by Paul Park
But the Evenimentul Zilea supported the government. It ran articles of its own, accusing its rival of defeatist speculation, antimilitarism, and pandering to the same prurience that it condemned. Its new masthead showed a stylized version of the Rezistenta claw, and in its own editorial letters it called for calm, and a new standard of professional dignity. When the offices of the Libera were ransacked and destroyed, it deplored the necessity. And when the minority political parties were outlawed and subsumed, it blamed the unfortunate exigencies of war.
In his private cabinet in the People’s Palace, Victor Bocu sat with an unlit cigar between his fingers, the newspaper in his lap, unread. He had come from a special session of the National Assembly, where he had made a speech. It had been reprinted in the paper, broadcast on the radio. There was nothing in the pages of the Evenimentul Zilea that did not tell him what he already knew. There was no mention of a response from any representative of the military high command. What would Antonescu do now? He had no troops to spare, of course. And the Brancoveanu Artillery held the city.
Bocu’s chamber had no windows, and inside it was neither day nor night. There was a decanter of Roumanian raki on his desk—none of these foreign extravagances for him. He unstoppered it, poured a small glass, smelled the bitter smell. He did not taste the liquid, which had a greasy look. Instead he scratched his scalp with big blunt fingers. “Come in,” he said.
When the fellow was inside the door, he didn’t turn around. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,” he said. “Maybe some gout, or rheumatism. Or else I broke my toe kicking these gentlemen in their backsides,” he said, gesturing toward an article that described the dismissal of several ministers. “You’ve read the news,” he said, laying the paper on the desk.
“Yes, your excellency.”
Bocu turned to face him, an old man in a rumpled gray suit. “You don’t look good,” he said.
“Excellency, I am not able to discover why I am here. I comprehend I am no further use to you. But I was brought from my morning meal in my own house, and then obliged to wait—”
Bocu smiled. “How is your fat wife?”
“Sir—”
“Idiot! I don’t require you to understand. You are here because I need you.”
“Excellency, I—”
“Do not talk to me! It’s been another fiasco. You are lucky I’m in a pleasant mood. But I want you to tell me one more time what happened in Stanesti-Jui and what you saw. The dead man who would not die, and spoke in the voice of a dead ghost…”
“Excellency, I—”
“I would have let you rot in Floreasca except for that. Will you tell me?”
“Excellency, I—”
“No, let me tell you. That man—that steward—was old and ugly, wasn’t he? I saw him here in the old days—ugly, badly dressed. That’s what surprises me. But then I thought—well, Inspector Luckacz is past his prime. I had never thought about it, whether old, useless, used-up people have an attraction for each other, search each other out—you and your Hungarian wife. Do you feel some kind of useless, used-up spark? Something compelling even so, something that might lead to violence. What do you think?”
Radu Luckacz was silent. He stood holding his hat by its soft, curled brim.
Bocu laid the copy of the newspaper on his desk. He aligned the pages with the corner of his blotter, then placed his hand on top as if to keep them there. “I remember a time not so long ago, when you were devoted to the artistry of Nicola Ceausescu. You were quite a ‘fan.’ Even if, like all loyal Roumanians, you ended up rejecting the decadent foreign influence in her work—I think that was a phrase you used. You yourself were born in Buda-Pest, I seem to remember. Maybe that makes you an expert. Even so—whatever you might think of Madame Ceausescu’s artistic legacy, she was not the same kind of woman as a fat, gray-haired Hungarian in Floreasca. But then I thought, you are not the man you once were, either.”
Bocu rose to his feet. He felt invigorated at moments like these. He felt as if his flesh had a different density from Luckacz’s, from all these faded husks from the old regime. In the assembly he was like a man among ghosts, a ball among ninepins. But why? He was not tall, short, thin, fat, handsome, ugly, clever, stupid. And of course he was middle-aged, middle class—maybe it was the concentration of all that mediocrity that made him extraordinary in this modern world. A new kind of hero—whatever it was, the effect was entirely predictable by this time. Domnul Luckacz, former chief of police and in many ways the most powerful man in Bucharest under the German occupation, stood like a schoolboy, staring down at his shoes. “Tell me about Stanesti-Jui.”
And the fellow told him, babbling about Miranda Popescu, babbling about the ghost of Nicola Ceausescu with the poker in her hand, chasing the men out of the house. “But how did you know?” Bocu asked. “How did you know who it was, in the corpse of this old man? Was it his smell, his voice?” he asked, because he was thinking about the actress who had died in his bed, and whose death had been reported in the Roumania Libera—he couldn’t tell this old policeman about that! No, it had been a mistake even to bring him here. Unless …
He was still talking about these people, de Rougemont, Ceausescu, old names from the old days, old enemies. They could not hurt him, Bocu thought—not anymore. They did not matter anymore. Today he had spoken in the assembly. He had allowed every member a seat in his re-formed Rezistenta party, and they had stood up and applauded—they were desperate for the money. And the coalition ministers were all gone, departed like sheep or not even like sheep, because they hadn’t even opened their mouths to complain. What was that compared to something that might or might not have happened in Stanesti-Jui, or in his own bedroom? Still he was curious—“What was it like? Did she speak to you? And finally, did she just collapse and die? Did you catch a glimpse of her face?”
