Life Begins On Friday

by Ioana Parvulescu

  Speckle was asleep in the kitchen and his mother was inside the house, thank God. She had come back, but she was drunk again, and that meant she would have one of her turns. But Nicy went to bed and slept well anyway, because he had resolved a large number of things, Iulia’s letter in particular.

  And the next day, as he was about to go to the Margulis’ house for lunch, taking Speckle, his heart broke at the thought of parting with her, of giving her away as a gift, just when he had found a peaceful companion in life, one bought with his own money. His friend would understand, thought Nicu, when he explained that Speckle did not want to come with him, that he had been unable to persuade the bird in any shape or form, although he had tried, and indeed, Jacques had said: ‘My dear-r, ther-re is no need for pr-resents between us. You know, I do not much like doves, I pr-refer-r seagulls! But unfor-rtunately nobody in Bucharrest r-rear-rs seagulls. Maybe I should make a business of it? Will you join me if need be?’

  Nicu promised to help him and assured him he would bring him another present, a copy of Universul Ilustrat, the issue with the mammoths. And he had made another strange discovery: his cow loved money! When she found a coin in Nicu’s pocket she clasped it with her legs and it was hard to tear it away from her. (True, Nicu liked money too and did more or less the same thing.)

  3.

  There was no trace of festivity in General Algiu’s house, where only a single lamp was lit, on the desk. His former colleagues from the Prefecture of Police, who maintained the warmest feelings toward him, had sent him, via a sub-lieutenant with smiling eyes, a small Christmas tree decorated with thick candles. The General surmised that the man who had had the idea for the gift could be none other than Costache. But it was still a bad idea, even if it had come from good friends and with good intentions. And so Ion Algiu forbade his adjutant to bring the tree into the house and it had remained leaning next to the front door, filling the hall with the scent of a mountain forest. At lunchtime, the General mounted his horse and went to the Bellu Cemetery. His adjutant, following behind, struggled with the Christmas tree, placing it, with regret, on the grave of Mrs Algiu, God rest her soul! The adjutant’s opinion was that the lady had no need of such things in the place where she now resided, a place of shade and verdure, which they themselves could have done with: the tree would have brightened up the salon, because for the last year they had been living like hermits and he had grown sick of such a life!

  When they returned, also at a gallop, the adjutant strained to take off the General’s tall boots, which came off with difficulty since they were long and rigid. After he had polished them to a sheen and inserted boot trees, he was given the day off, to go where he pleased and celebrate as he saw fit. As for Algiu, he remained alone, with nothing but the philodendron by the window and his Borzoi dog, Lord, whose age was only a little greater than his master’s period of mourning. The General was touched at the thought that Lord had known his wife, as a small puppy, and had once lain on her bed of suffering. Being so young, the hound was playful and gambolled around his master, constantly provoking him. It gave him pleasure to stroke the long, white, silkily undulating hair, with the russet collar around his neck. The dark, elongated eyes regarded him with aristocratic pride and whenever he heard the slightest noise outside he pricked up his ears. However, the electric doorbell quite simply drove him out of his mind. The General almost regretted having had it installed. But the dog stubbornly refused to be trained and Algiu’s pride as a general was often affected when Lord was insubordinate, as he was now, for example, and refused to sit. It was a good job there were no witnesses.

