The Days of the King

by Filip Florian

  As the gang of hooligans left the surgery and, without pausing, turned toward Peter Bykow's bakery, Joseph was able to make out a few faces. They did not seem disfigured by fury or hatred, but rather they glimmered with an oily film of pleasure, an appetite for destruction and humiliation on their cheeks, brows, and chins. Everything concentrated around one face, glimpsed for a second, a familiar face. At the time he did not realize whose outline he was following through the darkness, but the image imprinted itself on Joseph's mind, sinking through millions and millions of dusty images, trying, as in a card game, to find its pair. Later, much later, the uhlans made their appearance. They entered on horseback, at the western end of the street, from the direction of Podul Mogoşoaiei, when most of the windows were in pieces and most of the shops ransacked, when those hotheaded louts had already reached the other end of the street, by New Saint George. The cavalry charge was pointless, except, perhaps to make the residents of the street, awake one and all, regardless of tribe, age, religion, or length of nose, shudder and shiver once more. But the louts legged it, vanishing into narrow alleys, passageways, and courtyards. Soon afterward, while the Strausses were assessing the damage by the light of eleven candles, they found Jakob Vogel in their surgery, white as paper, his glasses splotched and crooked, sitting in the only chair left intact, covered in crumbled plaster and asking for a glass of water. He was trembling. He had been coming home from what should have been a great banquet held by the German community of Bucharest in honor of the Emperor Wilhelm, a splendid party but one which a dentist, a barber, a baker, and others, although thinking of the emperor and loving him, had not permitted themselves to attend, leaving their young families at home. And Herr Vogel, who had started to come around after the sips of water and the brown powder administered to him in a teaspoon, related that nothing had gone according to plan, that the discussions and toasts had rambled, that the platters of the first course had barely arrived when the meal had been interrupted, that the music had stopped even before it could start, that his heart had been beating so loudly at one point that in order not to hear it he had started banging the drum abandoned by the tawny-haired musician hiding under the piano, that before eight o'clock, when the ball was due to commence, the Slătineanu Rooms had been surrounded by a motley mob, among whom could be spotted deputies from the camp of the radical liberals and a few elegant youths, perhaps university or gymnasium students, but which otherwise consisted only of tattered wretches, apprentices, and all kinds of idlers, rounded up from the Calicilor slums or who knows where. And some of those hotheads had climbed up into the bell tower of Sărindar Church, clambered up the ropes, and tolled the bells. The chimes had egged on the others to smash the few street lamps, to hurl cobblestones—this being the city's only cobbled street—at the lower- and upper-story windows, to storm the entrance and shout vile slogans, such as "Death to the Prussians!" "Long live the French Republic!" and "To the palace!" Some thirty of the more burly ones had even managed to burst inside and tussle with the guests. Consul-General Radowitz, said Jakob, had proposed that they remain in the building and hold out together, making barricades from tables and chairs, wielding knives and forks not for the feast but for defense, and this had saved many from serious injury or, God forbid, death. During all that time, just as on Lipscani Street, not a single gendarme showed his face, proof that the prefect of police tacitly condoned what was happening. There, too, it was the army that had restored order, the soldiers appearing two hours before midnight, dispersing the mob and occupying the streets leading to the palace. After the optician rose to his feet, smoothed his black overcoat, which was exceedingly rumpled and dirtied, and departed, Joseph and Elena hung a blanket in the empty window frame, hammering it in place, no longer caring about the fresh paintwork.

