4.
Nicu thought his must be dreaming of her gentle voice, which now woke him from his sleep: ‘Nicu, darling, I’m going to work, to earn some money. Christmas is coming and people still need things cleaning. Be good.’
And she kissed him on the forehead. She was neatly dressed, ready to go out. She had laid food on the table for him. He had not seen this mother for months, he could not remember since when. He had missed her sorely and he felt like bursting into tears of joy, but then he remembered the misfortune of the day before, at the tram stop, the first envelope he had not been able to deliver, and again he felt his heart weigh heavily in his chest. He knew what a heart looked like, half red, half blue, with some tubes sticking out of it, he had seen one of Dr Margulis’ charts, but he was certain that his was completely black and crumpled with grief.
Should he tell his mother? No, why frighten her? Her heart was certainly like a dove’s chick; you could not go near it without making it tremble in fear. Should he tell Iulia? He did not have the courage. She had given him it in such great secrecy and begged him repeatedly to place it in Alexandru’s hand. Iulia’s heart was like a soft cheese. Should he tell old man Cercel? He could tell him, especially since he would be visiting him today. They were to meet at Universul in the afternoon and leave together. But what was the use of telling him? Old man Cercel knew how to read well, although he had had only four years of schooling, he was up to date about politics, he was very clever, but he didn’t have any great power. He was even a little afraid of him: he had clouted Nicu a few times, without him understanding why. But what if he made Dan rewrite the note, if he was able to read what was left of it? You can confide in brothers, even adoptive ones, and ask them to do certain things. He took out the two halves of the letter and tried to decipher them. Iulia had beautiful handwriting. The signature was very plain: Iulia Margulis, with a curlicue like a shoelace tied in a double bow, but apart from that he could only decipher four words and a number, ‘green and red,’ ‘five’. There was nothing to be done, and so he threw the envelope on the fire.
He decided he might go carolling with the other boys that evening, to the Livizeanu house, and see whether anything could be salvaged. The Livizeanu family gave out lots of nice presents. What if he confessed to Mr Alexandru? He admired him because he was rich and handsome and self-confident. And it was as if he felt the pitch black of his heart had turned as brown as the chestnuts on the kitchen shelf, which he had collected that autumn. Some of them were skewered on long nails in the shape of a man. But the once plump and glossy chestnuts were now shrivelled. That was what his heart must now look like too.
*
At five in the afternoon, Nicu and old man Cercel climbed aboard a coach on whose sides was inscribed UNIVERSUL in white letters. The lad did not know how the doorman had managed to arrange it, because the newspaper reserved the coach for people more important than them, but anyway he was proud to sit next to his friend and look down at people.
‘Can we pull the hood down so that we can see better?’
They had both been thinking the same thing, since the doorman was already pushing the canopy back as Nicu made his request. It was a mild day. There had not been a milder Christmas Eve in a long time.
‘How many days before they announce the result of the lottery?’
‘Well, if today is the twenty-fourth, then it’s a whole week, on the thirty-first, on New Year’s Eve, but at the newspaper we’ll know the result on the evening of the thirtieth, so that we can publish it. If I win, you’ll get a third, as much as is rightfully yours.’
They entered the boulevard. Old man Cercel looked admiringly at the University building and Nicu at Michael the Brave, astride his bronze horse and waving an axe with his left hand. And for the first time the lad thought that maybe the prince had been left-handed, like he was, and that thenceforth he would know what to say to the other boys at school when they laughed at him, like they did when he was unable to use a pair of scissors, for example. Why didn’t they make scissors for left-handed people, with the cutting edge the other way around?
The doorman’s cottage was on Strada Vișinelor (Cherries Street), not far from the Traian Covered Marked, in the Popa Nan quarter. And the strange thing was that old man Cercel did not have any cherry trees in his yard, only plum trees and doves. Nicu was on his way there now, as a customer, to buy a dove, which he wanted to give Jacques as a present for Christmas. It was a long journey, along Carol Boulevard, then Pache Boulevard, both of which had been cleared of snow, then to the right, along Strada Traian, as far as the Communal School, and finally to the left, the third house along. It was dark in the city. Behind the windows lights could be seen and here and there, in the big houses, Christmas trees. There were garlands on the gates and the all the street lamps were lit. Nicu sensed the festive atmosphere in the air as he sat on the bench of the coach beside old man Cercel, flying above the mud, drawn by the grey horses of Universul, which ran like racing champions.
