‘Do you know a good lawyer, specializing in divorce?’
The General, who was accustomed to listening to everything until the end before asking any questions nodded to signify that he did and made a gesture with his right hand to signify that he would tell him after he finished. Costache therefore continued. It could be presupposed that with the lawyer Movileanu the young Rareș wished to solve some matters connected with money. If everything succeeded, the sum would have been large, and the money was therefore worth investing. He wanted to have an independent income, so that he could become a painter. He had mentioned something along these lines to the lawyer.
‘The rest I found out from Alexandru, the son of Hristea Livezeanu.’
The General frowned slightly, and Costache, who had known him in the days when he was Prefect, thought to understand what he meant, as if he had read his thoughts: He has a reputation as a coureur, but he is not a bad boy. I am a friend of his family.
‘He himself told me the other day, when I was a guest of the Livezeanu family.’
He refrained from sighing and continued in a neutral voice.
‘Rareș Ochiu Zănoagă and Alexandru had a common friend, a certain Grigore Cernea – yesterday I went to Giurgiu to confirm it – a man of thirty-five, rather shady, a one-time monk, who subsequently became a dealer in religious items. In most cases he was covered, the pretext was charitable works, but he pocketed half the money. But the icon from Sărindar could not be sold, the same as the rest of the monastery’s goods. When Nicu Filipescu decided to demolish it, the monastery’s goods, in the keeping of a number of bishops, had to be preserved for a new church, more beautiful than Sărindar, but whose site had not yet been chosen. As you know, the building of the new monastery has been postponed sine die. Grigore Cernea asked Livezeanu to meet a young man, namely Rareș, near the Băneasa estate on Friday, 19 December, at ten o’clock in the morning, to take a parcel from him and to deliver it to another man, whose name we do not know. Rareș himself was to tell Alexandru the man’s name and where to meet him. As is plain, Alexandru was nothing but another intermediary, who was the link between Rareș and the other man. He did not even do this for money, but from friendship for Grigore, so he assured me. And I believe that between young men of their sort such help is something usual. He is the type who gets mixed up in messes believing he is making a grand and noble gesture.’
Only now did Mr Costache sigh, looking with envy at the hound, which was as restless as a naughty child.
‘There is no need for you to tell me the rest, I understand: when he got there, Rareș had been shot, the package was gone, and he fled, realizing that there was something nasty behind it.’
‘That is what he told me, in almost exactly the same words. He offered to describe minute by minute what he did after he fled the place (he said that he did not even approach the man, and that he was quite simply afraid, thinking him dead), he said that we could send men to search his house and his apartment in town, he had nothing to hide. The fact that he knew nothing of the key persuaded me that he was not lying, otherwise he, rather than Petre, would have taken the one in the boy’s pocket. And he was greatly afraid lest he be accused of murdering him, which is why in the beginning he breathed not a word. Petre found out from the newspapers, firstly that Rareș Ochiu-Zănoagă was not dead, and then, to his despair, that he had died. Because only Rareș Ochiu-Zănoagă could have confirmed his innocence.’
‘And how did you solve the riddle?’ asked the General in a tone that reminded Costache of the moments when Algiu knew more than his subalterns and put them to the test.
Sensing a trap, Costache pondered well before saying: ‘With the exception of the word Popescu, unless it was not Popescu but popa (priest), the others, stars, light, Holy Mother and sar (leap) or dar (gift) are clear: Rareș had been curious and found out what he had to pass on, hence his death: the icon of the Holy Mother from Sărindar, the one with the stars and light on her shoulders, that is, diamonds.’
‘I am afraid that you have not solved the riddle entirely correctly,’ said General Algiu cheerfully, and Costache frowned. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
He lit his pipe and his guest joined him, lighting a cigar.
‘True, it was merely by accident that I came across the additional element. For you the words were written as follows,’ and he showed him the visiting card on which he had jotted them down: light, Popescu, light, with stars, Holy Mother, sar (dar?).
The adjutant entered, bringing his usual odour of boot polish, and asked whether the gentlemen would be eating at home, but Algiu waved his hand to signify that he did not have time for such things right now.
‘Understood, I’ll make something,’ said the adjutant, who knew just as well as the Head of Security how to interpret the General’s signals.
