The Days of the King

by Filip Florian

  (on the middle chair along the side of the table by the stove)

  Only you, good Otto Huer, enchanter, showed a warm heart in the dead of winter, you took pity and made me breathe quickly, more quickly than I have ever breathed before, I was suffocating and gulping the air with knots in my throat, like those athirst, for many things have happened, barber, countless things, firstly you scattered the mystery and yearning, you opened the eyes of my beloved master and made him turn his ear to your words, together you strode through the snowdrifts, and the cold and wind frightened you not, I know, you pressed that door handle, you, glorious one, may your scissors ever be sharp, you opened the door, you let the heat of the chamber lap over us and let us guess at the wonders within, I thought I would faint, lose myself, not because of the fire, but because of the ruddy flecks in herfur, Manastamirflorinda stepped forth shyly and with wonderment, she was quivering, again I heard how you called her Ritza and I tried to soothe her shame, to steal it away, to scatter it, love brooks no insistent stares, O barber, and time flowed slowly until she purred, it took some moments, and the moments were long, my breast was fit to burst, I was crawling with unseen ants, happiness has a tart taste, I tell you, her moist nose touched me and her tail spoke to me, it is a secret, I shall not divulge it, not her eyes but the moments gleamed, you humans think that cats purr, and all of a sudden the heavens seeped through the ceiling and the ceiling washed over us, I was rid of the ants, you did not drink and you did not eat, from the swirling white heavens and from the cloudlike ceiling what dripped was not tears, not snowflakes, but four droplet-like kittens, I wanted to cry out, but my mouth would not obey me, I wanted to flee, but my legs were limp, I wanted to taste the milk from her dugs, but Manastamirflorinda had become one with my children, I grew dizzy and leaned against the wall, dear one, you must understand, the world is much more than we suspect, the spots in herfur were ruddy flecks of sun, you both laughed and believed that she-cats purr, the scent of the hot pie and the steam of the boiled brandy wafted over us, and the miracle did not spring from a mirror in which I saw my own face, it was not a phantasm, not a dream, the valiant tomcat with his hackles up looked just like me, but smaller, I thought I wouldfaint, lose myself, that I would take flight, and to thee, to thee only, dear Otto Huer, I now confess that on the way back, when you and my beloved master set off once more through the snows and chill wind, verily did I take flight, in my mind, alongside Manastamirflorinda, in my wicker basket, with my muzzle buried in her belly. Thanks be to thee, good Otto, be thou protected and may thy razor cut deftly!

  (on the chair in the corner by the window)

  How all things mingle, master, wonderful master! How close is sweet to bitter and how swiftly light is changed to darkness, I thought that goodness had been poured upon this house, that nothing and no one could drive it out, I bathed at ease in the water of joy after you gave me the greatest, the most bewildering gift, after you, gentle Joseph, angel, allowed anotherfive feline souls into your chambers, after you smiled and puffed on long curved pipes, you kept watch over us in your armchair as though from the boundless azure heavens, and we melted, six bodies, twelve ears, twenty-four paws, singing, not purring, we rolled together in a lazy tabby ball, on the rugs or under the dresser with five drawers, a ball with spots of ruddy fur, softly crackling, like hot coals, as though happiness were eternal, a ball from which sometimes rose a fluffed-up white tail with a black tuft at the tip, a wee tail like a flower stalk, so deceptive, master, but it let me imagine harmony does not perish, a wee tail that one fine morning of gray clouds all of a sudden went limp and trembled, together with the other three wee tails, with their gleaming points of flame, my children were first of all astonished, they made to fondle their mother and imitate the lullabies of her throat, they were cadging milk, of course, from herfirm, swollen dugs, but they were met with frowns, with blows, with unfamiliar growls, Manastamirflorinda, my heart, leaped on top of the tall cupboard, where the dust reigns and the swirling smoke collects, I caressed her in my mind, from afar, and only then did I decipher her looks, I swear to you, two looks, because the green of her eyes had been sundered into rival halves, one with vernal meadows full of gophers, the other new and steely, threatening, I shuddered and again I fell in love, do not laugh, Joseph Strauss, my friend, I felt in that moment how the end began, I saw how her soul wandered, perhaps you, too, saw it or perhaps you were lighting your black, healing pipe, I heard the soft steps of the coming storm, creeping closer, I was not afraid, but I grew sad, the hours ticked by differently and time grew damp, then I glimpsed streaks of lightning beyond the walls and windows, beyond the houses and fields, I heard the muffled thunderclaps, out of nowhere, the tempest broke upon us, dear one, and Manastamirflorinda changed her care for the kittens into enmity and anger, she chased them from her dugs, you humans say that she-cats purr, and likewise you say that they spit, the truth is in hymns and hate, it was necessary for you, big-hearted and tender one, to seek welcoming homes for my children, to give me leave to wash and fondle them, one by one, on parting, you let me accompany them, you, Joseph, to convince me that they would fall into good hands, there were four journeys and on each something shattered within me, I will not conceal from you that I wept for my matchless he-kitten, a red-hot iron burnt me, him I shall never forget because there are mirrors aplenty in the world, I shall not lie to you, dear one, be at peace, memory is short and the wounds soon closed, Manastamirflorinda descended to the rugs and bandaged them, her little tongue, like a petal, licked my scars, I grew drunk, I was dead drunk without sipping your aromatic schnapps, you were away from home a long time, long enough for us to be alone amid rustlings, caresses, and passions, you wandered the whole night long, long enough for us to be convinced that we were enveloped in dense, impenetrable vapors, until the two of you, a dentist and a barber, entered those steamy chambers, and Otto Huer, incomparable enchanter, clapped his palms and caused Manastamirflorinda all at once to have a master, he struck the floor with the sole of his shoe and that master was he, a blessed barber, so that we, loving thee, she and I, might meet often and ever meow.

