by Marie Nizet
He regained command of his senses on All Saints’ Day.
“Well, my lad,” the medical orderly said to him, with a broad smile, “so we’ve finally woken up!”
Ioan looked up at the brave man. “The redoubt?” he stammered.
“What redoubt, my boy?”
“Gravitza.”
“You’re talking Ancient History! It’s a long time since that was taken.”
“Ah!” said Ioan, putting his hand over his yes, as if to collect his vague memories. After a pause, he added: “Where’s Mitica Slobozianu?”
“What rank of officer is he, my son?”
“He’s not an officer–he’s a soldier.”
“Oh, then we don’t know,” the fellow said, rearranging Ioan’s pillows.
“And Prince Boris Liatoukine–where’s he?”
The orderly squinted slyly. “Prince Liatoukine?” he repeated. “He’s not dear to your heart, is he?”
“Who told you that?” cried Ioan, propping himself up on his elbow.
“You did, my boy. ‘Liatoukine! He’s here! Chase him away!’ ” The orderly imitated Ioan’s distraught voice and gestures.
“But after all,” the impatient dorobantz, “what’s become of him?”
The orderly protruded his lower lip and slowly shook his head. “The crows that soar over Gravitza are the only ones who can tell you,” he said. In a whisper, he added: “That’s a blessing, too; Prince Liatoukine was an evil man.”
These words were lost on Ioan. “Damn!” he cried, going slightly pale.
The copper ring was no longer on his finger.
“What a pity!” he said, after a moment’s reflection. “Some bashi-bazouk must have stolen it.” A bitter smile depressed the corners of his mouth. “And I’m not wearing it any longer!” he murmured.
IX. Captain Vampire
“Noël, Noël, the Christ is born!” sang the silvery voices of the children parading an enormous decorative paper lantern through the city streets. The lantern was cut into the shape of a star and fixed to the end of a pole; it was supposed to represent the guiding star of the Oriental Kings. It projected a broad beam of blue-tinted light upon the thick snow that crackled rhythmically beneath the hurried footsteps of the little Magi.
The cold was very intense. The Russian wind, the crivetzù, had begun to blow, threatening from time to time to extinguish the star–to the great delight of the children, who huddled more urgently within their warm sheepskin coats, letting out little cries of joy and bursts of laughter. The young boyars clustered around Christmas trees loaded with splendid toys were certainly not laughing as heartily as these sons of peasants defending their paper lantern.
At last, that was the opinion of a man who was making painful progress along the Bucharest road. The unfortunate was lame in the left leg, walking with the aid of stick.
“I too used to sing, and I too used to laugh!” he sighed, sadly, as the little Rumanians passed him by. Abruptly, he pulled the peak of his cap over his eyes. Seeing a company of peasants on their way to a celebration, he left the path and slipped behind a stout oak. He did not want to be recognized. Alas, who could have guessed that, beneath the rags and tatters which scarcely covered the poor cripple’s body, was Ioan Isacescu?
The dorobantz, whose wound still rendered him unfit for military service, had been sent back home. His home! When he had left it, young and full of hope, happiness and love, all prosperity had been resident there; he had come back disillusioned, prematurely aged, reckoning the past as a dream and refusing to believe in the future. What was he going to do in Baniassa? See Mariora again, hear her weep, forgive her and then marry her? No! He would seek out Old Mani and take him to Transylvania, where they would attempt to live, if not happily, at least in tranquillity.
“My father!” he murmured, in an affectionate tone, on finally seeing the paternal hut outlined in black against the snow-covered ground. “I still have my father! He’s not expecting me. What a joy it will be for him–and what a consolation for me!” He raised his head, with a proud smile. “He’ll ask me for his dagger,” he continued. “ ‘Your dagger is at Gravitza,’ I’ll reply. ‘Prince Liatoukine didn’t want to give it back to me!’ Father won’t say anything, but he’ll think that I’ve done well.”
Ioan arrived in front of the cottage where his life had run so smoothly; his heart was beating violently and he paused to study it. There was not a glimmer of light in the windows, nor a wisp of smoke above the roof. The door was hermetically sealed. The hut had a sad and abandoned appearance–like that of the master who had returned to it.
“Father!” Ioan called, knocking gently on the door.
But there was no response.
He’s asleep, Ioan thought. “Father!” he repeated, more loudly. “It’s me, your son.”
The same silence. Ioan was aware of his increasing anxiety.
“He must be here, though,” he cried. With a vigorous kick, he forced the worm-eaten door open. He went in. The cottage’s only room was empty; it was redolent with the acrid odor given off by old unused furniture and uninhabited apartments. He had no means of generating light, and set about exploring the room by touch. All the objects over which his fingers wandered were familiar; he recognized the little brass lamp, the sculpted frames of the holy images–everything, including the poor stool that was still set to the right-hand side of the misshapen table. These things were in their places, just as he had seen them in earlier times, but it seemed to his that they were covered in dust.
