The Days of the King

by Filip Florian

  The fresh and untiring breeze that still blew through the United Principalities (along with the icy northeasterly krivec, the dry southwesterly austru, and the warm southerly băltăaret) also filled the dentist's sails, making his occupation rise in esteem and the pennies jingle more merrily in his purse. There had not been any miracles, but things had begun to go well for him. There were plenty of patients to be found in his waiting room, and the chair with the blue velvet no longer sat empty except in the rare moments when Herr Strauss was catching his breath. He had not yet gone on to delicate work, such as gold molars and incisors (as he would have wished), but he was content with Bucharest's newly adopted custom of treating its decayed teeth. He kept a daily reckoning in a ledger with brown covers, wrapped in silk, taking care not to record the entire profits of any given day but only five sixths, and putting aside the rest of the money in a waxed envelope that he kept hidden behind the shelves that held his medical instruments. As for the tobacco pouch under the eighth floorboard from the door in the kitchen, he had not touched it for two years and hoped not to have to do so any time soon. It still contained three florins, a gulden, and five groschen, but it was as if he had forgotten those yellow coins, preoccupied only with those of silver and copper. He was always afraid that Elena might find out about the secret money and he had at the ready a number of explanations: that the bribes demanded by the pen pushers were large, that money put aside never hurt anyone, that a lady's coat with an ermine collar was expensive, or that he was planning a trip to a spa, their first holiday together. He knew that he loved her more than he had ever imagined he could love anyone and he also knew that the secret to which he alone was party, a secret as large as a hundred secrets, capable of demolishing a throne, of rocking the city and shattering marriages, must never reach her ears. And the hurrying times had also caused the girl with chestnut hair, the blind whore who said she was no longer a whore, to turn up more and more often and to make ever greater demands. She had first reappeared outside the surgery window six weeks after her initial visit, dragging the tousle-headed little boy by the hand and asking insistently where the Dutchman lived. Joseph, on catching sight of her, did not wait until lunchtime. As ever, he fell for her ploy. He went limp, then hastily went out, with the aim of leading her far away. In a narrow passageway, by the şerban Voda inn, he gave her money. He begged her not to seek him out again and swore to her that he no longer had any dealings with the merchant or any idea of his fate. A month later, however, on a day of drizzle, he saw her again at the window on the street and this time he was overcome not only with faintness but also with fury. He wanted to speak to her curtly, threateningly, but before he could open his mouth, in that passageway which reeked of piss and whose shadow would have seemed the sun itself to her eyes, he felt something being stuffed into his hand. Linca whispered to him to look carefully, and he, Joseph Strauss, spread out the soft white cloth, smoothed it with his fingertips and could not tear his eyes away from the monogram. He recognized the insignia of Karl Eitel Friedrich Zephyrinus Ludwig, Prince of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, former captain of dragoons, middle son of Prince Karl Anton, husband of Elisabeth Pauline Ottilie Luise of Wied, father of Maria, the little princess (who preferred to be called Itty), and sovereign over five million souls. In his stomach, chest, and mind there arose a craving to drink some strong liquor, in great quantities and immediately. He begged her not to leave, and glancing at the child as he went, ran to the adjacent inn, crossed the huge courtyard, entered the tavern, and tossed back, one after the other, three glasses of plum brandy. Afterward, returning to the woman, he wanted to know who else had examined the handkerchief, how old the boy was, and where they lived. Her answers cleared up all but the final question, for he was unfamiliar with the streets of the Calicilor district. He did not give her so much as a brass farthing then, but he promised her that they would meet the following day, in the churchyard of Saint Catherine's at the third hour after noon, to settle a number of matters. While Elena and Sănducu were sleeping, he left a note on the table explaining that he would be away for an hour or two, that he had gone to attend to a Dutch merchant who was wracked with pain, and that he kissed them tenderly. Beneath a shady linden, on a bench, he came to an agreement with Linca that he would give her money every fortnight, a sum on which she could live decently and look after the child. The boy was called Petre. He was five years old, had a slightly hooked nose, prominent but not jagged cheekbones, and eyebrows that by all indications would turn out to be bushy. On the seventh or eighth meeting, in the snow, under the now bare linden, the girl grasped his arm and offered him her body. Whenever and however. He refused her.