The lad had found a game to amuse him and to stave off the boredom: he watched for the sparks that the horseshoes sometimes gave off when they struck a cobblestone. The coachman had a bottle of strong liquor, which he raised to his mouth from time to time, after which he would gasp as if scorched. The doorman had dozed off, and Nicu spent a long time studying his red splayed nose. Strangely, the coachman did not have a red nose, even though he tippled, while the doorman, who never touched a drop, had nose prone to turning red. One of Nicu’s latest preoccupations was studying people’s ears and noses, all of which seemed very comical to him, and if you looked at old man Cercel, whose ears were like the solid handles of a mug and whose nose had a bristle hairbrush beneath it, you were overcome with amazement. The coachman’s nose was like a snowman’s, as long and pointed as a carrot.
They had reached the gate of the house, and Nicu found the fence depressing, without the pink, blue and purple trumpets of the morning glories that bloomed until late autumn. They climbed down and invited the coachman inside. He wanted to buy a capon to cook for New Year. Old man Cercel also had a breeding cock, with a broad chest, fiery eyes, a large crest and a fan of a tail, which crowed frequently and scratched the ground and had a harem of hens, and so he was able to sell the capon without a qualm.
His wife was busy in the kitchen, with her hair tied inside a blue headscarf, her hands and apron covered in flour. She had not yet finished baking for Christmas, and from the threshold came a scent of cabbage mingled with sweet bread dough and grated lemon, an aroma that seemed to enter Nicu’s nostrils, ears and eyes and made him feel faint with hunger. What if you could smell with your ears? Or what if you had two noses on either side of your head for smelling and an ear in the middle of your face for hearing? The doorman interrupted his reverie and summoned him to the dovecote, to settle business. Disturbed by the lamp carried by their owner, the doves started moving around and complaining in their guttural language, which Nicu found ugly, but he did not want to offend old man Cercel, and so he said in a conciliatory voice: ‘They’re sulky because we woke them up. I’d like a female dove for Jacques, but I don’t know how you can tell with doves, whether they’re boys or girls, it’s easier with other birds...’
Old man Cercel explained some very curious things to him about how doves mate and that only by their size and behaviour can you tell, although sometimes you could make a mistake, that is, there were female doves that were larger and more aggressive than the males. That was not to Nicu’s liking; he was on the boys’ side. The doorman presented his possessions by name and colour: Knight, Collar, Beauty, Cinderella, Goitre, Caviller and Drummer...
‘I don’t understand where his drum is,’ interjected Nicu, and the doorman explained that that was the breed.
‘And this here is Parisian, I called him that because he has a lorgnette, as you can see... Look, here’s one called Nicu, I named him that after you.’
It was the one that had caught the lad’s eye from the very start: it had g
reen scales at its throat, a marvel, and, for some reason, perhaps because it had rubbed against a thistle or some wire, the feathers on top of its head were raised, like a tuft.
‘Want him?’ asked the owner, but Nicu could not take Nicu, it was better he stay there, to remind the doorman of him. He chose a beautiful female, as white as snow, and speckled with black, as if she were wearing a polka dot dress.
‘What’s her name?’
She was called Speckle. The doorman took her and put her in a large cage, then he gave her some oats – Nicu was a little surprised that horses and doves ate the same thing – kernels of maize, lentils and rapeseed. The doorman explained to him how to feed Speckle and how to build her a large, airy house.
They went back inside old man Cercel’s house, which was small and rather dark, but whitewashed and kept clean by his wife. The woman could not stand the doves, because, she said, they had their living room, privy and promenade all in the same place.
‘In spring come and buy a pair, doves are sold in pairs,’ said the doorman.
