, but especially our neighbour, Signor Giuseppe, a big surprise: we gave a concert rendition of Handel’s minuet. I made only three mistakes, Jacques a few more than that, but everybody said it was perfect, although I think we rather grated on their hearing. Mama and Papa were truly surprised at our present and the progress we have made without a music teacher (we gave up lessons a year ago, to save money), and then I brought Jacques’ carillon and accompanied the clock, as if we were making the time sing in three different ways, and Giuseppe began to applaud like a madman. He has something of the gondolier about him, with his glossy black curls and his pencil moustache, and he is very gallant with me, but without ever going too far. I like Italian people, they have a warmth that does not suffocate you. He came to stand next to the piano, he took my hand and kissed it in recognition of ‘this celestial music’ and since my manina was cold – as my hands always are – he began to sing from Puccini’s latest opera, La Bohème: ‘Che gelida manina se la lasci riscaldar...’ Papa, who speaks Italian, translated: What a cold little hand, if you will allow, let me warm it... He was a seductive Rodolfo, I a Mimi who could barely contain her laughter. And then Mr Costache continued Rodolfo’s aria, how about that! He knew it very well and from time to time he looked at me as I sang, but in vain, since I understood absolutely nothing apart from the word signorina. At one point he turned to look at Mr Crețu, however, and Papa told me in a whisper that it was about a theft and a box or something of the sort. Signor Giuseppe was enthusiastic, he embraced us all for joy, it seems that he even attended the premiere in Turin (or did he say Milan?). I discovered that Mr Costache has an enchanting voice and sings very well, and I told him so. And that he speaks Italian, which was a surprise. Things I would never have imagined about him. Maybe he was more carefree in his youth; a pity that he has chosen a profession that ages him. For, rarely have I seen him in a good mood. But what about Papa? Both men are gloomier than anybody else I know.
I gave Jacques the Luminous Fountains from Universul and Nicu The Mewler. When we were about to make the fountains, we discovered that the instructions were missing, and so I shall have to go back to the newspaper offices to get a full set. I shall have to take this one back, and so Jacques was sad. The Mewler mewled twice and then refused to mewl any more, but Nicu said it was better that way, because he did not like cats, – he has a dog and he keeps it in the yard, because it is full of fleas. Papa’s hat did not fit, although I had measured it against the old one. I sat perched on the crown of his head so comically that we all laughed. An example of how a man can end up with laughter instead of a present. Ah, yes, and for Mama I bought Veronica Micle’s Poesies. She thanked me from the bottom of her heart. You would have said that it was exactly what she wanted, but Mr Costache later told me that he knew she did not like the work, although I cannot see why. As for me, they gave me a nice white fur muff. I hate muffs, because it is as if my hands were cuffed. And nor are they fashionable any more. Nicu did not bring Jacques anything. Apparently there had been a mix up and he kept explaining something to him in a whisper. And so I proposed that in the next few days we should redistribute our unsuitable presents by means of a tombola draw, but they all thought it an absurd suggestion and looked at me in consternation. It was a complete catastrophe.
Anyway, the most difficult part concerned Mr Dan Crețu. When he saw Mr Costache, he was struck dumb, while Costache kept trying to pry things out of him, as if it were an interrogation. I thought he went too far. After all, they were both guests and the candles on the tree had been lit for reconciliation. But in the end, reluctantly, and more out of embarrassment, Dan Crețu still had to say something and in this way I discovered something new and exciting. Petre, Inger’s coachman, who found Mr Crețu and the young boyar from Giurgiu, is supposed to have taken a wallet from the dying man’s pocket. Mr Crețu said it en passant, I do not think he thought it important, but Costache was troubled, he almost rose from his chair and left, and only good manners prevented him from doing so in the end. And so, unlike yesterday, today was very confused, as if somebody had put spokes in our wheels, or at least in two of the four. And the two wheels still turning like a velocipede relate to Alexandru and me, to our permanently precarious balance.
2.