  He took a pile of old magazines and newspapers and began to flick through them, wetting his finger on his tongue, reading an article here and there in the light of the lamp, aimlessly, although somehow he lingered over all the news items connected to the ex-mayor Filipescu. This was a public figure that had preoccupied him for a long time, and he had remarked that his haughty and determined gaze in a way resembled his Borzoi, but sometimes he had less brains than the hound. After leafing through a few calendars, particularly those that had historical headings, he picked up the 3 September 1893 edition of Universul. ‘On Monday a tender for the demolition of the Sărindar Church was held at the Ministry of Religions. The demolition was awarded for the price of three thousand, five hundred lei. The work must be completed within a month.’ This had certainly not done Filipescu’s reputation any good. Although at the end of this century the people of Bucharest thought less and less about things holy, compared with folk from the beginning of the century, and although many, including himself, declared themselves atheists, their heaven was not altogether empty and at a pinch they were capable of remembering that man was as insignificant as a worm. At the time, Nicu Filipescu was thirty-years-old, and had been Mayor of the Capital for around half a year and was determined to do great things. And since Sărindar had been abandoned, rather than seeking to repair it, he decided to demolish it. He was, let us admit, justified in a small way: ever since two spires had been added inappropriately, the building had been a public menace. On top of which, the General remembered that rats and dead cats had been the only adornment of the churchyard, which looked worse than a patch of waste ground. But it was in that church that a large number of Bucharest’s leading citizens had been married, and others, less fortunate, had set out thence on their final journeys. And so the demolition wounded many memories.

  Nicu Filipescu was one of those young men who believed it was better to demolish what tottered rather than waste time consolidating and salvaging it. He had brought in convicts to do the job, since nobody else wanted to damage a holy place. The effect on the people of Bucharest was worse than could have been foreseen: the elderly came weeping and asking to be given at least a brick to take home, to guard them against evil. Strangely, now that it no longer existed, Sărindar looked better in the eyes of Bucharest’s inhabitants than it had when it still stood. But was it not the same for him, the General, now that his beloved wife was no more? Now, she was always there with him. The General moved on to the news items about duels, a subject of great controversy. Yet he felt it to be true that honour had to ben defended, and he did not agree that two men who fought in a duel mutually agreed upon and in the presence of witnesses could be considered ‘common criminals’: the law proposed by Viișoreanu was intolerable! But nevertheless, he felt sorry for Lahovary, the man had the courage of an entire army. It was a pity that he had not had time to train; the general himself could have taught him, given ten days of serious training...

  Even before the electric doorbell shattered the silence, Lord had pricked up his ears. He then sped to the door like a cannonball, barking deafeningly. At the door was an unknown woman of around sixty, modestly dressed, who alighted from a luxurious carriage that had pulled up to the entrance. The General was struck by the woman’s aquiline nose and the stony expression on her face such as only his best soldiers could manage. He invited her into the salon, bringing the dog to heel with difficulty. The guest was not intimidated by Lord, however, and seemed not even to notice the poor dog.

  ‘I have sent you countless visiting cards and since you did not reply, I decided to break the rule,’ said the lady with the faintest of smiles. ‘Look, here is the last one,’ said the guest, discovering a visiting card on the tray by the door. The General held it at a distance from his eyes and read: Mrs Elena Dr Turnescu. He could not imagine to what he owed the honour of her visit.

  ‘I cannot imagine to what I owe the honour of this visit, Madam Dr Turnescu, or rather the joy of this visit. I know you by your reputation.’

  ‘I have an important matter to communicate to you. I know that you were the Prefect of Police, and my husband spoke of you with respect.’

  And without further ado, in words sparse and clear, she told him the reason for her coming.

  4.

  The street was deserted and the air brisk. Fane the Ringster trod softly, with the gait of a wild animal. He suspecte
d that they had not released him for nothing. Of course, they never had any evidence against him, because he worked cleanly, as he himself was in the habit of boasting. The real reason had to be the stranger’s safe. They probably hoped that by following him they would find it, whereas if he was locked up it didn’t profit them at all, and besides, it only gave them an extra mouth to feed.

  ‘Leave it to me, Jean,’ said Fane by way of farewell to the unfortunates who were spending their Christmas in the cells, ‘I weren’t born yesterday!’

  As he walked along the street, he gave a whistle of amazement when he found a barber’s shop open. He stepped over the broom shank, which propped open the door, and flung himself down on a wooden chair in front of the mirror. Everything was going like clockwork; he would be dapper when he visited his ‘fiancée’.

