In the time it took the train to reach the coast, the sea had, in succession, been tinted by the nacreous hues of sunset, the ashen tones of the gloaming, the dark visage of night, the reverie of sunrise, and the azure splendor of a new morn. Now at last it revealed its many faces, as various as the seasons, to a ruler who was and was not a ruler and to generals, politicians, ministers, advisers, secretaries, and plenty of others who also were and were not what they believed themselves to be. That morning, many were viewing the sea for the first time, for which reason some of the officers and servants made the sign of the cross and each placed a stone in his mouth (a small one, of course, as big as a cherry pip or a raisin). A few knew the sea well, from voyages and paintings, and there was one among them who felt it was like a woman with whom he had shared his bed sheets for many years, a boyar, the one who, in the chill of autumn and old age, passed for prime minister, having previously devoted himself to engineering, secret societies, revolution, and literature, to high office and wine, a man famous above all for being the erstwhile Bey of Samos. By noon of the following day, the tenth of the month, they contemplated, from dry land, the waves as they shimmered and dissolved into spray. Then, in the early afternoon, they gazed upon the billows as they rose and swelled on the open sea, from the deck and through the portholes of the schooner Yssedin. Those endless undulations, in which the rays of the sun dissolved and transformed into ripples of light, bewitched not only souls but also stomachs, so that on the two-masted vessel, one among the countless velieros of the padishah, on board which they had been greeted by an adjutant general, no few were those who sought pots, troughs, and basins, retching as they furtively rid themselves of what remnants of lunch they still preserved inside them. The dentist enjoyed the cruise, but seeing the others he could not help remembering his crossing of that lake with three names (Bodensee, Schwäbisches Meer, and Konstanz) and his own sufferings. In contrast to the Swiss episode, however, when he had been able to opt for water and fresh air instead of buckets and nooks, here no one dared to lean over the rail, so as not to sully the blue expanses or annoy the matelots of the imperial Ottoman fleet. And the Bosporus was revealed to them after two more sunrises, to some as a wonder, to others as a strait overrun with ships and barges, girdled by land of every variety: summer residences seen through the filmy sheen of October, arid beaches and shorelines, yellowed orchards and vineyards, fishing villages. The great city was close by, its exhalation was like a breeze, and Joseph Strauss, who was changing the cold compresses on the cook's forehead, knew what he had to do. He opened his ruddy calfskin bag, from which, not long ago, in June, he had scraped the letter S, grasped his scalpel, and made an incision in one corner of the lining. Underneath, in the very spot where he was poking his index finger, he found what he was sure he would find. Then he went on tending to the livid, lanky Calistrache, who had managed to explain to him what leuştan (lovage) was, but had faltered at chimen (caraway), leurdă (ramson), and rău de mare (seasickness). It was not until he was inside a servant's chamber in the Küçüksu Palace that Joseph removed from the lining of his bag a small brown envelope and slipped it into his breast pocket. He read a few pages from Leibnitz about optimism, he thought of his mother and sister, Gertrude and Irma (who had been so enamored of that tea that they had sunk into beatitude and indolence, not noticing either the fire or the smoke), he lit two incense sticks on the nightstand, in memory of them, and when the news came that the Glorified Sultan was ready to receive the prince, he sprinkled into some boiling water a quarter of a teaspoon of the fine powder concealed in the brown envelope. It was Amanita muscaria, which he had prepared himself, gathering the white-flecked red mushrooms, peeling their cuticle, drying them in the darkness of the attic of his Berlin lodgings, chopping them finely, and crushing them with pestle and mortar. Karl Ludwig, the prince, blew on the piping hot liquid, sipped it, and did not set off on the visit that was giving him frissons until he had drained the cup. He made another, short voyage on the Yssedin, from the coast of Asia to the coast of Europe, and after the anchor had been cast he was transferred to a velvet-upholstered kayik with twelve rowers. He was wearing a parade uniform, that of a general of the United Principalities. All of a sudden he felt like giving a whoop, and could not refrain. And give a whoop he did (to the astonishment of politicians, ministers, officers, advisers), as he finally, belatedly saw the tranquility of the sea and sky spread before him, and glimpsed the white palace stretching for two thousand feet along the strait, so familiar in its outlines and ornaments (for it had borrowed a number of features from Versailles and had closely copied the architecture of the Neues