Life Begins On Friday

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Life Begins On Friday Page 25

by Ioana Parvulescu


  ‘And when will this concert be, Mr Procopiu?’ asked Pavel, his whispery voice laden with a sarcasm that was inappropriate given he was the younger of the two.

  ‘Before you get married,’ replied Procopiu, with slight irritation, at which point Peppin came in without knocking.

  ‘Who, my Păvălucă? Are you getting married, laddie?’ he said in a voice that filled the office with good humour and scattered tension between the other two men. ‘I shall be first, let it be well understood. It is in order of birth, so that there won’t be a mad rush. The older brother takes priority.’

  ‘No,’ said Pavel drily, without raising his voice, ‘we were talking about the future of Romania, which Mr Procopiu was comparing with an orchestra endlessly rehearsing.’

  ‘Ah, no, to me it seems exactly like playing billiards at Fialkowski’s. You strike a ball in order to set another in motion, every move has a hidden aim, a zigzag of consequences, and everything moves closer and closer, as part of a cosmic mechanism. Maybe that was how God set the worlds in motion, with a cue. In the end, even if we cannot see it yet, we will win our historic billiard game.’

  ‘No,’ said Pavel, just as drily, ‘it sooner resembles a swarm of locusts.’

  ‘A flock of locusts,’ Procopiu corrected him.

  ‘A cloud of locusts,’ proposed Peppin, given his experience as a translator.

  ‘Never mind that, swarm, cloud, whatever! Until recently I didn’t even know that locusts do not fly, but only jump, they make huge jumps... And they let themselves be carried away on the wind like swift flying ships, they make no effort, put up no resistance, they harness, as I say, all the services nature provides free of charge.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Neculai Procopiu rather threateningly, but at the same time interested in the engineering side of the problem. ‘That we destroy everything like locusts?’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all, I have not made myself understood! On the contrary, I meant that the tempests blow over us and that we have no way of resisting them, our powers of resistance cannot compare with the power of history, and the same goes for personal life. Whenever the history of the world turns a page, we make a jump, without being able to control it, and our only chance is to let it carry us away, while harnessing the steam of events to the greatest possible extent, lest we be left behind on the ground. Let us be in step with the speed of time, or rather the times. Let us adjust ourselves, rather than put up resistance.’

  ‘Ah, yes, interesting,’ admitted the editor-in-chief, now calmer, ‘I can subscribe to that, especially if the times are favourable. But now time presses, rather than the times: we need to get down to the New Year issue. What do we have?’

  They talked about the case of the missing icon, but they did not have any details. Procopiu offered to investigate the matter first thing in the morning, and if he could find nothing attractive, they would make a plain announcement. There was no further news about the Rareș Ochiu-Zănoagă case and the holidays had passed quietly. There was nothing they could use.

  ‘Have you communicated the results of the lottery?’ asked Peppin, calmly, since neither he nor Pavel had bought tickets.

  ‘Yes, they are appearing tomorrow. I did not win, but what can I say? I was hardly expecting to. Not many people bought tickets, because the weather was bad. The draw was not held in Cișmigiu, as planned, but at the Hôtel Boulevard. The issue will be rather flimsy,’ fretted the editor-in-chief, at which Pavel shrugged one shoulder and Peppin both.

  They paid great attention to the clichés brought in by Marwan for ‘Our Illustration’ – in the end they had come to an agreement on the price – they were indeed very good, it did not even matter what you might write next to them, and so if nothing came up by tomorrow afternoon, with the photograph and the satirical poems by Marion (their colleague Dumitru-Ion Marinescu) the issue could be saved. Pavel took off his spectacles (for myopia) and looked closely at the images. One was of Victory Avenue viewed from above, from the first floor of the Theatre, and had been taken in the snow; you could pick out the individual snowflakes, and there were people and carriages made small by the perspective. The other had been taken in fair weather, next to the offices of L’Indépendance Roumaine, which the staff of Universul envied for its technical endowments: all the machinery had been brought from abroad and the newspaper looked like Le Figaro.