“Excellency, I—”
“Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying. What difference does it make? At least you must agree it was unnatural! Do you think so? What do you think? You must have heard, incidentally, about the repeal of the anti-conjuring statutes by voice vote in the assembly—there is no reason to dignify this kind of superstition by forbidding it. And of course it is better to flush these people out into the open.”
“Excellency, I think—”
“But look at the time! I must change my clothes for supper. You’re a good fellow after all, and we have something in common, you and I. You don’t mind if I tease you?”
Bocu strode across the floor toward the policeman—just a few steps. The cabinet was a small room with ornate lacquered walls in the Chinese style. There were mirrors in ormolu frames. They augmented the colonel as he moved across the room—he felt fine, in perfect health, without a trace of gout or rheumatism, needless to say.
The lamplight flickered around him. He spread his legs, leaned his back against the closed door. With one hand he gestured into Luckacz’s face with the unlit cigar, and with the other he untied his own cravat. Then he rocked himself forward as if unbalanced or drunk, so that he could reach out and squeeze the old man by his old, creased, hairy earlobe. “You’re a good fellow,” he repeated, “and I need good men. I am surrounded by fools. My valet is no longer with me, because I believe he spoke to one of the newspapers about my personal affairs—you would not make that mistake.”
The old man flinched away. He was clever enough to know what was coming. Bocu let go of him. “I’d like the gray jacket with the velvet collar and a red cravat. Bring me an assortment. Your wife, have you sent word to her? In that old house in the Strada…”
“Yes, your excellency.”
“Tomorrow the steward will find you something to wear. The household staff has some kind of official uniform. It is no concern of mine. But did I tell you? I got a response from Mademoiselle Popescu. A reply to my proposal. You’ll be happy about that.”
“Your excellency, I think—”
Bocu knew what he thought. He’d go on and on about it
if Bocu let him. Miranda Popescu’s criminality and the danger she represented were a fixed idea in him, a sign also of how hard it was for a dry old man to change with the times. To listen to him, Miranda Popescu and the Chevalier de Graz were at the center of every criminal enterprise in the entire country. Once a police inspector, now a valet in the People’s Palace—it was a lesson to be learned! No, but his rigidity and prejudice, his utter lack of humor, had brought him to his present circumstances. The fellow couldn’t even tell when he was being teased! Bocu would make none of these mistakes.
No, he would keep the old man with him, shield him from his enemies, forgive his failures—as a reminder to himself. No, the secret of remaining young was to surround yourself with beautiful young women. And if they’d been responsible for various crimes and deaths, that added spice to the brew. Under present circumstances it was too dangerous to bring hired dancers or companions to the palace. Bocu had learned that lesson, obviously.
* * *
NO, MIRANDA POPESCU intrigued him. If at that moment he’d been able see into her bedroom in Stanesti-Jui, he might have been troubled also—preparations were underway. Miranda stood on the round rug, supervising a woman from the village who was packing the trunk. Already it was half-full of frocks and gowns and shawls and hose, which Madame de Rougemont had ordered from the catalogues of the Parisian dressmaker in Ploiesti, and which had been altered by a local woman in the village.
Sunlight slanted in the western windows. Holding some revealing piece of fabric to her waist, Miranda made a pirouette before the mirror, laughing with pleasure or else grimacing with distaste. Her mother couldn’t predict what she was going to like—all of it seemed severe and modern and unornamented to Clara Brancoveanu. All of it was cut too close to the figure, as if the new style was to preserve as much cloth as possible, perhaps due to the war effort.
“Oh, maman,” Miranda said. “What do you think of this one?”
Clara didn’t like it at all, a silver dress cut to the knee. Below the waist, it left nothing to the imagination. Intended to be worn without a petticoat or even a slip, it was cut low over the bosom also, without any lace or voile to soften the line. If that wasn’t enough, Miranda slid out of her dressing gown to judge the full effect. She stood before the mirror in her underclothing as if the princess were no longer in the room, or the village woman, either—since when had Miranda been comfortable with servants and the work they did for her?
Clara Brancoveanu perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair beside the altar she had made. Even in the afternoon light, she had prepared a candle before the image of Demeter, who had also been scandalized by her errant daughter—no, that wasn’t it. Miranda was a shy girl, modest in her person and uninterested in clothes. That was the shame of it. Left to herself she wore men’s trousers, shirts buttoned to her neck. Clara had thought that too was unappealing and inappropriate. How she would have preferred it now!
Miranda twisted on her bare heel, showed her bare back, and for a moment her mother imagined that it was the body itself she was modeling before the mirror, shaking out the arms and legs, squinting at them sidewise, pursing her lips as if in disapproval—oh, but they might just suffice. At such times Miranda’s face took on a gleeful, ironical expression, and her voice seemed tingled with sarcasm when she spoke: “I can’t wait to return to the city. I’ve been so dull here. Do you remember those nights in the People’s Palace? Colonel Bocu says there will be celebrations and festivals, because of the victory at Staro Selo—do you know we’d had a victory? You would scarcely know it from the newspapers or the way people talk. I can’t wait to wear some of these things, though I’m afraid Ploiesti is still the provinces, after all. But at least they’ll last me the first week until I look for something new.”