Palais Sanssouci). His lungs filled not with the salt scent of the breeze but with the air of childhood, and he was oblivious to the final advice of the adjutants and to the recapitulation of the ceremonials laid down for the audience with the padishah. He had forgotten his aching gums, absorbed as he was in the crinkled seaweed and the seagulls. On one of the marble-paved esplanades of the Dolmabahçe Sarayı, that Prussian prince, a Wallachian by adoption, who had arrived from the northern bank of the Danube but also, to be more accurate, from its very source, was saluted by a platoon of the guard. It seemed to him that not one of the soldiers with red fezzes resembled his little lead soldier. He was then conducted down a bright corridor, at the end of which Sultan Abdülaziz was waiting for him, with a calm and calming face, as his siesta and the events of the afternoon had probably been to his liking. He stood in the doorway, extending his hand to the prince. And from that moment, when the infusion of Amanita muscaria, or Fliegenpilz, began to take full effect, nothing turned out as it ought to have, in accordance with rules and rituals. Carol did not kneel and he did not kiss the hand proffered with such magnanimity; he merely inclined his head and shook the hand in a comradely fashion (as if he were in the barracks of the dragoon regiment), he did not take his place on the chair specially prepared for him, but pushed it aside and sat next to the sultan (on the soft, restful divan), he proved to be voluble, highly voluble, answering questions at length and in a muddled way, and pressing the padishah for his opinions (not those of the most serene ruler so much as those of a man blessed with a harem), he was not at all distracted when he was handed the firman of his appointment (that longed-for and enchanted document), but placed the hatti-şerif with the imperial seal on a table and went on describing an opera performance ( Die Zauberflöte, in Bremen), he did not wait for Abdülaziz to enter the antechamber to be introduced to the distinguished members of the delegation from Bükrej, but hastened to call his ministers into the salon, asking the minister of foreign affairs, not the prime minister, to pick up the firman and place it about his person, he declared himself fascinated with the Bosporus and Istanbul, but above all with the seagulls, the crinkled seaweed, and the brightly glinting roofs. Although at the time his behavior provoked bewilderment and fear among his subjects, soon and forever afterward it was interpreted as dignified, audacious, canny, and incomparable, a sign of noble blood and devotion to homeland. And that afternoon, Karl Ludwig slept soundly and dreamed that he was riding a gray pony, then that he was shooting his pellet gun at wooden targets in the shape of hares, boars, and foxes. He awoke toward evening in a spacious room of the Küçüksu Palace. On the secrétaire by the window the firman of sovereignty was awaiting him, bound in leather, stitched with gold thread, written on waxed pages in the impeccable calligraphy of the Ottoman scribes, with the seals of the Sublime Porte and the curlicues of the Sultan's signature. He had a severe headache, and his wisdom tooth had also recovered its vigor. For a week, in spite of his demands for another cup of that sweetish infusion or at least its recipe, he had to content himself with extract of celandine. He conversed with the dragomans and ambassadors who arrived for audiences. He strolled at leisure around Constantinople. He tried a number of times to count the mosques, but would always get mixed up on account of the minarets, with one or more for every place of worship. He visited the all-powerful Abdülaziz twice more, full of gifts and reser
vations, without confessing his desire to see the bird pavilion or the huge reception hall of the Dolmabahçe Sarayı, with its fifty-six stone columns and its gigantic chandelier, weighing four and a half tons. Following the logic of gestures of goodwill, Carol received a Damascus sword and five Arabian stallions, he was decorated with the Order of Osmania and invited to attend a military parade. During a cold rain, Prince Yusuf, eleven years old, with a reedy voice and two superior officers holding the reins of his horse, presented to him the battalion. The rain began to fall more heavily, allowing the treasurers to dip their quills in their inkpots, put all the expenses down on paper, and tot them up. All in all, and also taking into account bribes, the trip to Istanbul had cost 20,000 ducats, which is to say 240,000 francs. But the price of obtaining the firman was much greater, because from that year forward, the one thousand eight hundred and sixty-sixth year since the nativity of Christ, the tribute payable by the Principalities was to increase substantially.
In the green railroad carriage, on the return journey, Herr Strauss inquired, offhandedly, as if merely to pass the time, whether the cook had heard of a poisonous white-flecked red mushroom, Fliegenpilz in German. In Romanian, he discovered, it was called pălăria şarpelui (snake's hat). Or burete şerpesc (snake mushroom).