  ‘Is that not Mr Costache Boerescu?’ asked Peppin and began to laugh.

  ‘It is indeed. Marwan pointed him out to me, when he brought it in.’

  ‘He will have a surprise,’ even Pavel laughed softly.

  ‘And then some!’

  4.

  Two of the seagulls that usually wheeled above the Dâmbovița had today come as far as the window of Costache Boerescu’s office at the Prefecture of Police. They were enormous and floated together, their movements in incredible synchrony, as if somebody were simultaneously pulling unseen strings. Costache gazed at them sadly: probably he would never be in such soothing harmony with anybody. About the couples around him he generally knew more than he would have wished. As a rule, he liked one of the two more than the others, but as Peppin Mirto said, you have to take married couples as a single package; there is no other choice. There were some he sincerely envied, because they flapped their wings and changed direction at exactly the same moment as they flew, and such a pair was Agatha and Leon Margulis. Would he have been able to fly in harmony with her? What would have become of her life if she had chosen him? Would she have been happier? And what would have become of his life if Iulia...

  ‘The priest from the Icoanei Church is here,’ announced the sergeant at the door.

  Costache stood up to greet him.

  The previous day, when, truth to tell, few people ventured out in the blizzard to go to church, Epiharia, who knew all the parishioners by name or at least by sight, had been surprised to see a distinguished man holding a cane with a silver knob in the form of a beak, a man who had never been here – of this she was sure! – who had never hung his hat on the peg above the seat at the end of the row and peacefully listened to the service for the Sunday following the Feast of the Nativity. His mind did not seem to be on things holy, however, he kept looking at the walls, stroking the wooden arm of the chair, although the priest, on seeing him, had all of a sudden become livelier and spoke of the Flight to Egypt so beautifully that he himself might have been present when the angel told Joseph to take the young child and his mother and flee: ‘And weeping and great mourning, and Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.’ Epiharia wiped the tears from her eyes and little did she suspect, seeing the newcomer look at her from time to time, that the reason for his being there was her insignificant person. She left the church last, as usual. Before her, a man and his daughter made the sign of the cross both at the same time, he a broad cross with his broad hand, she a little cross with her little hand, and Epiharia gazed at them with love. But the newcomer was standing by the door. He greeted her and said he wished to speak with her. Luckily, the priest came up to them, with an air of gaiety. It was a good job that he did, because she was flustered and her face had turned scarlet, to the very dimple in her chin. They fell to talking and with mention of the name Dan Crețu, the man with whom she had been alone in the church not long ago, it turned out that the newcomer was the Chief of Public Security. He discovered something that interested him regarding the missing icon. The priest offered to continue the discussion the next day, because now he had to go home to his wife, who was ill.

  ‘Take a seat here, by the fire,’ said Costache, inviting the priest to sit in his favourite armchair, the one in which Iulia had sat not long ago. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea? I am indeed very curious as to what else you can tell me about the icon, which, if I understand rightly, has put the whole Church in an uproar. What I do not understand is how an icon could disappear without the Police immediately being informed.’

  The priest was glad to sit down
by the fire. Like all people forced to stand motionless for long periods, he had problems with his back. Speaking quickly and copiously, in a manner you would not have expected from a pious man, but using choice words, as you would have expected, the priest explained to him a number of matters. His host made a note of them on a sheet of paper. In short:

  The miracle-working icon from the Sărindar Church. Distinguishing signs: diamonds on the shoulders. After demolition of the church (1893) it was taken by the future (now former) Metropolitan Ghenadie.

  After the scandal broke out the Metropolitan was taken from his house by force, the icon was – apparently – in a safe. But it might equally have been given to somebody else.

  The Metropolitan, now in reclusion at Căldărușani Monastery, accuses those responsible for his arrest of stealing the safe with the icon, but they deny it and accuse him.

  Because of its large diamonds, the icon is of inestimable value. The newspapers and female public were on the side of the Metropolitan, reckoning him to be innocent, although he had been condemned by the Synod.