  (on a chair in another corner, the nearest)

  You are withering away, day after day, dear one, you scorch and burn yourself, your cheeks have grown blue and you have deep bags under your eyes, you, Joseph, how much longer will you torture yourself ? You do not understand my language and my pleas fall on deaf ears, I am not the one chosen to give counsel, I have decided to keep my silence, I merely sing, ceaselessly, even if sometimes you forget that I exist, in your lap it is warm and peaceful, on your breast it is like an island with grasses and plump mice, you speak so much, untiringly, you do not grow hoarse, lately I can no longer follow you, the words slide away, collide with the windows and vanish, where do they vanish? Why do they vanish? It is a mystery and the mysteries are not unraveledfor me, the hardest for me is listening to the tumult in your heart, the tempest, as though two armies were clashing, who is at war? Why so many cries? Why such grim fury? These are the battles of love, I know, and ashamed I make bold to think of them, but how can I avoid it, dear one, how can I flee? Your body has weakened and your deeds slumber, you seem powerless or bewitched, I know you, goodly Joseph, as none other knows you and I worship you like the sun, any knife that thrusts into your body stabs me too, what pains you pains me, you are a dentist and the gnashing of your teeth gives me shivers, I want to hide and to endure it, I touch your hands and feet with my muzzle, my whiskers have guessed that you have wings, love has given you wings, my friend, and you needs must soar into the air, a woman awaits you, I want to see you gliding, now I am alone and desolate, you will return late, you will tell me your tales, you will tremble and perspire, I am not hungry, or thirsty, I am not at all sleepy, nor will you eat, you will not drink and you will not sleep, I know, you will tell your dreams aloud, sighing you will hope, your fingers will briefly stretch, indifferent, then they will clench into a fist, inestimable Joseph Strauss, healer, how much would I like
to heal thee and to promise thee that thy bitter minutes, hours, and days will pass, that the second will arrive, one among all, when thou wilt hold in thy palms her life and her soul.

  This much and thus wrote Siegfried on the yellow velvet, over twenty-two months during which the unpausing calendars measured the century and his claws were desirous to scratch. Of the six chairs, only two remained unscathed, indulgently receiving the shadows of twilight on the evening of the feast of Saint Elijah, as the stifling heat dissipated and through open windows could be heard far-off barking, raised voices, and, softly, very softly, the squeaks of bats emerging from attics. The dentist had shed his jacket and shirt by the side of the bed, he was stuffing tobacco into one of his pipes and striving with all his might to forget that in the kitchen, hidden in a flacon swaddled in cloth, placed in its turn in a well-stoppered jar (and the jar placed in a box bound with string, behind other boxes, behind sacks of lentils, flour, coarse sugar, buckwheat, beans, pearl barley, and oats, on the highest shelf in the larder), could be found that miraculous powder of Amanita muscaria, which had the power to wipe away many evils, bringing in their stead peace and joy. He smoked and did not manage to forget.

