Monday, 22 December: A Difficult Beginning to the Week
1.
I have a chubby cheek, the like of which I have not had since I was a child. You would think my mouth were full. It might even suit me, if the other cheek did not look starved. Half of my face is well fed and the other half wasting away. I made the discovery as soon as I opened my eyes. I felt the illness in me. I had a fright and, barefoot, I went to the mirror. There I saw a girl with a ridiculous pink bonnet, from beneath which poked black locks of hair, the bulging cheek, and in the whites of the eyes all kinds of pink capillaries, the likes of which can be found in Papa’s anatomy books. They looked like branches and were painful and itchy, like dust in the eye. What could it be? Dust in the eyes and a swollen jaw? I would have liked to study medicine, to study how an illness lurks in concealment and then pops up overnight, becomes visible, strikes the eye, sometimes literally, as in my case. Papa is not at home and he won’t be back until evening. It’s bad not to have a doctor in the house, and it means I will have to stay like this until this evening. I did not know whether I should take a bath, but in the end I did so anyway. I did not know whether I should brush my teeth, either. In the end I did so, but taking great care to avoid the molar that was pulsing more than aching. I put on my gris souris dress.
Six fingernails had already been cut and were lying in a heap on the bathroom table, while the thin white arcs of another four were still attached to the fingers of the right hand that is writing these lines. Naturally, as I write, now, the other four have already gone the way of the first six. But the situation was as I have described it, six to four, swollen cheek, sand in the eyes, grey dress, when Safta entered the room and, with visible excitement, handed me a visiting card on a silver tray. I shivered when I read the name. The house was in a mess, in the middle of being cleaned, and I – well, see above. Of course, who else would have dared to come unannounced on a Monday morning! Safta had always taken his side, even against her mistress (it is of myself I speak!), but as it happens, you should never trust the people in your pay! Sooner or later they betray you: if not from spite or hatred, then from love. I think that Safta is one of the many young women who cannot resist him. True, he treats the servants nicely, which is, I think, one of his major qualities. One of his few major qualities... The other is... it is of no importance.
What did I do? I continued to cut my fingernails with seeming calm, an operation that I perform by myself, unlike others, and then I told the maid: ‘I am not acquainted with any Mr Alexandru Livezeanu. I know a Mr Hristea Livezeanu, a Mrs Maria Livezeanu, a Miss Marioara Livezeanu, Vișinescu by marriage and Livezeanu by divorce, a Miss Elena, who is the sister of Mrs Livezeanu mère, unmarried and undivorced, I know the gentleman Mr Mihai Livezeanu, known as Mișu, a student of medicine in Paris, who last year was kind enough to invite me to his birthday party, but not any Mr Alexandru Livezeanu. And so I cannot receive him, not now, not ever. Tell him that he has no business in Strada Fântânei, to forget the existence of this house and the Margulis family. And further tell him that a well-bred man knows that this is no day and no hour for visits. And tell him to... to...’
I was about to say something very rude, since his nearness, even at a few rooms’ distance, induced in me an indescribable state of nerves. But I refrained, by quite simply clenching my fists as hard as I could; it was lucky I had cut my nails. It is not well to show one’s weaknesses, especially in front of people who take your enemy’s side and particularly in front of women who take his side. After Safta went out, I picked up Vanity Fair and tried to read a page. Naturally, I was unable: I was holding the book upside down! When I realized, I blushed. I went to the window.There was no longer the good, spring-like light of yesterday; it was snowing listlessly as I looked out into the street. I did not allow myself a single tear, and that filled me with pride.
I went to Jacques. He was au fait with the unsuccessful attempt at a visit and held my hand in his cold little hand, without saying a word. To cheer ourselves up, I told him that I had arranged to go to our cousin’s to collect the gifts and we conferred on what we should get Papa and the others who would be coming to our house for Christmas.
‘But would it not be better-r to stay at home? You look very funny. Doesn’t it hur-rt?’
Yet it was not my tooth but my soul that was hurting. The infection from my molar and the redness of my eyes overflowed in my soul. And shopping is very good for the soul. I reasoned that as it was winter, I could muffle my cheek with a scarf. In any event, I had to buy presents; there was no more time left. I do not know what I was thinking of to have left it for so many days. (I do not know of what, but I know of whom.)