‘I knew about the story of the icon from Mrs Elena Turnescu, the surgeon’s widow, who makes large charitable donations. And then more or less by accident I came across a news item about army promotions and I saw that a few months ago Mr Popescu-Lumină had been promoted to sub-lieutenant. He was the one to whom Alexandru was to entrust the package, that is what the boy said, before he died, like a password, exactly what he should have told Alexandru. Therefore light (lumină) should be written with a capital letter. I went to see him and talked to him, because I know his superiors well: he seems innocent, but you never know. The same Grigore Cernea told him to expect Alexandru Livezeanu – he knew him by sight – at twelve o’clock at the Gara de Nord, by the first column of the portico. He said he waited twelve hours in the station, until midnight, thinking that he had got the wrong hour, but nobody came. Konets!’
‘You are formidable,’ exclaimed Costache. ‘Checkmate. Now everything fits. Grigore Cernea is no longer in the country and something leads me to believe that he will not be coming back. I found out from a porter at the Gara de Nord that he left on a train for Vienna. But I am not at all sure that he is the one who has the icon, because everything seems to rely on a chain of people who each know only the next link. It is the best way of planning a heist, if you want to keep it shadowy.’
And what about Mr Dan Crețu?’ asked the General. ‘I have read in Lumea Nouă things which, to put it bluntly, not even my adjutant would credit.’
‘Ah, yes, I found out that the man who talked to the journalists from Lumea is the assistant of my friend Margulis, from the surgery, an untrustworthy young man, whom I long ago advised him to dismiss. I hope he will do so now. Who knows what he overheard and what he concluded! In any event, I have found out absolutely nothing new about Dan Crețu. He has contacted nobody; nobody has contacted him. He seems to have burned every bridge with his past. His safe has not been found, but Fane’s mistress told us that it contained nothing but clothes. The Ringster swore to her.’
The sat down at the dinner table and changed the subject.
‘Are you invited to the Livezeanu family’s New Year party? I beg you to come, I would feel more at ease if you did,’ said Costache, and the General’s eyelids, after blinking indecisively a few times, closed to signify his acceptance. He raised his glass, which was filled with ruby-red wine that left transparent trails down the side.
‘To you,’ he said in a tone intended to be impassive.
Wednesday, 31 December: Future and Past
1.
There are just a few more hours before the end of the year. What have I done with the year or rather what have I made of it? I discovered the Handel minuet, the melody in Jacques’ musical clock. That was good. I met Mr Dan Crețu, who very easily became part of our family and befriended us all. That is likewise very good, if not somehow a miracle, because Papa, who is rather severe and demanding of people, rebuffs people, all the more so a man above whom float all kinds of unusual suspicions. I met a different Alexandru than the one I had known hitherto. That, I think, was bad, although it was good. I have been invited to begin the year 1998 – how silly of me, and how strange it looks! – The year 18
98, I meant, at the Livezeanus’. That is neither good nor bad, it is not anything, especially since I shall be staying at home. I have still not finished Vanity Fair. That is good and bad: bad because I have not kept my promise, and good, because I always feel sorry when I finish a good book.
I thought of the people around me, on this last morning of the year, of all those whom I know and whom, most of the time, entre nous, I do not remember. I thought, for example, of old man Cercel, the doorman from Universul, who raises doves and who, Papa tells us, has problems with his health and is afraid of ‘going under the knife.’ What he must be going through! I thought of Mr Peppin Mirto, of how hard he works and how he does everything, and of how merry and polite he is, and how wonderful it would have been for him to have had a career as an opera singer. And of Signor Giuseppe, who is less talented, but has a bigger heart, although he lives from hand to mouth. I thought of Mama. And of Papa, who is killing himself by looking after all the sick people for very little pay or even for no pay, of how he fights disease, day after day, without a Sunday off, without anybody erecting a statue to him, for no other reason that his desire to make the suffering in the world a speck smaller. As if he could make a speck or ten or even a thousand disappear from the sands of the world’s suffering. I thought of Jacques, of how courageous he is and I thought of the future that awaits him. I do not know why I have more faith in him than I do in myself. And I thought of poor Safta, who had up until now been very confident in her fate and full of cheer, but who is now travelling home along snowy roads to a grieving family, a house where the grief is fresh, and again I felt like crying. I thought of Mișu, Alexandru’s brother, whose forelock I like and I thought of what he will do with his medical degree and immediately after that I thought of Dr Gerota, the man who has impressed me more than any other and who I know for sure will move mountains in Romanian medicine: you can read it in his eyes when he speaks. I thought of how I had not won the lottery and of how nobody I know won anything. I thought of not thinking about Alexandru and me, because I do that all the time. And I asked myself who caused us all to know each other and to live in the same time and the same place? Finally I thought that if and only if I go to the party, I do not have a suitable dress – perhaps only the one that is the colour of Parma violets, which is not exactly new – and so I won’t go. And nor do I want to!