  5. Footwear for Dolls

  ELENA DUKOVIĆ HAD small hands and slender wrists, and when she alighted from the coach, permitting herself to be assisted, Joseph's heart shrank to the size of an acorn. Her hand grasped his, squeezed it softly, and there was a kind of caress as their hands parted, like a pale and indistinct breath of wind. In those circumstances, startled by carriages, coaches, barouches, droshkies, or coupés, oblivious to the splashes of mud and the clouds of dust raised by the wheels and the horses' hooves, Herr Strauss at no point felt afraid (and consequently his heart did not shrink to the size of a flea), but neither did he display an impetuous nature (and for that reason his heart did not swell to the size of a quince). He merely discovered the taste of care, the new, unfamiliar care that small hands and slender wrists, as fragile as glass, should not shatter. And, happily, they did not.

  Firstly, he had found a small, elongated, bluish envelope, without a seal, name, or address. The envelope had been slipped under the door to his surgery and lay waiting for him on the parquet, by the doormat. He examined it closely, stroking it, turning it over, holding it up to the light, passing it beneath his nostrils. If it had a vague scent, it was more a brackish whiff of glue than any perfume. The dentist opened it using the first scalpel he laid hands on, one with a short, gleaming blade. The paper in the envelope, white, folded in four, was inscribed in violet ink on one side with a short, unsigned sentence. It was a curt, elliptical message, as between conspirators: Holy Apostles, on the feast day. After some moments of bewilderment, tallied by the clock on the wall as one and three-quarter minutes, Joseph all of a sudden let out a deep breath; he leaned against the cold stove and glimpsed in the blade of the scalpel not only snatches of his own smile, but also a pair of blue and haughty eyes. Throughout the rest of the day, as he tended to ailing teeth, he caught himself whistling a number of times. Oddly, into his mind and onto his lips returned a childhood ditty he had never liked but that had been dear to his sister Irma and her girlfriends. At one point, the spatula in his hand refused to grip like tweezers. He looked at it askance and laughed. And on the feast of Saints Peter and Paul the Apostles, in the morning, when according to local lore the cuckoo falls silent, when according to the course of the stars the sun had risen for the eighth time since the solstice, and when according to the Wallachian calendar but five days had elapsed since Saint John's Eve and more than two weeks since Whitsun, Joseph Strauss went out into the street early, hoping to rid himself of the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. All the color had drained from his freshly shaved cheeks into his cherry-red lavallière. He quickly traversed Lipscani Street, the section of Podul Mogoşoaiei this side of the river, and two short lanes on the other side, he skirted the mules of a water seller and some flocks of ducks, he managed to escape from a swarm of tattered urchins by handing out sweets, he passed the ranks of beggars, the expensive carriages drawn up in the shade, and the prattling coachmen, he glimpsed the spires and belfry of Holy Apostles, then the church in its entirety, and pale as he was, paler than ever, he entered. It took him some time to accustom himself to the gray air within, because even the hundreds of candles lit on the feast of the church's patron saints were no match for the glaring sun outside. Later, when the air was no longer gray but had acquired yellowish and ruddy glints, in the midst of the liturgy and many genuflections, under the flowing voices of the priests and the ardent exhalations of the choir, Joseph espied a beige shawl in the apse to the left of the altar. That shawl, which covered the hair, nape, and back of a woman, had once sheltered a little boy and girl shivering in a mad June downpour. Trying to make out the distant figure, he remembered his intensifying twinges of joy since those seconds when Elena Duković, in the sprung carriage that bore them over the Outer Market Bridge, had whispered that she was not the children's mother, but a kind of nanny. The hollowness in the pit of his stomach now vanished, and other twinges, perhaps imaginary, crinkled the folds of his shirt. He emerged toward noon, one of the first worshippers to leave, and waited on a hummock of earth across the road. In the pale blue air he saw as though in the palm of his hand the lines, ornaments, and porch of that church, which, although not Serbian, was now in the custodianship of that nation. And through the broad doorway streamed variegated ranks of people wearing clean, festive attire, in whose tailoring and cloth could be read the weight of each purse. Toward the end of the crowd there appeared a green, billowing dress, like a miracle that had come to pass. They gazed at each other: he did not notice the lace collar, the amber necklace, or the shoes the color of rich butter; she did not discern the gold pin of the lavallière or the spherical buttons of the waistcoat. They went over to the poplar tree near the steps, where candles for the living were burning. They lit their candles, brushing each other's hand as if by chance. Thanks to that touch, Joseph Strauss departed with a new note, which he gripped tightly, while Elena Duković departed with a rose in her hand, a rosebud from his buttonhole. As she moved into the distance, she sometimes pressed the flower to her chest.