*
Alexandru told me, on our second meeting, in that tone of his, tender and impertinent at the same time: ‘I would like a little bad to enter you! Beware of me!’ Strange how words can haunt you... He looked at me with gentleness, with a somewhat worried smile – he has nice lips and a little chestnut moustache and a face that almost speaks wordlessly – and in that moment time stopped, the ballroom froze, I could no longer hear anything around me, although there was music and noise and much laughter. Then, as if waking from sleep, I saw once more that we were in a ballroom with lots of people and movement. I knew his double-edged reputation and that it was hard to fight him, that I was not the only girl, that many ladies full of choice qualities had lost the battle before me, but I liked the challenge and it thrilled me. I did not care about the dangers or the victims. Life became more colourful, after those words of his. I had allowed him to address me using toi not vous and it was the first time he had done so, and that in itself was like a caress. He invited me, no, he almost carried me to the dance floor and when we moved closer to each other, he held me slightly away, as if protecting me from himself, but I could feel his breath. He smelled faintly of tobacco. Immediately after his waltz with me, he left the soirée, to the regret of many of the ladies, young and old, who had written him down in their dance cards. But the gentlemen also liked him, because he emanates a kind of energy, and he understands them, defects and all, but does not try to rectify them, as Papa does, for example. I have noticed that he immediately leaps to the defence of those in difficulty, before they themselves realize that they are in a corner. Look at me praising him, still praising him! Once I saw his photograph in Universul. ‘... a little bad to enter you. Beware of me!’ The dance ended, he bowed, conducted me to my seat without letting me out of his sight for a second, clinging to me with his eyes, as if I were a child. He was about to touch my hair, but then clenched his fist with a shiver, quickly turned his back and left. It was just the beginning. My impression... No, I do not want to know anything, I do not want to know him, he does not exist, he has never existed, get it into your head, Iulia Margolis! It is as if stones were weighing down on my soul.
Couldn’t the week have started on Tuesday instead? For, I have noticed that on Mondays everything goes wrong, and things set their face against you.
*
And so I went shopping with Vasilica, something, which, as I was saying, does you good when you are in a bad mood. And I got out of the house, which is very good indeed on a day of household cleaning. I will clean the silver when I get back. My cousin’s carriage was waiting for me at the entrance and I looked to see whether Alexandru’s coach was nearby, because I have learned to recognize it from a distance, to pinpoint it on the wallpaper of the street. I do not know whether I was hoping to see it or if on the contrary I was terrified at the possibility. No, it was not there, but I did see its tracks in the fresh snow and like a fool I gazed at them. Vasi and I made our plans: our first stop would be on our street, at Marie Rose’s, the seamstress, purveyor of lingerie, modes and much more, and then Maison Jobin, on Victory Avenue, for gentlemen’s hats and cravats, and then the confectioner’s a little farther down the avenue. I am loyal to the gentlemen from Capșa, whereas Vasilica, who has a bigger heart than I, is a loyal customer of old man Fialkowski, especially g
iven that the poor man is ill and his business is being run by somebody else, who has been losing customers. I used to like Fialkowski’s when it had the old stove, a kind of oven in the wall, with a chamotte, on which a cat lazed. After they changed the stove, the cat died of pneumonia, like Violetta, and ever since our Polish confectioner fell ill, I do not like going into the shop. Anyway, after the confectioner’s, we are going to Universul, where you can find everything, at reasonable prices, and after that, we shall see, depending on how much time and money we have left. Time is money, as my cousin told me recently – I like how it sounds, although I do not think it is true. For, I have a whole heap of time and not one penny. Whereas he, the villain, has a heap of money from his family, but does not have time, at least not for me; he expends his time with all and sundry, without keeping a tally. Maybe herein lies the similarity: both can be spent wisely or unwisely. For a moment I thought that maybe we would bump into him on Victory Avenue, but then I tried to put him out of my mind’s eye. I will not allow him to ruin yet another holiday: such is my personal judicial decision! And Vasilica and I started laughing so loudly that people were looking at us.