2.
Marioara Livezeanu looked at the table through the half-open door and could not take her eyes off it. It was as beautiful as a dream, like a jeweller’s shop window, like a festive gown. The white Holland tablecloth had absorbed a little too much starch: the corners did not undulate, but were stiff, like a woman whose corset was too tight. But she could find no other defect with the table. The cut crystal stars of the glasses glinted softly, but once the chandelier was lit they would flare, giving off rays. The delicately clinking champagne glasses had been placed at the ready on the serving table; their turn would not come until midnight. The bottles of champagne already rested in buckets containing large chunks of ice from Lake Cișmigiu. The thought that the best beverage in the world had come all the way from France to nestle among chunks from a frozen lake in Bucharest intrigued Marioara. A few days ago, in Universul she had read which lakes the people of Bucharest were allowed to take ice from: Floreasca, Herăstrău, Cișmigiu, Teiu Doamnei, Pasărea, Mogoșoaia, Fundeni. Floreasca would have been closer for them, but a groom had recently drowned there after being sent to collect ice, and so Hristea Livezeanu had preferred to send their servant to Cișmigiu.
Four women and a serving boy had worked up until now on decorating the table. The Rosenthal plates had gilded borders, pink roses and green-gold leaves, and so everything had to match these colours. Marioara had taken care of the arrangements herself. Pink roses, ordered in advance and delivered on time, alternated with white, opening rosebuds, and the napkins, ironed into fans and fastened with silver rings plated in gold, in the form of curled dolphins, were of pale green cloth. The plates for the hors d’oeuvres rested on the dinner plates like porcelain chicks in their mothers’ laps. The other plates waited in stacks, twelve for each guest. And then there was the brand new plate-warmer from Vienna. She had tested the chime of the champagne glasses with her fingernail. The sauce dishes, coffee and tea services, port-liqueur, olivière, samovar, cafetière, all were to hand, but placed to one side, without irritating the eye. Each guest’s place was set with four silver forks and as many knives, and two spoons, for the early courses, the knives at the same distance as the forks, not one millimetre more, the fish knives in their correct place, and the spoons above the plates. The soup tureens were also of Rosenthal porcelain, with frilly handles and knobs on the lids. The urn had white undulations and gilt borders, but the lid, alas, had a hairline crack: the cook had accidentally knocked it and then burst into tears, but there was nothing that could be done now, it was too late to replace it. Marioara finally tore herself away from her work of art and hurried to dress and arrange her hair for the most important evening of the year and to get her three children ready. For her, the thirty-first was like placing a full stop at the end of a sentence, while the first of January was like writing the capital letter of a new sentence, in large, thick script, like you see at the beginning of a chapter in a novel. She was dying of curiosity to meet Mr Dan Crețu at last. In her life there were not many events, apart from the children’s illnesses and her parents’ quarrels.
Alexandru Livezeanu barely had time to arrive home, to change for the party for which he had no enthusiasm. He put on his most handsome cufflinks, a present from his father, and regretted that the rules did not allow flowers in the buttonhole of his tailcoat. He felt as if he were blossoming within. Since the twenty-seventh of December, he had been filled with shame and joy and shyness and timidity in front of people, the likes of which he could have sworn he had never felt before. The New Year, at least this one, was nothing but a noisy occasion, which risked drowning out the delicacy of the thoughts and experiences he had acquired in the last few days. Or perhaps the strength of his silence would drown out the din and the unuttered feeling would be heard like the cry of silence in the midst of the commotion. He felt half luminous, half plunged into darkness. The light came from the past; the darkness was for the future. His greatest fear was that she might not come, after their last meeting, because since then he had not seen her and she had not sent a reply to his invitation. The doctor and his wife had announced that they were coming; Marioara had told him. As for her, there was not a word. His hand trembled as he adjusted his silk bow tie, but the mirror did not let him down, reflecting a face that regarded him differently.