“My father’s no longer here!” he cried, sorrowfully–and he slumped on to the stool. He put his head in his hands and remained motionless for some time. He did not think; he simply listened to the distant barking of guard-dogs.
Suddenly, he got up again. “I’m a fool,” he said, in a firm and almost cheerful voice. “My father’s at some neighbor’s house, celebrating.” He sang “Noël, Noël, the Christ is born!” in a falsetto voice, then added: “It’s Christmas Eve–I’d forgotten that.”
And he thought of Zamfira.
He readjusted the broken door as best he could, seized his staff and headed for Mozaïs’ dwelling.
The father and the daughter were not there. Overcome by fatigue–the poor cripple had been walking all day and had scarcely eaten for two–and feeling more alone than before, he had reached that degree of exhaustion, more physical than mental, at which one can no longer aspire to anything but rest, wherever one might be. He lay down in the snow and closed his eyes.
He could not sleep; Mozaïs’ hut was too close to the Slobozianu house. He wanted to see the threshold that he had worn never to cross again for one last time, but his half-frozen feet, clad in sandals worn down by Bulgarian soil, refused to carry him. He dragged himself along with his hands, bloodying his knees on stones rendered trenchant by the extreme cold.
When he perceived the windows that had once framed the elegant silhouette of Mariora so gracefully, he became almost afraid of finding something in his heart other than sentiments of disgust and indifference.
“It’s finished,” he murmured, laughing silently. “Ioan Isacescu no longer loves the mistress of Boris Liatoukine!”
He attempted to get up, in order to retreat more rapidly from a place whose appearance no longer invoked anything in him but shameful and unhappy memories. Suddenly, he shivered and lay down again in the snow, silently; a feminine shadow had just appeared on the doorstep.
“Wait for me, Father!” said a voice that was serious but soft. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Ioan recognized that voice. “Zamfira! Zamfira!” he cried, reaching out towards the gypsy.
The sight of the black form crawling at her feet drew an exclamation of surprise from the young woman, who stepped backwards abruptly.
“Zamfira!” Ioan begged, lifting himself up on to is knees. “Zamfira, it’s me–Ioan Isacescu!”
“Ioan!” she cried, launching herself toward him. Then she began jumping for joy and cla
pping her hands like a child, repeating: “Ioan’s come back! Ioan’s come back!”
“Too late!” murmured Ioan, sourly. He did not notice Zamfira’s strange expression as her gaze seemed to search behind him for something that was not there.
She fell silent. Taking the dorobantz’s hand, affectionately, she sighed: “Poor Ioan. You know, then?”
“I know!” he exclaimed. “Shut up, Zamfira–don’t speak her name!”
“Whose name?” Zamfira asked, astonished
“Whose name?” he repeated, forcefully. “Wretch! The infamous name–her name! I know everything, I tell you!”
“Alas!” Zamfira resumed, humbly. “Don’t accuse her–rather pity her...”
“I despise her!” he cut in, with an explosion of anger.
“I’m more guilty than her,” the gypsy went on, in tears. “It’s my fault. She wanted to come back alone though Baniassa. A few thoughtless words she’d spoken, without meaning any harm, had offended my pride. I didn’t want to follow her. Oh, I’m so sorry!” She drew him toward the house, adding: “Come with me, Ioan.”
He recoiled sharply, withdrawing the hand that Zamfira had taken in her own. “No!” he cried, vehemently. “I’ll never see her again. I don’t know her any more. I don’t love her any more! Do you hear, Zamfira? I don’t love her any more!” He repeated the words with a ferocious laugh.
“The poor child isn’t here,” the gypsy murmured, shaking her head. “Living close to Baniassa became impossible for her. Sudden terrors seized her continually–the image of that man followed her everywhere. She called out for you incessantly in her delirium–you alone could defend her, she said. Oh, forgive her! If the ring...”
“Enough, Zamfira!” he cried, imperiously. “That creature is a stranger to me now. Stop your pleading–it’s useless.”
“Oh! My God!”
“I’m going away–far away,” he continued, more calmly. “Some place where I’ll be able to till soil that has never been dirtied by her impure contact. I shan’t be taking any memory of her, or any love for her, with me. I’ll pick up my old father and...”
“Your father?” Zamfira echoed, in sorrowful surprise.
“I’ll pick up my father,” Isacescu repeated. Then, he suddenly asked: “Where is my father?”
“What? You don’t know? Your father...”
“Well, spit it out.”
“He’s dead.”
“My father’s dead!” he repeated, in a confirmatory tone. “I thought so.” Gravely, he added: “Fortunate are the dead!” No tear glistened in his eye; he had scarcely any regret in his heart. Why should he weep? Who would he be mourning? Old Mani? Did he not envy the absence of thought and the eternal insensibility of the dead?
“Goodbye, Zamfira,” he said, resolutely–but as he rapidly drew away, the gypsy’s tremulous voice called out to him.