  ‘And what does Your Holiness say?’ said Costache, trying to find the right form of address. ‘Did the Metropolitan steal?’

  ‘Let us not sin in our choice of words, maligning a servant of the Church,’ said the priest sternly. And then, in a whisper, looking around him, lest he be overheard: ‘I am wholly on the side of His Holiness the Metropolitan, but not even in thought can I cast doubt on a decision of the Synod. The Unclean One has a hand in it all. Sooner it was one of your men, a policeman, who, taking advantage of the confusion a year ago, you remember how sudden it all was, stole the safe, icon and all. I doubt that he is still in the country.’

  ‘The Unclean One... We will find him!’

  5.

  The twins were eating soft-boiled eggs and their mouths were smeared with yolk.

  ‘When is New Year? I want to see it more quickly!’ said Ștefan, with whom his sister agreed, as always, nodding her head vigorously, with her mouth full.

  ‘Call for it and it will come!’

  They loved Uncle Alexandru more than Uncle Mișu, because he always encouraged them, rather than him trying to calm them down. Ștefan therefore believed himself entitled to shout at the top of his lungs: ‘Year, year, come more quickly!’

  His mother gave a start and scolded him, but then seeing her son’s puz­zled little face, she asked somewhat more gently: ‘Who is being naughty?’

  ‘Anica,’ the boy promptly answered.

  ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Anica,’ repeated the boy.

  Indeed, the way he looked, with his curls and white cheeks, he might very well have passed for his sister. Marioara sent them away with their nurse, since anyway they had finished eating, and she wanted to talk about the preparations for the New Year party.

  The three siblings had not sat at breakfast alone together since they were children, when their parents went off on long voyages abroad and left them in the care of their governess. It was obvious that blood was thicker than water, because Mișu and Alexandru and Marioara were cheerful, although they had no great reason to be. Mișu complained that he had only another four days at home and that he had not done any studying during the holidays, apart from some practical work on Mr Dan Crețu’s shoulder, for which his fall on the ice had been welcome. Marioara wondered in a slightly theatrical voice, although what she said came from the heart, whether she would ever find a man who would accept her with three children, two of whom, the twins, were very naughty and ‘put every suitor to flight.’ And Alexandru told them that he was worried and in love.

  ‘No big news there,’ said Marioara and Mișu almost in unison.

  The sister poured the coffee in the Limoges service, whose coffee pot, sugar bowl and cups had their handles twisted towards each other, as if they were chatting together. The coffee pot and sugar bowl even looked as if they were in an aparté, gossiping about some cup, probably.

  ‘With whom?’ asked Marioara, without any great curiosity.

  She was tired and always befriended the ladies that Alexandru introduced to her, and subsequently, when he left them, she consoled them or avoided them. Better she did not know.

  Rather than answering the question, Alexandru frowned and said: ‘This time is it different?’

  ‘No big news there,’ laughed his elder siblings.

  ‘Now it is I whom am afraid. I think that I have lost her already. Iulia Margulis.’

  Marioara knit her brows, the name sounded familiar, but not in a good way, and then she remembered a small and ordinary looking creature, dressed rather inexpensively, who had attended a party thrown by Mișu. Indeed, her brother had paid her great attention, which had surprised her; at parties he usually paid attention to the most dazzling and elegant lady.

  ‘Yes, I remember her, she is a –’ Marioara groped for the right word ‘– she is a delicate creature.’

  Alexandru looked at the floor and, in surprise, his sister saw him blush.

  ‘It is very hard to talk to people about somebody you care for greatly,’ he said. ‘To me it is very hard because you expect people to start making observations. One says she is thus, another says she is the opposite, one says she is intelligent, another says she is stupid, that she has curly hair, that she is gauche or that she speaks through her nose, and slowly but surely people extinguish her light. Once, Iancu, who as you know is an expert in rather scabrous matters, in order to ‘rescue’ me from a married woman, without whom life seemed to me to have no zest, described her as follows, between drinks and between two... two pigs like us, he described her piece by piece: her lips are like a trout’s, her nose has a hump, her eyes are like pondweed, her oval face is too small and her circular rump too large, her...’