  ‘What’s this, Jean, open on a holiday, you’re not a Turk, by any chance, are you?’

  ‘My name’s Mitică – Dumitru that is, not Jean, Jean is a barber on Strada Măgureanu, as far as I know,’ said the barber and then started talking about politics, unions and the barbers’ refusing to have a day off during the holidays. The truth was that the Government had rejected their request and ruled that the barbers’ shops should close, but a few of them, including him, had broken the law. What could happen, after all?

  The customer chided him: ‘Shut your trap, you’re sending me to sleep.’ And indeed, his eyes, the colour of Quetsch plums, were on the point of closing.

  Fane was above social disputes, because he had his own politics, and was his own master. The barber admired his moustache, offering to trim it according to the latest fashion, which dispensed with such long fringes.

  ‘Trim it, and trim that tongue of yours with that there razor while you’re at it,’ said Fane gently, and the barber gave a rather horsey laugh. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to open on a holiday after all; all kinds of dubious characters turned up. He began to hum softly, so as not to be obliged to talk, and dipped the shaving brush in the lather. Then he lathered the customer’s cheeks nicely, taking especial care to avoid his moustache. He trimmed his hair and then massaged his scalp with eau de cologne, causing Fane to grunt with pleasure.

  After he left Mitică’s shop, trimmed, shaved and perfumed, Fane checked to see whether he still had a police tail and then decided it wouldn’t look amiss if he went to a public bath, and so he headed in the direction of Grivița Avenue, to Vasiliu the pharmacist’s establishment. This time he was going for a reason that nobody else must suspect. But he was out of luck: the establishment was closed and locked. He chewed his moustache and swore so loudly that even his tail must have heard him. But you never know what luck has in store for you and it seems that somebody within had heard him or perhaps seen him, because with his ear finely tuned to certain sounds he heard a key turning in the lock. The door opened and in the crack appeared a tousled young head.

  ‘Good people,’ said Fane by way of introduction, ‘I want to take a bath!’

  The lad said they were closed and that he was there merely to guard the cash box, which had vanished on previous occasions.

  ‘Jean, let me take a bath and I’ll put some money in the cash box and in your pocket too,’ pleaded Fane in his most civil voice.

  The lad would have been willing, but there was hot water only on working days and he wasn’t allowed to light the fire for the boilers.

  ‘Then at least let me use the latrine, since you don’t have to light that,’ said Fane and started hopping from one leg to the other, clenching his buttocks.

  Knowing that a tip was obligatory if you did somebody such an urgent favour, the lad allowed him to enter.

  ‘Down there, turn left and then straight ahead!’

  ‘Thank you very much, Jean!’

  When he returned two minutes later, Fane had an indecisive air, as if he did not know whether he should give up the bird in his hand for the two in the bush or abandon all thought of feathered creatures. He entered the small room in which the tousled lad was lazing with his elbows on the table and asked after the bath attendant. He was away in Sinaia for the whole of the holidays, said the watchman.

  ‘Did he leave anything here for me – me name’s Fane – because I left a large case here with him?’

  The lad didn’t know anything about any case and started to get annoyed.

  ‘Let’s have a quick look, Jean, maybe we’ll find it, it’s silver-coloured, I’m in great need of it,’ said Fane in his holiday voice and gave him his most persuasive facial expression.

  Although the lad looked more and more bad-tempered, and it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get rid of him, Fane didn’t give up. He dominated him until willy-nilly he had opened all the doors. They looked everywhere, behind the cast-iron bathtubs, in the broom closet. Fane was emanating a sort of cold breeze. The lad wouldn’t let him enter the room where the cash box was and assured him that there wasn’t anything in there. As he said it, Fane gave him a very strange look, and the lad sensed rather than understood that he was in danger and so from the doorway he cast a quick look inside.

  ‘Are you afraid, Jean? You’re afraid, aren’t you Jean? What if I clout you over the head right now and steal the money from the cash box?’