  During Lent, the floorboard in the kitchen beneath which Herr Strauss kept hidden a pouch for pipe tobacco was pulled up once more. And with the guldens and groschen extracted from therein, among the last, he was able to paint and furbish his surgery yet again, ordering new, not overly expensive instruments from Vienna, anatomical charts similar to the ones that had been ripped to shreds, and three pharmaceutical substances that had always been lacking at the apothecaries' shops in Bucharest. He called in a poor handyman, not a professional parquet-layer, to wax the scuffed floorboards, stain the woodwork, and clean the ceiling paneling. He bought a cuckoo clock to replace the smashed pendulum clock, from which springs and cogs spewed like brass guts. And he did not replace the Anatolian carpets on the wall, because a man counts his money differently when he has a child to raise and a wife to keep. In Easter Week, on the Wednesday, after neither he, nor Elena, nor the boy had touched meat for many weeks, Joseph set out for the Scaune district, where the butchers made their living. He was looking for a suitable lamb, from which his dear Serbian wife might cook everything she had been dreaming of: lamb borscht, lamb stew, roast leg of lamb, and her minced lamb and vegetable pie, which she had extolled long ago, on the banks of the Danube. What about a Lenten compote, Joseph had added, laughing, after listening to the menu, earning himself a rebuke, then her laughter. He went into seven or eight places just so that he could gawp at all that was laid out on the counters and at how the cleavers and the knives whirled above the bloodied chopping blocks. In the last shop whose threshold he crossed, as he was sizing up some offal he saw a strapping young man emerge from the door at the back. He was wearing a long apron of buffalo hide and carrying six freshly skinned yearling lambs over his shoulders. Joseph took a step back and froze. It was that young, burly man whose face had gleamed one night by torchlight. He went out, lit his pipe in the middle of the lane, and recalled that he had been in that shop once before, one autumn. Then he went back in, and with a satisfaction that he could barely contain he had the young man weigh the fattest lamb and chop it into pieces, after which he changed his mind and left without buying it. He paid no heed to the uproar in his wake and headed straight to Otto Huer's barbershop, where Peter Bykow and Jakob Vogel, summoned by an apprentice, soon joined them. As there were no customers waiting for haircuts or shaves, they locked the door, pulled down the shutters, and conferred. They agreed first of all that the Resurrection was of higher significance than people and their deeds, and that nothing could be committed during Holy Week, when joy is the sole purpose of things. Proceeding from the description of the beast and the territory of his lair, Peter the baker managed to find out, as the first warm breezes were beginning to blow, that the monster who had devastated Lipscani Street was a butcher's apprentice and that he dwelled in the yard behind the shop, alone, in a small house with a shingle roof and no porch. Then Otto, taking advantage of his scissors, razors, shaving brush, and combs, but also the geniality of that fat customer of his who was wont to laugh at everything—Vasile, the warden of the Colţei Tower—obtained permission for all four of them to climb the narrow spiral staircase any time they liked, to try out their apparatus from the top of the tallest building in Bucharest. They had devised a mute and docile device, which would administer justice in the world. It remained only for Jakob, rummaging in his workshop and attic in search of magnifying glasses and lenses, inventing and constructing, to perfect the mechanism that, even if it was not to bring him laurels and rewards, would at least salve their hearts and allow them to sleep peacefully. And before the beginning of June, Vogel the optician revealed the extent of his skill, bringing to perfection, according to sketches and calculations made over many nights, that simple yet intricate system whereby the rays of the sun would be snatched from the air by a mirror, bound together like blades of wheat through a polished and concave disk of glass, and launched into the distance with magnified strength and masterful precision, having first traversed another seven glass disks of descending size, all slightly convex. The others marveled. Then they waited. And, when the great Midsummer Fair opened, when it seemed that the whole city had migrated there, when all the butchers to a man had plunged into that boundless market, viewing, selecting, and
haggling for cattle, when the burghers had locked up their shops and together with the servants left their houses and courtyards deserted, just then, before noon on a cloudless day, from the walkway of the Colţei Tower, a slender streak of light shot out, stopping on the slope of a roof and remaining there unwavering. It was the roof of a small house with no porch, in the Scaune district. They waited patiently once more. And in a few minutes the fire broke out.

  7. Hurried Times