But you never know what surprises a new day has in store for you, a day that began so agitatedly. When I arrived at Universul, I espied him through a half-open door, just for an instant, no, not him, but the stranger about whom they have been talking so much in the last few days. I am sure it was he, I sensed it was he, I knew it was he, as if I had known in advance. He was downstairs in Mr Peppin Mirto’s office. He was thin and I saw that his face was unshaven, darkened by the shadow of a beard, nothing more than that. I slowed my steps as much as I was able, but I caught only a hum of voices, nothing distinct. He too looked at me as I passed, for no more than two seconds, and broke off what he was saying. He seemed astonished – undoubtedly because my scarf had slipped, showing my swollen cheek. We went with the doorman to the director’s office, where some of the things advertised in the newspaper are stored. There was a terrible mess. Our headmistress from the Central Girls School would have been scandalized. She has repeated the same rules to us so many times that I know them by heart: ‘Without tidiness in things, in thoughts, in feelings and in life, nobody can live properly. Just as you cannot live without oxygen, you cannot live without tidiness. You are dead; you cannot control your life. You are wretched and unhappy; you do not feel comfortable in your own house, among your things, in your kitchen, in your bed. Maintain tidiness in your rooms and in your hearts, girls, and you will be happy!’
The director, Mr Luigi Cazzavillan, was not present. He comes and goes as he pleases, like all directors, and so we were able to choose among the things undisturbed. We laughed so much that I forgot all about my troubles. What did we laugh at? – At how the toys were presented; each with a written explanation. If only you could stock up on laughter for when things go badly for you! If only you could store it on a shelf in the larder or cellar and take it out when you are feeling depressed. But perhaps in the future someone will succeed in doing it, because nothing is impossible for the man of the future. I stocked up on laughter by copying a few of the presentations (even now, as I transcribe them, I burst out laughing). I would also like to read them to Jacques.
‘Mama! A mysterious little box that pronounces very distinctly the word Mama! This child’s cry sounding in your pocket will cause astonishment to all, since they will not know where it is coming from.’ Vasilica set it aside for herself, because she is expecting another child, probably in May.
‘The Mewler! This device perfectly imitates the mewling of a cat.’ She did not want this one, because she is not expecting any kittens in the near future. On the contrary, she drowns her cat’s litters. I bought it, as I have neither children nor cats.
‘The wonderful tobacco tin! Offer somebody a cigarette from this tobacco tin. But the cigarettes disappear and instead a grimacing face appears.’ I liked the ‘grimacing face’ very much, and so I bought one, for Papa, who will be able to appreciate it. In fact, it is because of him that we do not have a cat or a dog: he says that they shed hair and that you can contract various illnesses from them, particularly intestinal worms.
‘The domino box! When you open it, a mouse jumps out. A very good trick for ladies who like to play dominos.’ It cost only one leu, but ladies such as our aunts do not appreciate jokes like that.
‘The magic awl! With this awl, you can pretend to bore your jaw, your forehead, your nose, without leaving a trace.’ Two lei. I imagined Papa’s face if I were to give him such a thing.
After totting and re-totting up the money I had saved, I bought for Jacques, at the huge price of four lei fifty bani, exactly how much a Marie Rose corset costs, a little wonder: Luminous fountains. The description was so enticing that I could not resist: ‘Those who were at the exhibition in Paris have not forgotten the impression made on them by the Luminous Fountains. But why only in Paris? Who on 10 May did not see Bucharest’s Luminous Fountains in Cișmigiu? Those who have never seen them, however –’ and this is precisely Jacques’ case ‘– or who would like to see them again in miniature –’ my own case ‘– can do so with these, which are just as real and as beautiful as the full-sized fountains. The apparatus comes complete with all the necessary parts and instructions.’ A delight! Apart from that, there were also the ‘Hellish Globes,’ which emanate a nasty smell, to be used against guests who forget to leave, a snake that moved ‘by means of an invisible system,’ as if it were alive,’ a cravat and brooch pin that sprayed perfume, and fake moustaches, beards and sideburns to be worn at masked balls. Vasilica said they were silly. She has become very serious since she started giving birth all the time. I like them all, if only I had the money.
As I was leaving, I met Mr Peppin Mirto, a very gallant gentleman, who sings operatic arias beautifully at soirées and does translations for the newspaper. Muffling my cheek in my scarf, I asked him how he would translate Thackeray’s title. He suggested Târgul Zădărniciei (The Market of Pointlessness) or Bâlciul Vanității (The Fair of Vanity), but I did not like either of them. I invited him to our house. I wanted to ask him about some of the things I have underlined in the novel, because I did not understand them.