‘Do you think I could keep doves when I grow up? I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to be a champion skater or raise poultry. I don’t want to be an errand boy, because what do you do if you lose what you’re supposed to deliver?’
‘What else can you do, they’ll give you the sack,’ interjected the coachman merrily.
The doorman offered his guests syrup and plum jam and water – but the coachman declined the latter, saying he was not thirsty. Neither the stuffed cabbage nor the Christmas sweet bread was ready, unfortunately, and so Nicu has to content himself with the smell. In any event, it was still the fasting period, although the lad would have been ready to pretend he had forgotten. But even so, old man Cercel’s wife would not have given him anything; she liked children less than she did doves. In the coach, Nicu started scratching himself.
‘I think I’ve caught a flea,’ he said, but after that he became absorbed in looking after Speckle and worrying about the lost envelope, while the coachman was absorbed in his bottle: he had rediscovered his thirst.
5.
Evening. I have at last met Mr Dan Crețu. Papa himself brought him. He went to collect him from the hôtel in our carriage and with the coachman in the employ of our neighbour, Mr Văleanu, Elisabeta’s father. Our Nelu is ill. Papa is taking care of him and I take him food, because everybody else is busy. Let me write here at least that I had been expecting the stranger’s visit with my heart in my mouth, and my annoyance at Alexandru’s silence took second place. As far as I could see looking outside, where it was quite dark, Mr Crețu seemed to have great difficulty alighting from the carriage and his gait was unsteady. He entered the hall and was about to enter the living room still wearing his galoshes, but Mama, who greeted him, told him with the admirable grace of a true mistress of the house: ‘If you wish to take off your galoshes, the boy will help you, so that you will not get dirty.’ And she showed him the place. Mr Crețu became highly embarrassed and looked at the pairs of footwear by the door: Papa’s galoshes, Mama’s chevreau boots, my boots with the heels, and Jacques’ overshoe. Such little things sadden me the most, so much so that sometimes I feel like lying in bed and never getting up again, I feel like telling life that I’m going on strike. For, whenever we buy Jacques overshoes, we have to throw one away.
Dan Crețu did not understand at first, he looked at me questioningly; then he looked at my feet. So I invited him inside and he took off his galoshes by himself, refusing any help. When he entered he saw Jacques on the couch, and our guest, pale already, turned white, then everything drained from his face and he looked as if he were empty inside. Papa invited him to sit in the place of honour, in the armchair by the fire, which was half turned towards the Christmas tree which, I may say, was decorated rather well (with yellow apples, red candles and an angel at the top, nothing more, since I hadn’t draped any tinsel). Since the light of the flames was dancing on his face and I was seated to one side, I was able to gaze at him freely, although it is impolite to gaze at a guest so intensely. Fortunately, Mama was not looking in my direction, or else she would have admonished me. And I think he is younger than they say. At first his face said nothing to me; it is hard to read his physiognomy. I was also hindered by the manner in which he was dressed, which was very slovenly, since I for one believe that the garment maketh the man, although my parents have taught me that this is not so and that I should not judge people by their clothes... I was also confused by his face: he did not have a beard properly speaking, but he was unshaven. His hair was glossy and cut short. Later, I calmed down and after that I was able to read the emotions on his face, whenever he was asked a question. At one point, Mama, who seemed to me to have taken to him from the very first, said to him with a gayness out of keeping to her: ‘Is it true that you forge banknotes? I ask merely because we ourselves could do with some...’
And then a miracle occurred. Dan Crețu smiled for the first time and I saw his handsome white teeth, but above all else, I saw a face more luminous and sweeter than I could ever remember seeing before. He all but grew a halo, like the moon does on some nights. It was as if there were two people in him: one utterly blank most of the time, a person that did not capture the attention and faded into the background, and the other of a beauty that was, how can I put it? It was a beauty that was like that of a romantic painting, but that appeared only when he smiled.