  THEN TIME NO LONGER flowed like a sluggish and evil-smelling river, but all of a sudden acquired a different cadence, like the gallop of thoroughbred colts, like the flight of crows fleeing the rains or even the hurtling of locomotives over the plains, where they are not obliged to apply the brakes. Trains had begun to circulate fairly extensively around the country, eliciting delight everywhere. Before the grand inauguration of the Tîrgovişte Station and the official opening of the lines linking Bucuresci first to Piteşti, then to Ploiesci, Buzau, Braila, Galatzi, Tecuci, and Roman, in the north another three routes had been put into use, amid pomp and ceremony: Paşcani-Jassy, Vereşti-Botoşani, and Roman-Iţcani. And given how extensive the railroad was, how many settlements were dotted along its length, how much boredom accumulated in the flowering plum bushes, how much curiosity collected in drawing rooms and salons, how rarely the chained dogs barked, and how the appetite for courtesies, flirtations, and barbed remarks sharpened in that dusty air, it had become the custom in all of those towns, large and small, that at noon the railroad stations would be assailed by the beaumonde, who would watch who boarded and alighted from the carriages and note how a handsome mechanic had waxed his mustache, how the conductor's uniform had been brushed and ironed, how the wheels screeched as the train came to a halt and how they creaked as it departed, and what familiar faces could be glimpsed in the windows. The suspension of the Strousberg concession had been quickly forgotten and, in spite of protests from Berlin diplomats and stern letters signed by Bismarck (no longer merely Ministerpräsident of Prussia, but chancellor of the German Empire), those hundreds of miles of track were treated as a gift that had fallen like meteorites from the heavens onto the map of the United Principalities. As for the controversial coupons or, to put it another way, payments of dividends to shareholders, the matter had been taken over by the New Company of Romanian Railroad Shareholders. But the rhythm of the times had not changed on just any day or in any old way, like someone taking off a dirty shirt and putting on a clean one, but had quickened on that rebellious night between March 10 and 11, 1871, when Prince Carol, livid with anger, smoking incessantly and about to come to the boil, had decided to abdicate. First of all, he had demanded the resignations of Ion Ghika and the entire cabinet, and he had summoned to the palace the members of the former Princely Lieutenancy, to hand back the very reins of power he had received from them. Then he had agreed, after countless discussions, consultations, and entreaties, to grant parliament a final, very brief, recess, so that it might clarify its intentions and principles. Satisfied by the dénouement of the secret session in the Chamber and by the panic sown among the parties, he had seen with his own eyes for the first time a solid, coherent, and authoritative government form, led by Lascar Catargiu, the man who had answered, "Majesty, this cannot be!" when he announced that he would be leaving Bucuresci for good. And just as the sun peeps through the clouds at the end of a storm, just as a gentle breeze begins to blow after frosts and icy northeasterlies, just as tranquility returns to the world after the fury of the elements, so too the life of Carol I brightened when he was least expecting it. The Turkish troops massed along the Danube missed the opportunity to cross the river and bring order to a vacant throne, the political adventurers realized how close to disaster they had come, they shivered and cringed like curs at the master's feet, and His Beatitude Metropolitan Nifon begged forgiveness of the city's German community in his own name, that of the Orthodox priesthood, and on behalf of the faithful flock. In April, Karl Ludwig and Elisabeth Pauline were showered with flowers and reverences in Jassy, and in June the royal couple were bathed in affection and loyalty at the elections. In August, they both felt the damp proximity of the Cotroceni marshes and withdrew for a few weeks to Sinaia Monastery. In October, they applauded the large domestic loan obtained by the government, 75,000,000 lei, as a sign of confidence and devotion on the part of the native magnates. Then the one-thousand-eight-hundred-and-seventy-first year, by calendar reckoning, came to a close. In the two years that followed, time continued its hectic flight. In 1872, the German banks of Bleichröder and Disconto-Gesellschaft financed the extension of the railroad to the Austro-Hungarian and Russian borders, trade blossomed like robinia or at least like chamomile, Princess Elisabeth was cured of malaria in Italy, and Prince Carol hunted bears and boars in the Peleş Valley. That autumn, waves of astonishment washed over the city when, on the site of a stagnant pool by Liberty Fields, a huge structure was erected, described in the newspapers as " Bucuresci's source of light, the forever blessed Gas Works," and when sixty miles of cables snaked beneath the earth, and four thousand gas lamps were lit at nightfall, on streets, in squares, in public parks, and by vacant lots. By 1873, the schools and law courts were hobbling less, the first broad boulevard appeared, running past the university and linking Podul Mogoşoaiei with Colţei Lane, the royal palace was entirely renovated, shedding its shabby, provincial air and bluish-gray plaster, new docks and warehouses were built in the Danube ports; and Carol I and Elisabeth traveled abroad, stopping off at Vienna, where they visited the World Exposition and met Emperor Franz Joseph at Erms for talks with Tsar Alexander, then stayed at some of the prince's ancestral castles and finally Ilmenau, an oasis of indulgence and health. As was their good custom, they spent dozens of days in Sinaia, residing in the monastic cells, gazing at the mountain crests and boundless forests, seeking the ideal spot for a future summer palace, carefully examining the plans drawn up by the architect Doderer, and playing for hours on end with the little Princess Maria, who, given all the languages she was learning and all the teachers that were cramming her head, had mangled the English little and come to be called Itty.