The meeting with Mr Mirto, and especially the half-meeting with the stranger and the time I spent choosing presents, made me forget about my infected molar, my stinging eyes and the fact that in the morning I had refused the very visit that for two months I had been waiting for every evening, a visit from a man who has preoccupied me for the last year. A little bad... a lot of bad! And nevertheless, nevertheless, nevertheless, what did he want? I started polishing the silverware with energy, using tooth-cleaning powder – an invention I ought to patent.
2.
Alexandru had been expecting not to be received, although he had hoped for a miracle. That one does not pay visits on a Monday morning was as certain, and in the present case more certain, than the fact that Monday comes after Sunday. But his need to ask her help, hers alone, had gone beyond all fear of rules, and his faith in his luck and in her had gone beyond all shame. Safta had told him in a regretful voice: ‘Milady asks you to forgive her, she is very sorry, but she cannot receive you now!’ and had looked at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. It was quite certain that the message had reached him in altered form, and he would have dearly wished to hear the original message. But as is well known, servants are often their masters’ censors.
He turned his coach in the direction of St Joseph’s and set off without looking where he was going. A mangy cur only just avoided the wheels, yelping. His first encounter with Iulia had been on four wheels, six years earlier. Only he himself and the Good Lord knew of that encounter. Miss Margulis did not. It was on the feast of St George, a day suddenly mild after a long period of rain. And the ferment in his body and soul surpassed that of nature herself. He was like a steamship ready to set off over the open seas. Margareta, with whom he thought he was in love at the time, a widow of just twenty, with al
l her senses aroused by a two-year marriage and full of desire, had just been pointing through the window of the mail coach at a blossoming tree and letting out little squeals, when his eyes fell on the two young ladies sitting together on the bench opposite them. One was a pretty young lady, pregnant, who was not feeling well and kept dabbing her flushed face with a lace-trimmed handkerchief, the other an adolescent girl of about fourteen, asleep. He looked at the flowers blossoming on the tree, which was now behind the mail coach, and then at the girl once more: there was something about her that was more delicate than the flowers. Her chin did loll on her chest in an unseemly fashion, as some people’s do, but pointed slightly towards her shoulder, like the head of a little bird. Her breathing was not visible, and her lips were soft, as if just having closed. Her thick black eyelashes hid the colour of her eyes. Like a painter, he thought of what colour he might give those eyes. Given the girl’s dark hair, both hazel and blue eyes would have suited her. He would have preferred blue and he made a wager with himself that they were indeed blue. He could barely tear his eyes away from the sleeping girl’s face, and Margareta, sensing that his thoughts were elsewhere, kept touching him for trifling reasons, kept talking to him, laughing, kept turning him towards her, already alarmed that she was losing him. Poor Margareta! Nevertheless, his eyes kept caressing the girl’s face, lest he forget it, and in an attempt to make her open her eyes.
At the first station the coachman reined in the horses with such great artistry that the girl did not wake up and barely shifted the position of her head. He bade the heavily pregnant woman a good day and she smiled painfully but with great politeness, and then he took one last look in the direction of the sleeping girl. Her body was delicate and her breasts were only just beginning to swell. He alighted, assisted Margareta, who hung on his neck with her full weight, and then the coach departed, taking with it the secret of an undiscovered colour. He regretted that he would never see her again. It was strange that two years later he recognized her immediately. He was coming out of the theatre, unaccompanied this time, hurrying to a woman who was waiting for him, a woman other than Margareta. Outside there was a downpour, and in the light of the electric bulbs in Theatre Square could be seen needles of rain. From beneath his umbrella he saw her beneath another umbrella with a gentleman, probably her father. She seemed to have grown, but her head, framed by dark hair covered with a silk and velvet hood, was the same. The only cab – as always in the rain, you can never find one – pulled up next to him, since he was renowned for his tips. With a polite bow, he let them take it and in a trice they boarded. The father thanked him unostentatiously and the girl straight away vanished underneath the tarpaulin. He would have been embarrassed to detain them any longer. Nor was he able to discover the colour of her eyes on this occasion, it was too dark, but he managed to overhear the address. ‘Strada Fântânei, by St Joseph’s!’ Thither went his colour.
Life Begins On Friday Page 11