  On the hill above Saint Venera, he hired a carriage at the Hereasca rank, where dozens of horse-drawn cabs gathered, and ordered the driver to take him to Hereşti. The journey was long and sweltering, proceeding first by way of the Beilicul Bridge to the south, then veering west between hovels and vegetable patches, losing itself once more in a southerly direction, amid pastures and stubble fields from which the corn had but lately been reaped, and finally heading west yet again, following the large flocks of crows flying in the same direction. The manor house, without a veranda, arches, or carved posts, had nothing in common with the boyar manses of the plain. From afar, as much as the scattered orchards allowed, Joseph could make out a grayish-white, rigorously geometrical shape upon which a bronze crust was now forming as the sun emerged from the clouds. He realized that he would not arrive late at the manor, that he had managed to keep his promise to the charming couple of princely rank, he neither short nor tall, solidly built and droll, with bristling mustaches, she tiny and pale, with a slightly querulous voice and an inquisitive mien. Out of habit, he grasped the handle of his calfskin bag, from which he had once scraped the initial'S, and placed it in his lap. He examined the instruments, powders, and liquors therein, and flicked a fly off the brim of his hat resting beside him on the banquette. In his pocket was the note he had received on the feast of Saints Peter and Paul the Apostles. He extracted it with care and read it once again. He knew its contents by heart, as short and as opaque as those of the first missive, and he no longer sought the logic of the words, but rather the little truths hidden in the tracing of the letters, the way in which Elena Duković had held the pen and guided the nib over the paper. The horses at last ceased to trot and advanced at a walk up a graveled drive. And Joseph no longer delved into illusions and chimeras, but saw in suc
cession an imposing church, an arched gateway, beneath which he passed, clumps of marigolds and cress at the edges of the road, a greyhound bounding idly alongside the horses, patches of azure sky between the plum-white clouds, an ash tree with a huge crown, long rows of vines descending a sandy hillside, the somnolent river in the valley. Elena Duković was sitting on the freshly mown grass with the children, her eyes fixed upon him, behind the gentleman with the bushy mustaches and the lady with the bluish-white cheeks. His hosts greeted him with courtesy and warmth, and the little boy and girl, blending whim with breeding (and bashfulness), decided to bow awkwardly and tell him in clumsy Romanian that they were delighted to see him again. As he was preparing to kiss Elena's hand, having uttered sufficient pleasantries to the masters of the place about the journey, the landscape, and the scorching heat in Bucharest, the greyhound took upon itself to sniff his boots and to jump up with its muzzle between his legs. Herr Strauss almost lost his balance, hesitated, and then, holding the dog by the nape of its neck, brushed his lips over Elena Duković's cool, delicate skin. They all laughed, and talking of lemonade and coffee—and of teeth only in passing—they continued that theatrical performance consummately contrived by Elena Duković. Somewhere in the shade, without any inkling of the roles in which they had been cast (after Baron Nikolić of Rudna had called at Joseph Strauss's surgery on Lipscani Street on the exact day and at the precise hour announced in the note, to thank him for how gallantly he had behaved during the downpour at the Whitsun Fair and to invite him to his estate), they lit cigars on the hill above the plum tree orchard, they sampled a drop of cognac, and drank white wine (the men), they kept their ankles pressed together and the hems of their dresses below their knees, fluttering fans and eyelashes, and drank sherbet (the women), they munched walnuts, leafed through atlases, and poked each other under the table with blunt sticks (the children). Romanian, though spoken hesitantly and ungrammatically by both, proved to be their only common language, and the hosts abandoned it only rarely, when they addressed the servants and the dog, all of whom understood only Serbian. A dry breeze was blowing, presaging the noonday heat, and so they rose reluctantly and headed toward the oak doors that were waiting ajar. At the height of summer and, more especially, sensing the footsteps of Elena Duković on the flagstones, Joseph felt well in that spacious, cool house. He was conducted into a brightly lit room, where an armchair, clean towels, and a small table with arabesque inlays, on which to deploy his medical arsenal, awaited him. In the sunlit corner of the window, on that third day of July 1868, he examined in turn molars, premolars, wisdom teeth, and milk teeth, recording everything meticulously in a notebook, but from a certain point onward he refused to write any more, because he wished with all his soul to commit it to memory. Alone in the room, in the final scene of the performance, Miss Duković and he embraced, and in embracing they made it understood that their embrace might be endless. Or at least very long in duration.