  Naturally, the new tenor of the times did not bypass Lipscani Street or the redbrick building at number 18. In the dwelling on the upper floor, Joseph was much busier than in the past; he ate in haste, as if he always had business that could not wait, even between the sheets he was changed, forgetting tenderness and enamored whispers in his rush to reach that secret place, hidden beneath black, crinkly Serbian hair, a place whence, he did not doubt, sprang a part of the wonder of the world. Elena, in her turn, no longer strove to make every stew, pilaf, roast, pudding, or pie a miniature work of art. She was frightened by the thought that, however much she might wish for it and whatever she might do, her belly would never swell again. At first when she realized that no new soul was nestling in her womb, she had listened to the counsels of the dentist and plunged into bodily pleasures and love, but when that failed she had done the rounds of priests, quacks, and physicians, who had mystified her with strange services, strict fasts, and hundreds of genuflections, with powders made from grasshoppers' legs, beech mast, ducks' beaks, clay, kids' horns, and cuckoos' eggs, with potions of unknown roots, leaves, and flowers, and with a host of pagan charms that caused her to shudder. She showered all her pampering on the boy, who had long since ceased to gurgle, toddle, piddle in his nappy, and seek the teat, preferring now to suck his right thumb. She had tried every way to wean him from this bad habit, not scolding him, but pleading with him, sprinkling his thumb with ground pepper, paprika, and ash, dipping it every hour in vinegar, fish oil, and quinine. In the end she had left him in peace with his great passion, which he did not renounce even when offered sticks of barley sugar: holding them in his left hand, he would lick them joyfully and insatiably, but then all of a sudden he would remember his thumb and clamp it between his lips. Herr Strauss teased his son, claiming that he had never yet come across a judge, officer, postman, or carpenter who kept
his thumb in his mouth all day long. Perhaps that was why, he would add, pipes and cigarettes had been invented, so that men would not make fools of themselves. Joseph and Elena doted on Sănducu. They crawled around on all fours neighing while he rode their backs like a cavalryman on the attack, they hid around the house, called to him, and when he found them they covered his cheeks in kisses, they imitated a multitude of animals and birds, bleating, cheeping, roaring, growling, grunting, lowing, and barking, transforming the house into a menagerie and making the tomcat mew at the top of his lungs, they discovered to their amazement that some games were Serbian, German, and Wallachian all at the same time and they slowly, slowly recalled their rules and rituals: one of them would be blindfolded with a scarf and try to catch the others, they chose to be an uhlan, sergeant, or hunter and chase the pigeons, thieves, or ducks, they pretended to be stone statues, waiting to see who would be the first to blink or flinch, they built castles from colored building blocks, they drew, sang, talked with the dolls, and sometimes they tossed an apple-red ball at yellow and green skittles. In the evenings, Otto Huer often demonstrated his peerlessness as a magician. The barber would wave his arms and mutter unfathomable words, he would watch how the small blue eyes grew large and bright, how the wavy chestnut hair quivered, how the pale little face flushed, he would make a broad, sweeping gesture and pull something out of his hat or sleeve, from under his coat or his trouser folds. Then with a deep bow and the endearment "kleiner König!" he would place in the outstretched palms a spinning top, a whistle, a jumping jack, a horsie, or a wooden sword. Sometimes he would produce halva, fondants, or pistachio cakes, but then would have to face the reproaches of Joseph, who did not allow the boy to eat sweets before bedtime. Similarly, when his conjuring tricks brought to light noisy playthings, such as a tin trumpet, a rattle, and a circus drum, Elena Strauss would narrow her lips and look at him reprovingly, knowing that the barber was trying to delight the boy and to tease her in equal measure. But in those hurried and good years irritations passed quickly, and once'Sänducu had been put to bed they would pour out schnapps and talk about everything under the moon and stars. Their conversations were priceless to Siegfried, who, on many of the barber's visits himself received a visit from the peerless cat, Ritza, as humans called her, Manastamirflorinda by her real name, who would arrive in a wicker basket like his own, the choicest of she-cats, with flecks in her fur like burning coals, with her sinuous walk and particular way of whispering to him and soothing him. At nightfall the tomcat would sprawl on the floor, dizzy, his warm muzzle seeking her wet one, and in the morning as he stretched in the same place on the floorboards, he would silently suffer the child's teasing, always assuming, whenever he was pulled by the tail, by his white or black ear, by his paws or whiskers, that the gesture showed friendship, not malice. In the afternoon hours, Siegfried would laze on the windowsills in the sun when Sănducu was out for a walk, exploring the large, bustling city, its lanes, its horses and carriages of every variety, its crows and ring doves, its single broad cobbled avenue, its motley crowds, its stray dogs and its rooftop cats, its shop windows, hats, spires, and belfries, its new boulevard and two magnificent parks—Cişmigiu and Bishopric, where his parents often took him. In the second of these he would run by himself down the lanes to the column in the center, which seemed to him terribly high, as he threw his head back and gazed for long minutes at the eagle on the top. He was not interested in who had carved it, even though it had been a German, Karl Storck, but he did want to know when he would be able to climb to the top, to clamber on the back of the stone bird. He asked this question so passionately that he did not notice that his lisping voice spoke now Romanian, now Serbian, now German. He had learned all three languages at the same time, because that was how they told him his bedtime stories.