At eight o’clock Signor Giuseppe, our neighbour, arrived: he does not speak Romanian very well, but he played the guitar for us, he is a good and a jovial man, but the cook always scolds me for thinking that all people are good. (Except one!) Then we sat down at the table, for we were all hungry. Papa was jovial too and he told us a large number of medical stories, to which Mr Crețu listened very carefully and made knowledgeable comments, to the amazement of all. Papa started telling us about the world of the theatre, with which he is familiar as a physician, because otherwise I have to plead with him to come with us to see performances. And he told us a story that we had not heard, about Grigore Manolescu, our first true Hamlet: ‘He is from a boyar family, his father was Alexandru Manolescu, who had a house next to the Măgureanu Hermitage, and he did not study hard at the St Sava College, near our house, where he was a pupil, and he had to repeat the year. And when he was growing up, aged fourteen, he went to the Conservatory, without his father’s knowledge. He was not at all attractive, his arms were too long, like a monkey’s, and his hands were like paddles, lacking in expressivity, and above all he was bandy-legged. Worse still, he had a lisp.’
‘Mio Dio!’ exclaimed Signor Giuseppe, who is sensitive to all that pertains to the stage.
‘And so, out of pity, the teacher sat him at the back of the class. One day, he invited him to stand on the dais to recite a poem, and oh how the rest of the class laughed, even though the poem was sad. But the lad had mettle. He rehearsed with stones in his mouth, stubbornly, in front of the mirror at home, and he rectified his diction in every respect. Many miracles happen in the theatre, and also in medicine, if there be a will. And for the second time he mounted the dais and recited Lamartine’s The Lake, so beautifully that nobody laughed this time. One day, in class, they read a play that moved him more than any other ever had, and so Grigoraș asked the teacher what it was, and the teacher told him: Hamlet. Thereafter, the lad had the fixed idea that he had to play Hamlet. But his father read in the newspaper of the fact that his son was at the Conservatory and so, in order to stay the hand that was about to strike him – old man Manolescu had a heavy hand – the son said: ‘I went to the Conservatory to correct my diction and to become a lawyer.’ He kept the play Hamlet, a small book translated into French, with him at all times, it was his visiting card, although in rehearsals he was given only the rôles of comic Pantaloons. When he reached the age of sixteen, his father admonished him for being in danger of having to repeat the school year yet again. One day, during a lesson at the Conservatory, Matei Millo the great actor and di
rector came into the classroom. He told the teacher that he wanted to take a pupil. The teacher showed him a star pupil, a handsome young man who sat at the front of the class, but Millo pointed at Grigore Manolescu, at the back. And so it was that Grigore, now aged sixteen, played the rôle of a Pantaloon on stage alongside Millo and Frosa Sarandy.’
Here, Papa paused and explained to Dan Crețu who Frosa Sarandy was, since he seemed not to have heard of our great actress. In the meantime, our guest was eating pensively, Mama was whispering to the servant, telling her what to fetch, what to take away, although she had coached her beforehand, Jacques and I were making all kinds of discreet signals, and Giuseppe was guzzling heartily and laughing raucously. When dessert arrived, Papa received an urgent call. We are accustomed to it. I do not know how, but on holidays especially, illness always arrives, like an uninvited guest. And so he told us the end of the story in a hurry: ‘At the performance, Manolescu père was in the audience. The lad’s name was not on the bill: next to the part of Tochenbourg in A High-class Ball there were some asterisks and his father did not recognize him with his make-up on and with his Pantaloon voice. But at the end of the play, the audience cried out: Millo, Millo, Frosa, Frosa! And even more loudly: Tochenbourg, Tochenbourg! And when the curtain was raised, Millo took the debuting actor by the hand and in a booming voice introduced him: Grigore Manolescu! In short, since now I have to leave, his father kicked him out of the house. A few years later, Grigore Manolescu triumphed in Hamlet. I was thirty-four, and so it was in... in the autumn of 1884, I even remember the day, how could I forget? It was the 2nd of October, your mother’s birthday. I have never seen the like: people were falling on their knees in front of him, the audience was thrilled, the ovation lasted for minutes on end, in the wings everybody was in tears. Today’s theatre seems pallid, lifeless, compared with what your mother and I used to see in our youth,’ and here Papa looked at Mama with a smile.
Life Begins On Friday Page 17