Clara glanced at the pile of outfits on the floor and in the trunk—two dozen at least. “There should be enough,” she murmured, sick to her stomach from worry and regret. It hurt her to remember how much Miranda had detested the People’s Palace, how she’d felt a prisoner every moment, how firmly she’d resisted any effort to bring her out into society.
“Oh, I’ll be so pleased to make the colonel’s acquaintance. He will be able to introduce us to everyone we need to know. You’ve seen the photographs—he is not handsome, I suppose. But distinguished. But a trifle old.”
“A trifle,” murmured the princess. He was fifty-five at least. His father had been some species of successful tradesman in Bacau. He had gone to the military academy—that was something. Of course he had graduated into the artillery, which was reserved, her husband had always said, for the bottom third of the class.
“Is he married, do you think?”
“Um, a widower.” Poor Elena Bibescu was scarcely in the ground. No doubt her funeral was one of the celebrations he’d referred to.
“Well, I suppose that’s how a woman can hope to influence these great events, by introducing herself to the great men of history. That was what you did, I suppose, when you met my father.”
The princess had slumped a little on her chair. Now she drew herself up, squared her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she said. But she did know: She had loved her husband. She remembered the first time she had seen him in Kronstadt at the citadel, in his sky-blue uniform under the artificial flares, during the midwinter festival. His sister had introduced them, though Clara knew who he was already—they were cousins, after all. And besides that: All Roumania, all the world had known his name.
Oh, but it was not comparable. Sick with worry, Clara examined the image of the goddess between the pale candles. She tried to remember some of the words and diagrams in the black book and in Aegypta’s letter. What kind of mother was she after all? Especially since, resist as she might, she could not but respond to this new Miranda when her face lit up with smiles, and when she said, “Dear maman,” and squeezed her hand, and even embraced her on one high-spirited occasion. When she asked her for a mother’s advice—none of these were things the old Miranda had ever done. And even though Clara knew there was nothing artless or sincere about these smiles, these words, still she was grateful for them. And even though she knew these gestures and embraces were as genuine as a puppet’s, still she could not resist nourishing herself with them, because she had starved in silence for so long, when she was a prisoner in Ratisbon.
But she tore herself away, made her excuses, and went to look for Inez de Rougemont. Steps must be taken to end this farce, this masquerade. Her daughter was not responsible for her actions. She required a doctor’s care.
She found dear Inez in the library. She was supervising Anton as he packed books into wooden crates. In contrast to Miranda, she was dressed in a frock that seemed antique even to the princess. She had an embroidered silk fichu over her shoulders in the Spanish style, Clara supposed: a black, fringed triangle over a red dress, which served to make her cheeks seem even redder than she had doubtless intended. Her hair was pulled back in a club at the nape of her neck.
And she was also in high spirits, eager to talk about the move, about what they’d do. She was gong to live with Madame de Graz in her house on Lake Herastrau. Miranda and the princess, of course, were going to stay at the palace, by Bocu’s invitation: “You’ll prefer it. I’m sure he himself has no idea how to make a table or what fork to use. But he’ll have people to fix that for him. The formality of public office has a way of civilizing even a barbarian. And you’ll be in no danger, obviously—he needs you. You can see it in the letter. He is trying to build a foundation of support, and for that he needs you and Miranda—a union, I suppose, of the new and the old, and a heroine, as he’ll describe it, of the patriotic struggle. That’s the happy thing about being a woman. You don’t have to do anything, but only suffer for long enough. The world will come to you. Anton, here—take this one, and this.”
She stood in the middle of the room, a load of books in her gloved hands. “I do not mean to alarm you. You must regard this as an opportunity. And now it is a c
hance to do something—don’t you see? He is reaching out to us because he needs us; I have no illusions. But men can be transformed though their needs. Surely Frederick must have taught you that. You cannot wait for circumstances to be ideal. In any kind of politics, but especially the democratic kind, you work with what you have—that was the source of Frederick’s strength. And that is the way a woman can exert power. You don’t choose the men, but they choose you. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to tell you what to do.”
Beau-cul, Clara thought, and reddened at the phrase, obscurely guilty in her heart of hearts. She did not like the way the condesa used her husband’s given name. And what Inez had just said reminded her of what Miranda had also said—not Miranda, but the sprit that had taken over her body. How could these women be so cold? Clara had loved her husband. She had loved him.
It was her duty to protect her daughter, but what was she to do? “You don’t think there’ll be a danger?” she asked.
“Of course there’ll be a danger!” said Inez de Rougemont. “Haven’t you been listening? Isn’t there a danger for the men at Staro Selo or the bridge? These are dangerous times. Perhaps I wouldn’t even think of this, except there is a need to warn the military authorities. I believe there must be a new type of mechanical transport east of Tutrakan. An African invention—you must ask her about it! It is not a matter of her happiness or my happiness or yours.”
Her voice broke. Then she went on. “Just look at what Miranda wants. She’s made up her mind.”