Having come back from old man Cercel’s, Nicu wished with all his heart that his mother would be at home so that he could show her what he had bought her, but he found the house cold and empty. He lit the fire in the tin stove in the kitchen and the one inside the house, whose smoke had already begun to blacken the white-washed walls, and he placed the birdcage on the bed. The speckled creature within was calm, almost asleep.
‘Do you want to eat? Do you want to drink?’ asked Nicu and in his mind he heard Speckle say she wanted to sleep and that he should leave her in peace.
Nicu did not say anything else to her. He ate quickly and almost without chewing. Dr Margulis had advised him to always eat at the same hours and to chew thoroughly. But Nicu did exactly the opposite: he ate when he got home or whenever other people gave him food and he bolted it down, not wanting to waste time on chewing, like a sheep. The doctor was very good to him and always examined him lest he have some illness, and if he coughed he gave him pills and told him how to look after himself. Once, he made him inhale the steam from a pot of boiling salt water. Another time, he taught him to throw his head back and gargle. He made him practice using plain water first of all, and then gave him one of his syrups. When, after the death of his grandmother, Nicu found his mother in that state one hot July day, he ran straight to Strada Fântânei and the doctor, who was resting with the curtains drawn, immediately got up, put on his straw hat, had Nelu ready the carriage and went to the potters’ quarter at a gallop. The doctor saw to everything, he took Nicu’s mother to Dr Marinescu (Nicu did not even know how much it cost) and he took the lad to stay with Jacques for a while, where he was as if in heaven. But after that the doctor called him to the library one day and asked him man to man whether he wanted to take care of his mother, who would continue to have ‘lapses,’ and whether he felt capable of living alone with her. Nicu had said that he could manage and wanted to stay with her. Since then, the doctor had kept his eye on them, and not a week passed without him asking about ‘our patient’ and giving Nicu medical advice without taking the time to repeat it. Why did he do that?
A snowball struck the kitchen window. Nicu obeyed the call and went outside with his tinsel star, leaving Speckle asleep on the kitchen table. Now, besides having a mother, a collection of shrivelled chestnuts and a cow without an udder, he also had a living pigeon, which he was going to part with the following day. The other boys were waiting for him, and together they went carolling along the street. Apples and walnuts began to fill their cloth bags, and since Nicu did not have a bag of his own, he asked the choir leader, a tall boy with wavy long hair and a voice too hoarse for
a chorister, to keep the goodies for him. When they came across Alexandru on the threshold, smoking a cigarette, they immediately surrounded him. He was bareheaded and the wind was ruffling his soft auburn hair. The repertoire of the five-boy choir was unvarying: Oh, Wonderful Tidings, Three Shepherds and a closing carol, which Nicu liked more thanks to the words than the tune, which was quite difficult.
Nicu thrilled in particular to the words ‘but there are hovels without a hearth’ and the rousing finale: ‘Romanians, do not forget to be good when thou art merry!’ on hearing which people immediately went inside to fetch goodies, and some even gave the boys pennies. It is good to remind people what they have to do; for some quite simply forget. Alexandru gave each of them money and sweets, and he ordered Toader to fetch treats from inside. Strangely, Toader was not in a good mood that evening and he went off grudgingly. The choir leader asked Alexandru for some cigarettes, and Alexandru obliged. Just as he was about to leave, Nicu quickly told him: ‘Miss Iulia sends word to you. Five o’clock, green and red! Green and red!’ and thereupon made himself scarce, before Alexandru had time to ask him anything, given that he knew absolutely nothing. He hoped that Alexandru would understand what was to be understood better than he did. He was aware that besides ‘five o’clock’ he ought to have specified a day, but since he had no idea, he left it hanging. On his return home he suffered another misfortune, like the ones that had lately been plaguing him: the choir leader did not want to part with Nicu’s share of the booty, and so he was left with only the coins he had managed to put in his pockets. So he crept home along his poorly lit alley, with terror in his heart lest on top of this he meet the Muzzle and be deprived of all the fruits of his labour, as had happened the previous year.
Life Begins On Friday Page 18