Thanks to you, good Otto, who suffered to receive the keys to my house, who fed me and gave me water, who cleansed me of much red blood, who guarded me from the hostile tomcats, praise be to you, O barber, who have comported yourself like an angel and, in your great mercy, have always unbolted this door, and a while after the departure of my beloved master, when for the fifth time the day broke after the night, did once again open the locks and not only bring meat, gristle, and milk, but also released from your arms as if from under your unseen wings a peerless girl-cat, trembling as though at the beginning of the world and sighing as though at the end of the world, you, O barber, you alone gave me the gift of love, all unawares, when I was hungry, you caused me to shiver and quake, your miracle was real, a maidenly and tender cat, Ritza, as you yourself and other humans call her, Manastamirflorinda by her true name, may you be rewarded, Otto Huer, for your deed, for in fear and wonderment did I approach her at first, her tail stood on end and her back bristled like a hedgehog's, ruddy spots smoldered in her fur, like embers, her scent was more beautiful than fresh fish or pigeons, she gave a start when my nostrils snuffled her, when they imbibed her perfume, I know not why, perhaps out of fear, but I sought to soothe her with my tongue, you understand, O barber, for you have much experience, but that inspection was not to her liking, and I stretched out on the floor, my eyes closed and my ears flattened, at a distance, under the five-drawer dresser, because my wound wracked me once more, the pain shot even from my heart, and know you, dear one, that sometimes time flows briskly and the hours tick merrily, I sensed her breathing between the strokes of the pendulum clock, warm and gentle, like an April breeze, and she, Manastamirflorinda, licked my white ear at length, the ear torn by a cruel and furious tomcat, the ear that you, O benefactor, cleansed with one of my beloved master's potions and stitched with his healing thread, she nestled beside me, the ruddy spots in her fur were glowing, we were silent, then we sang softly, a duet, be not angry, O barber, but never could you have suspected, you would have thought that we cats were purring, but we were singing and we opened our eyes, one after the other, eye to eye, her green eyes were boundless, like vernalfields full of gophers, peace be unto you, once more, good Otto, O magician, for you are a magician and all that came to pass was a spell, for seven days through which processed six nights we dwelled in tenderness, we rolled together on the carpets and we dissolved into one, we scaled tables, cupboards, and dressers, seeking tenderness and repose, once we almost fell, from the stove, but we caught ourselves, our forepaws entwined, our tails likewise, mine white with a black tuft, hers black with a ruddy spot, we dallied in the bed of our beloved master, at leisure, having slipped under the soft coverlet, so that it would be dark and that the world be contracted thus, I would not have wished, O barber, you to be witness, because you would have shuddered to hear us, they were the rustlings of love, not meows; Manastamirflorinda and I were center and circumference, our bodies on the upper floor and our souls in the firmament, we were in the belly of a fluffy cloud, from above which you, dear, merciful Otto Huer, did descend, turn the keys, and enter, you did stroke us and sigh, you did fill and drain three glasses of my beloved master's schnapps, you did wrap the maiden in a tartan rug, in the evening, when she was a maiden no more, you did take her in your arms as if between your unseen wings and vanish, praise be to thee, O angel, may thou be rewarded!
Thusly and thus much wrote Siegfried on yellow velvet before falling into a deep sleep. He had inscribed his psalm on the back of one of the new chairs, and his soul and ten claws had not been idle.
Herr Strauss arrived in the morning, weary, his clothes rumpled, dreaming of a hot, interminable bath and a milky coffee. He called the tomcat from the doorway, still holding his luggage, ready to kiss him and to regale him with the smoked swordfish he had brought from Istanbul. But Siegfried was nowhere to be seen. Herr Strauss had time to take off his overcoat, light the fire, and put the kettle on the stove. He opened the windows wide, enough to let the cool of the twenty-third day of October waft into the room. Long did he gaze outside, and he called out once more, but the street was bustling with people, horses, and donkeys, not at all an hour for stray cats. He was about to tear the leaves from a calendar, quite a number, for after all he had been gone two weeks, when his eyes alighted on the back of one of the chairs, which was covered in hundreds, perhaps thousands, of rips, rents, slashes, and holes, as if the velvet had been riddled by moths or pecked by sharp-beaked birds. He did not even shrug. He merely stood there, mute, heedless of the boiling kettle. Later, he espied a hummock in the middle of the bed. He found the tomcat under the coverlet, asleep on the white sheets, sad and ill, curled up over a hardened bloodstain. Examining the wound on his ear, touching the stitches, and running his fingers through the cat's fur, Joseph was convinced that Siegfried had lost, if not the war, then at least a number of street battles, and that he had suffered from loneliness and longing. It did not enter his mind that the dried black blood might be that of a young she-cat, who had recently come into heat for the first time.
In the kitchen, on the top shelf of the sideboard, there were other scratches. Those notches in the wood, which were to fill with dust but never fade, read in translation something like this:
What wonder, and what fortune, and how all things followed upon one another, and now more than ever would it seem rich to die
The rustling has not faded, I see it, it is the mist that floats through the room
The moonlight lolls on the floorboards, I hearken, it quivers like Manastamirflorinda
The droplets of sadness, I smell them, they wax large and ruddy, they are the very flecks in her fur.