  ‘I did not teach you to speak like that,’ interrupted Mișu, stiffly, and Marioara added: ‘And nor is it any of our concern! Shame on you and your mind! Iancu is an ass, as you say. Although he does have charm,’ she could not help but add.

  ‘I said he was a pig. But he did me a great service in rescuing me from her! I would not care for anybody to do me such a service in regard to Iulia. If I could, I would take her away from the world and keep her in a safe place, where nobody could find her.’

  ‘Have you ever asked her if she wants that? In any event, kidnappings are no longer the mode. You were born too late.’

  ‘I know.’

  Tuesday, 30 December: Time Stands Still

  1.

  I had not been expecting this, not in the middle of winter. There was a huge mosquito in the room, the father of all mosquitos – I do believe – the forerunner, the founder of the nation. In the past I would have killed it without stopping to think about it, but now – it is obvious I have aged a year – I left it in peace. Anyway, it looks tired, like a traveller who wishes only to lay his head on a clean pillow and rest his legs. Maybe it is making a New Year voyage. I will provide it with all the comfort and ease it desires. It is evening, it is pleasant here in my room, it smells of nutmeg and cinnamon from the cakes on the table, and everything is colourful, as I wanted it to be: the wallpaper and curtains are soft yellow, with a hint of russet, the flowery carpet is also yellow, between the green garlands, the armchair and couch are olive green, and only the bedspread does not match, I shall have to change it, when I have the money. It is as if there were no outside, but only an inside.

  Today everything was turned upside down by a piece of news that fell like a thunderbolt: poor Safta read in Universul (she collects them after we read them and uses them for wiping the windowpanes) that one of her brothers-in-law – her family is from Boheni, in Oltenia – was buried alive, under some rocks. I would ban news like that, if I had the power! And everything was described in gory detail, how it happened, how the unfortunate man went with a pick to the quarry, to fetch materials to build a school in Cetatea. I refuse to write any more. The family’s grief is also described at length. What must Safta have felt when she read
it! Of course, Papa straight away gave her money for the journey, because tomorrow, on New Year’s Eve, she must go there, and he gave her a sedative. She was in a dreadful state, choking on her tears, I thought she would die. She fainted twice. Nobody should ever have to go through such an ordeal! Even when you hear about such things happening to a complete stranger, you feel the blow. Why should such suffering exist in the world? It makes my head reel when I try to understand it, and today I even had to lie down, I felt unwell. The ironic thing is that a few days ago, in Universul, I read an article with almost the same title, but a comical one: Buried in Dollars. It was about some functionaries at a mint in Philadelphia, who, they said in the paper, ‘almost came a cropper.’ They had been sent to check a money warehouse, to see whether it still held two million dollars. I cannot even imagine so much money; it is like an oriental fairy tale. And when they lifted up the sacks, the cloth split and ‘it began raining dollars’ on the functionaries’ feet. In a short while, said the newspaper, they were buried up to the waist in silver coins. The fire brigade arrived and saved them from certain death. And the moral: ‘money is very nice,’ but not if you drown in it! I liked that story very much. Lovers of money should read it. Papa said the love of money, argyrophilia, is a disease and gave the former Metropolitan Ghenadie as an example. Papa certainly does not have the disease, but rather the opposite one. What might one call it? Argyrophobia – a fear of money? And by the way, I read the winning lottery numbers in the newspaper: my No. 12 came up, and Vasilica’s No. 21, and so neither of us won. But it seems of no importance now.

  Last night, for the first time, I forgot to go to Jacques’ room to say good night, as I have been doing ever since he was born, when I was ten years old: I used to go barefoot to his cot and Papa would not allow me to touch him. I am afraid I am becoming selfish: this is a defect that I did not have before.

 

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