  Then he slapped him on the shoulders in encouragement, laughed, turned on his heel and left.

  Behind him he heard the key turn twice in the lock and he laughed again. It was obvious the watchman was a greenhorn: he was one of those innocents who think a sliver of metal could protect him from harm. Fane looked behind him and then headed towards his woman, taking his tail with him. He had sent word that she should wait for him. After they had eaten and drank, and after he penetrated her twice, with all the mad desire that had accumulated during his days in the cell (she yelled so loud that you could hear it outside, and even more loudly the second time, before groaning gutturally like a pigeon) they both fell fast asleep. The next day, Fane interrogated her about everything that had happened in his absence, and she chirped like any bint when the master returns. As for Jean’s case: ‘To hell with it. There was nothing but some horrible clothes in it, nothing valuable. Not that I examined it closely, which is why I wanted it, but it didn’t seem to have anything that would be of interest to Fane the Ringster!’

  They both laughed, happy and carefree. Outside the man from the Police shivered as he waited to be relieved.

  Friday, 26 December: News

  1.

  The two street lamps at the entrance to the Prefecture were lit when I arrived, although it was the middle of the day, and under each street lamp stood a sentinel. In the carriage, which Papa drove by himself, because Nelu was still ill, I asked him why he thought Mr Costache had invited me to his office and why he could not have spoken to me at our house, and Papa told me that his friend never mixed business and private life, and that in his youth he had promised him that he would leave his profession at the door alongside his cane. And indeed, I think that he kept his word, at least up until yesterday, with Dan Crețu. Papa added that there would be nobody at the Prefecture today, since it was the day after Christmas. I have known Mr Costache ever since I can remember. When I grew up and we had to start calling each other vous instead of toi, I was sorry, because it alienated the person closest to me, for sometimes he was closer to me than my own parents and I could speak to him more freely than I could to them. I remember one summer, when I found a beetle in a book and I screamed, he came to me in alarm, saw the insect and gently said: ‘Can you really be afraid of this small and book-loving creature?’ And he threw it out of the window.

  Papa told me that he probably wanted to ask for some information. He was very calm about the whole thing, since he has been Mr Costache’s friend since before I was born. And it was true that there was nobody at the Prefecture this morning. Papa took me upstairs to the first floor. A little old man knocked on the door and opened it wide to allow me to enter. Papa said bonjour and then left. Mr Costache quickly got up from his desk and c
ame to greet me. He apologized for having smoked before I arrived, but I smelled only a faint waft of fine tobacco. He looked tired and hid his hazel eyes, which to me have always seemed too normal for my idea of what a policeman should be like. He bade me sit down by the fire and he sat at his desk. I think he must not have slept all night. He told me he had two very difficult cases, which he thought I could help him with, and that he had sat up all night thinking about it.

  ‘About it?’ I asked.

  ‘About you,’ he said. ‘I often think about you before I go to sleep.’

  He said it without looking at me. He spoke softly, as if he were alone, although he had a deep, firm voice. I sensed how hard it must be for him. His words sounded gentle. For the first time I thought of him as a single man. For the first time I thought of him as a man. For the first time I saw that he had a handsome face, a handsomeness that came from within. I tried to make light of it, sensing a kind of danger to my joy in always seeing him at our house:

  ‘You mean to say that thinking of me always sends you to sleep and that is how interesting I seem to you? I ought to feel offended, but I forgive you. You can use me as a medicament. Papa is the doctor, I the medicament.’

  He did not smile, not even from politeness. He got up and stood behind my chair, so that I would not be able to see him.

  ‘You, Miss Iulia, are like a little spider which, when it senses somebody near or when you touch it, ever so slightly, immediately retracts its little legs, and curls up in a ball, so that you might mistake it for a little black speck. In that way it thinks itself safe from intruders. Whenever I have come close to you, whenever I have touched you, you have acted like the spider, you have curled yourself into a ball. And you do so now, except that I do not have time to wait until you uncurl yourself.’