  As was to be expected, the six chairs in the day room, formerly upholstered in yellow velvet, then in plush the color of milky coffee, were once again in a lamentable state. The tomcat had required not four years to scratch, score, and shred them, but only one, especially since during that year, which he, with his feline powers, had named the Year of the Baby, no one had paid any attention to his psalms, as all the eyes in the house were fastened upon the suckling infant. When the young Serbian woman awoke as if from a long, deep sleep and looked around her, reclaiming dominion over each object and attending to each little detail, the backs of the chairs began once more to disturb her peace of mind. She had gone out one afternoon, while Joseph and Sănducu were building a kite from reeds and paper, with a tail of glossy red ribbons, and she had scoured the shops of Lipscani and the surrounding streets. She had asked to see hundreds of bolts of cloth, had felt materials and gauged their thicknesses, made up her mind and changed it countless times. Wearied by so much walking, dizzied by so many shades, patterns, and prices, and so many discussions with vendors, she had ended up drinking a mug of kvass and going home. It was not until she was preparing some French beans, rinsing them and leaving them to soak, that she made her choice. The next day, as the beans were boiling on the hob with some bacon, onion, and spices, she set out with the child in her arms, and without tapping on the door at the bottom of the stairs or saying a word to the dentist she went straight to Covaci Street, to a Greek trader, from whom she purchased forty feet of thick canvas, the color of mustard or yellow pears. By the end of the week, the six chairs had been clad in covers she herself had sewn, with tasseled edges.

  Three years later, in March 1874, on the twenty-ninth day of the month, it happened that those sturdy chair covers, on which the tomcat did not like to sharpen his claws, were taken off and left to soak. Siegfried was alone in the house and once more he came upon the old coffee-colored plush. On one of the chair backs, among the other poems, he found a smooth, narrow patch, and at once set about writing.

  (cat year fourteen thousand four hundred and twenty-one, month of Entwined Frogs, twelfth day)

  Listen to me, thou, O queen, listen to me and be mindful, my master turned white as chalk and his voice choked, he kept reading the rumpled newspaper, he did not close it, he did not leaf through it, he sat slumped in an armchair, with his back stooped, with his head bowed, with his head in his hands, he paced in a daze, I could not count his paces, nor how many times he sighed, he leaned against the window frame and gazed at the darkling sky, he did not look at the rooftops, at the birds, at the plumes of smoke or the clouds, through the darkness sometimes flit spirits and secrets, the darkness spoke to us, but it could not perceive us, the sadness whirled, whistled, thickened, I did not count his silences, nor how often he blinked, my master clutched his son in his arms, tousled him, caressed him, whispered to him, in the room it seemed hot and cold, seven candles flickered, Joseph took off his coat and sat down, I could hear something ticking ceaselessly, it was not the clock, nor was it the gilded pocket watch, I understood all at once what that ticking was, he unbuttoned his shirt, his heart was racing! Know thou, my love, that his eyes were soft and watery, Elena touched his shoulders, his crown, his temples, she pressed his brow to her belly, to her beautiful breasts, tears trickled down my master's cheeks and his voice quavered, he
was saying gloomy things, incessantly, words that hid among the folds of her dress or remained unspoken, smoldering; he had read in the newspaper that a little girl had died, was he then crying only in pity ? I could not count his secrets, nor how many times he lit his pipe, the tobacco burned gently, the night did not drive away my fear, I would give my soul for Joseph, may thou forgive me, I rubbed against his ankles and I jumped into his lap, may thou not scold me, he kept twitching, starting, I thought of all our kittens, fifty-three, might any of them have passed away? I, too, sensed the taste of grief, I stretched out on his breast, I comforted him, I sank into terrors as if into aspic, I yearn for thee, my love!