The German Christmas came, dismal and damp, with days not cold enough for the sleet to turn to snow. And on one such day, luminous only in things holy, boots sank into muddy puddles and hurried carriages splashed capes with splatters of brown. Time was measured in different ways in Bucuresci, and this year the Catholic Christmas Eve, when wet, skinny dogs had been lured to the Lipscani quarter by the scent of roast goose, baked carp, cozonac, and gingerbread, coincided, in the Julian calendar, with the feast of Saint Spyridon, which maddened the cats, for it fell in the fifth week of the Orthodox fast, bringing a dispensation to eat fish. And so it came about, when December 24 and December 12 were one and the same day, that the different calendars, one Western and the other Eastern, one Papist and Protestant, the other Orthodox, were at peace as never before. The two separate holy days did not merge into one common feast, but at least the shutters of all the shops remained closed. As a good Catholic, Joseph Strauss, the dentist, whose surgery was, it goes without saying, closed, said his prayers, and then leaned on the sill of an upper-floor window to gaze at the
clouds, crows, gray roofs, and the smoke that rose from the chimneys and dissolved to the north. He nibbled on a sweet-cheese strudel, feeling languid from the heat of the stoves and the tidiness that the woman who came to do the cleaning, infirm as she was, had managed to instill in his bachelor rooms. In the six months he had been living there, he had learned sounds and distances, details and echoes, so that the first bell he recognized, in the cold drizzle of that morning (not quite sleet, not quite hail), was that of the church at the end of Podul Mogoşoaiei, joyfully chiming to announce the feast of its patron. And because all things can be divided into old and new, not only calendars, shoes, reigns, maids, potatoes, and mistresses, immediately after the soft, delicate chimes from the old Church of Saint Spyridon there resounded the long, booming clangs of the new Church of Saint Spyridon, at the foot of Metropolia Hill, where the celebration was officiated with greater pomp. Then, one after the other, each of the bells of the city began to chime, until they were all ringing in unison, summoning folk to the liturgy and love of God, a reminder that in that land the Orthodox faith was strong and the founders of churches who dreamed of forgiveness for their sins were countless. Unawares, Herr Strauss murmured something hard to make out, a passage from the Dominus dixit ad me, and out of the blue, or out of the damp gray sky, he glimpsed another Joseph, thinner, shorter, with a shrill voice and flushed face, in the balcony of the Sankt-Hedwigs-Kathedrale on Bebelplatz, in the third row of the choir. For a few moments the doctor once more inhabited the child's body. And he was happy. Then, still with the strudel in his hand, his upper lip dusted with icing sugar, he listened to the majestic voices of the humming and vibrating brass. His thoughts were borne off on the wind, southward, past the churches of Saint Anthony the Great, Saint Demetrios, and Saint John the New, they skirted Stavropoleos Monastery, by the banks of the dirty, sluggish river they met the spires of the Dormition of the Mother of God, of the Holy Apostles and Princess Bălaşa, they found, on the right hand and the left hand of the Metropolia, Antim Monastery, Mihai Voda Monastery, and the Nuns' Hermitage (where he had bought a carpet in September), and the churches of Saint Nicholas Vlădica, Slobozia, and Saint Catherine. Climbing to the east, as if his ears were following a course opposite that of the sun, he wandered in his mind to Saint Venera, Saint Mina, Old Saint George, Răsvani, and New Saint George. Soon he veered northward and smiled to realize that in the part of the city that corresponded to the cardinal point cursed with cold and shadow, the names of laymen and things were favored for churches above those of the saints: ColŢei ("pitchfork"), Scaune ("thrones"), Kalinderu ("calendar"), Batiştei ("courtyard"), Sărindar, Enei, Kretzulescu, Doamnei, and, only after that, Saint Nicholas Şelari ("saddlers"), Saint Sava, and Saint Nicholas dintr-o Zi. From the west, where the circle imagined by Joseph Strauss came to an end, there came only two series of chimes, one hollow, the other honeyed, from Saint John the Great and from Zlătari ("goldsmiths"). Then the bells fell silent, each according to its tongue, but only after the Unclean One had been driven from every place. In the damp air the silence was consummate, though raindrops were pattering upon the sill and Siegfried was growling in his sleep, dreaming of hounds, hostile tomcats, and rats. Joseph had finished munching the last morsel of strudel, and now he sank into an armchair and began to read Apuleius' Metamorphoses, or the Golden Ass, sipping a glass of cider. Gradually absorbed by the misadventures of the young Lucius, he forgot the packed churches redolent of incense, whose number was known only to a few, perhaps only to certain priests and tax collectors. As he smoked a quincewood pipe, he was not thinking about how everywhere in that sprawling city, as far as the barriers toward the open plain, sermons were praising Saint Spyridon, Bishop of Trimythous, who had changed a snake into gold pieces, who had called forth rain in the midst of drought, and who, raising from the dead two horses with severed heads, found that he had attached the white head to the dun horse and the dun head to the white horse.
The Days of the King Page 5