Hristea and Maria Livezeanu were squabbling through the open door between their rooms as they prepared for the festive evening. For them, New Year was an occasion for constantly renewed accountings. They managed to recapitulate all the accusations of an entire lifetime, beginning with the moment when they met and Hristea had eyes for anyone but Maria, although she had done what she did to lay hands on the young swain. The time-line of their argument had reached the previous evening, when the gentleman had returned late from his club, as usual. He reminded her, she reminded him, in an endless duel, from which both emerged thicker-skinned and more obstinate than ever. As for the boy, Alexandru, he had let him get completely out of hand, said the mother, and felt her tears begin to flow. A teardrop left a furrow through the powder on her wrinkled cheek. Hristea approached and, as usual, fastened the string of pearls at the back of her neck, a silver wedding present, but he did so clumsily, earning fresh reproaches. Madam Maria Livezeanu was full of nerves: too many unfamiliar guests.
3.
One by one the coachmen came to a stop at the platform, which had been swept clear of snow. There was a frost. The first to arrive was Mișka’s cab from Theatre Square, the one with the two handsome white horses. From it alighted the four newspapermen from Universul, Procopiu and the Mirto brothers, all in festive garb, and then Mrs Procopiu, followed by Dan Crețu, whose
clothes fitted him remarkably well, thanks to Alexandru, or more accurately Alexandru’s tailor. He was unrecognizable, and Neculai Procopiu had to remark that for the first time since he met him, his editor fitted in with the décor. Mrs Procopiu gazed at him pensively and her husband could not tell whether her heart was now in her eyes. Peppin, who had lately put on weight, had been astonished to find that his tailcoat no longer fitted. He had had to borrow one from his uncle at the last moment, one that was rather short on him, while Păvălucă’s best undershirt, for festive occasions, was moth eaten; it was a good job it was not visible. As for the editor-in-chief, he felt ill at ease in the pair of shoes he wore only on the most special occasions, as if his feet had grown in the meantime. Toader, the cheerful groom, leapt forward to assist them and conducted them to the steps of the entrance, above which the light bulbs were lit and fir garlands hung. It was eight o’clock. Another four hours until midnight.
When she saw Dan, Marioara had the biggest surprise of her life, the man of whom they had spoken so much, the man of mystery, the man whom the press had even suggested might be a stranger to these times, Mr Dan Crețu or Kretzu was an absolutely ordinary man. Her disappointment was short-lived, since she liked Mr Crețu’s face, and then, having first hesitated, he delicately kissed her hand, Marioara gave him a seductive, dimpled smile, which she had been saving for an awfully long time, ever since the divorce: now she had rediscovered it.
At half past eight the Margulis family carriage arrived, an old conveyance, but with freshly curried horses and harnesses garnished with new red tassels. Nelu, the coachman, had recovered, but his face was still gaunt. With her voluminous skirts, Mrs Margulis barely fit on one of the bench seats, while the doctor was flanked by Jacques and Nicu the urchin, to whose outfit the whole family had contributed: he looked as if he was fresh out of the box. The lad was red in the face, he felt hot, and his eyes squinted sideways beneath eyebrows couched at an acute angle. Jacques struggled to prevent his crutch slipping, but on the steps the groom quite simply picked him up and set him down by the door as if he were as light as a snowflake. Alexandru, who had at that moment made his appearance at the entrance, although it was his parents who received the guests, felt a lump in his throat when he saw that Iulia had not come with them. He refused to believe his eyes. Half the light in him went out and he sensed the emptiness of a long night opening up before him. But before he could ask, Nicu said to him aparté: ‘She wasn’t ready!’ Alexandru quickly seized the opportunity and offered in a man-of-the-world voice to go and fetch Miss Margulis, since he was a skilled driver. ‘Drive slowly!’ the worried doctor barely had time to call out behind him as Alexandru left.
Life Begins On Friday Page 27