  On the morning when Siegfried squeezed his new psalm in among his older texts, Joseph and Elena Strauss set out early toward Cotroceni, after leaving the boy at the baker's house. Their hired carriage proceeded with difficulty, because the road, as far as the eye could see in both directions, was crowded with other somber conveyances, moving in single file. The horses advanced at a patient walk, occasionally stopping and then going on, and they were constantly being overtaken by people dressed and shod in every possible manner, all of them heading to the monastery church of the royal residence. Over the bridge, on the banks of the Dîmbovitza, where the vehicles had slowed to a snail's pace, Joseph paid the coachman and they decided to alight. They held each other by the hand, so as not to lose one another in the throng. They were silent, and silent they remained as they climbed the gentle slope, careful at first as to where they trod, but then no longer mindful of their boots and clothes. They walked slowly, borne along by the stream of people, and so it took them more than an hour to cover the short distance. Above, in the garden of the Princess Elena Orphanage, thousands of souls had gathered on one side of the church, at a distance, where they hoped to hear snatches of the service carried on the wind. The little Princess Maria, who had called herself Itty, had fallen ill on Easter Sunday, in that very place, playing with the orphans, running and laughing. The scarlet fever had consumed her and taken her away to the angels. Her laughter was never more to peal in the United Principalities or anywhere on this earth. Her sufferings had dissolved in a place of greenness and tranquility. Her face was no longer rosy, but thereafter, at least in the month of May, the color of the peonies would recall her cheeks. Now the human languages, as many as she had learned, crumbled to dust in Paradise, where the children learn a single language, that of the Heavens. By noon, with his shoulder pressed to the shoulder of his wife, lost in the gray multitude, Joseph did not feel the water in his boots, or the damp air, or the biting cold. He thought of the little girl with the blue dress, lying under so many veils. He also thought of her father, and he kept trying to glimpse the face of the prince. As the little coffin was lowered into the grave, he caught only a vague, distant outline, a flash of a general's uniform. In the afternoon, after two hours of waiting, when they at last reached the grave, his hazel eyes read what was written on the cross. Inscribed in two lines, it went like this: Maria and Christ is risen!

  It was autumn 1875, and the uproar that had burst out on Whitsunday, when the royal train had been involved in a serious accident near Bucharest and Carol I had miraculously escaped from the mangled iron girders, and panels with only a superficial wound below one knee, had long since died away. Quite some time had passed, too, about eight weeks, since the laying of the foundation stone of Peleş Castle in Sinaia, when the prince with his own hand had grasped the trowel and smoothed the mortar, praying not only for the new building but also for the birth of a dynasty. And in the middle of October, one evening, drinking red wine and chatting, Herr Strauss finally understood that Karl Ludwig's prayer that August had referred to the fruit of Elisabeth Pauline's womb. Above and beyond the gossip of the town, which had been saying for years that the princess was barren, Joseph had just heard from his friend Otto Huer that she was paralyzed, the result of a nerve disease. He tossed back his glass and quickly refilled it; he listened for further details, but found they were no more than harebrained rumors, and so he changed the subject, smiled, and beneath that smile concealed his suffering and regrets. He admonished himself for not having told Otto over their very first beer how he had arrived in that city. He was sorry that he had not spoken to him of his visits to the palace, of the powdered Amanita muscaria, and, above all, of the blind whore. His heart truly ached in his chest for having hidden from Elena so many things: the prostitutes, his connection to the prince, and, from start to finish, the subsequent nightmare, in which there was nonetheless a glimmer of light, the little face of an innocent child with a slightly hooked nose and increasingly bushy eyebrows, who was called Petre. He poured himself some more wine, not once, but four times, and after the barber left to go home, while Elena and Sănducu were breathing peacefully, asleep in the next room, he called the tomcat, the only one who knew everything. He took him in his arms and stroked him for a long time. He saw in the darkness how the tuft of white fur at the tip of his tail moved slowly, rhythmically, like a lazy pendulum. The next day, he shut up his surgery earlier than usual, and before lunch, telling his wife he had some business to attend to, he went out into the bustling street, veered off along narrow lanes, and walked for a brief space along the boulevard, then down Podul Mogoşoaiei, raised his hat to acquaintances, did not look at the buildings, or at the clouds, passed by the palace, and came to a stop on the southern side of the guardhouse. Presenting all kinds of documents, which attested to his medical studies, his places of employment in Prussia, his Berliner origins, and the fact that he was now a dentist in Bucuresci, he demanded an audience with Prince Carol. The officer who kept the register studied the documents carefully, although he seemed not to understand German. He looked at Joseph a number of times and said that he would be informed of the response at home, by letter.

  In early January, when the city was still hung over after the feast of Saint Basil and preparing for the frosts and wassails of Epiphany, at his door Joseph found a military courier, who made him sign for an envelope. On the sheet of paper within, beneath the signature of the marshal of the royal household, Theodor C. Văcărescu, he was informed that he, Joseph Strauss, German, Roman Catholic, dentist, residing on Lipscani Street at number 18, was to be received by H. H. the Prince on Thursday, January 14, 1876, at ten minutes to five P.M., sharp. He took the announcement as a gift, if not divine, then at least propitious. Especially since the day it arrived, the eighth of the month, was his fortieth birthday. Later, when Thursday came at last and the calendar showed the number 14, he entrusted himself to Otto Huer for a shave and haircut. He obeyed Elena to the last detail with respect to clothes, shoes, and handkerchief, and when Sănducu placed a four-leafed clover in his palm, he slipped the lucky charm into his waistcoat pocket. After explaining to them one last time what he wanted to petition the prince about, a complicated matter of taxation, he put his right foot forward when he crossed the threshold, and hailed a horse-drawn cab. As required, he arrived at the royal palace half an hour before the audience. He left his coat, galoshes, and kidskin cap in the cloakroom, and then he was led by a lackey, not the doorman in livery or the Arab butler with the shalwars and turban, into the waiting room next to the adjutants' office. As he made his way across the broad vestibule, the interior no longer seemed familiar. Huge oriental carpets were stretched over the parquet, oil paintings with views of Istanbul hung on the walls facing the chancellery offices, landscapes from the Principalities hung on the other side, and at the foot of the stairs, behind a glass partition curtained with purple velvet, were two life-sized bronze wolves. In the room he entered, there were four other men, including a grain merchant and a former minister of justice, a pale man from the faction of the moderates. The air was not stifling, but the minutes sizzled, glowed, flickered like hot coals. A number of times, the dentist felt the need to loosen the knot of his cravat and to open the top buttons of his shirt, but he refrained and instead sat with his legs crossed, examining his shoelaces. He thought that his meeting with Karl
Ludwig would resemble a strange confessional, in which each would shrive the other and confess his own sins. However it might be, he was sure that he, Joseph, would leave that discussion relieved, having rid himself of somber dreams and fears. He tried to guess whether he would be received in the office, in the library, or in some newly furbished room. He wondered whether between the bookshelves he would still find the collection of old weapons and, in particular, the unusual portrait of Erlkönig, the prince's beloved stallion. When the door opened, he was called in first. He took a step toward the stairs, supposing that they would be ascending to the upper floor, but the functionary checked him with an admonitory whisper and showed him into a room on the other side of the hall. In the office of the marshal of the royal household, the dentist was heard for a quarter of an hour by a mere counselor. He mumbled something vague about taxes being too high and about the gifts demanded by the men from the treasury. Through the monocle fixed upon him could be discerned a disbelieving—and bored—pupil.