“Ioan!” she cried. “Where’s Mitica?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, mechanically–and he disappeared into the swirling snow that the crivetzù was releasing upon the village.
He went straight to the cemetery, opened the gate–which was retained by a simple latch–and cried in a wild voice that resounded strangely in the silent night: “Rest in peace, Mani Isacescu! Your son has avenged you!”
For eight hours, Ioan lived like a pariah, dragging his misery through the splendors of Bucharest. Camp life had hardened him to corporeal suffering; he spent the night in a deserted alleyway were dogs were making rounds instead of patrols. When daylight came, he resumed his aimless wandering through the mazy streets.
He sought out the busiest places; the incessant hum of voices and the continual circulation of pedestrians eventually numbed the host of dark thoughts pressing upon him like a swarm of black butterflies behind his prematurely-wrinkled forehead.
Boyars and common people alike gazed at the crippled soldier with the tattered uniform and the scarred face, with respectful commiseration. Wretched as he was, he seemed to them to be greater than the Domnù himself; had he not shed his blood for the fatherland? Without any inkling of the naïve admiration that he excited, however, Ioan marched on and on, still fleeing from his memories.
One evening, he went to Philarete Station with the determined intention of rejoining his regiment in Bulgaria. The train was about to leave, and Ioan had to make an effort to place his left leg on the footplate of the carriage. Only then did the awareness of his infirmity come back to him.
“The fine crippled scout!” he cried, with bitter laugh, while the train steamed away in he direction of Giurgiu. He left the station, and, being thirsty, headed for the public fountain.
While he drank long draughts of icy water, a poorly-dressed little girl came up to him with her cofitza.51 She raised her eyes timidly to the dorobantz, seemingly desirous of taking his place. With her disorderly blonde hair, the child reminded him of Mariora. She went away trembling, with tears in her eyes and the empty jug in her hand.
“Hey, little girl!” said the soldier, ashamed of having allowed himself to be carried away by a ridiculous impulse of anger. “Come here. What’s your name?”
His voice, suddenly softened, reassured the child, who came forward smiling.
“Sperantza,” she replied.
“Sperantza!” Isacescu repeated, pensively. He filled the cofitza himself and slipped his entire fortune into Sperantza’s fingers: a single gologan! 52 Then, without listening to the little girl’s multziani,53 he headed into the metropolis.
I must put an end to this! he said to himself. I can’t get that woman out of my head. I see her face everywhere, even in the features of an unknown child who doesn’t resemble her at all. I feel that she’s here, perhaps close by; I feel that I shan’t have a moment’s rest while that creature is alive. I’ve become feeble and cowardly. I... He paused then went on, forcefully: I’ve killed the lover; why haven’t I killed the mistress?
That same night, Zamfira’s sleep was rudely interrupted by the sound of a clod of earth thudding into her window-pane; she got up hurriedly and thought she recognized Isacescu’s voice calling to her.
“Is that you, Ioan?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s me!” the dorobantz replied. He added, abruptly: “Where is she?”
“Mariora? In Bucharest, Strada Hagielor, No. 8,” said Zamfira, in a single breath. She joined her hands together and went on: “May Heaven bless you, Ioan Isacescu! You’re going to do a good deed.”
May Heaven pardon me! he thought. I’m going to commit a crime!
The next day was January 1. The Sun rose splendidly into a clear sky and spangled the silvered cupolas of the churches with its golden rays. The breeze seemed a mere caress, and flocks of wild sparrows were twittering gaily as they pecked at the grain which the Rumanians had not neglected to sew on the thresholds of their houses, in order to attract prosperity of every sort. An air of happiness and contentment that one scarcely ever saw in Bucharest any longer blossomed again in the faces of the early risers. One might have thought that everything was smiling and welcoming the new year–which would, they hoped, be less fateful than its immediate predecessor.
While the city awoke around him, Ioan was leaning on the balustrade of the Vacaresci Bridge; he was contemplating, with a typical Eastern European vagueness of expression, the little blue waves of the Dimbovitza lapping against the sparse grass on its banks. He was holding his combat revolver negligently in his right hand, when a sudden twitch of his arm caused him to drop it into the river. At the same time, a child’s voice beside him murmured: Bunà zioa, frate.54
Ioan recognized Sperantza. The little girl’s friendly greeting touched him. He groaned weakly, but the combined influences of the beautiful sky–which had been cloudy for such a long time–and the solemn festivities of the day had reopened his heart to generous emotion. He remembered that Mariora had once said to him: “If I were ever unfaithful, Ionitza you would surely kill me with your big sword...me, and the other?”
“You
, no–the other, certainly,” he had replied.
Liatoukine was dead; Ioan would spare Mariora.
A crime always seeks its criminal! 55 he said to himself. Isacescu has never been the name of a murderer. He picked Sperantza up and hugged her fervently.
“My friend,” she said, “you’re hurting me.” She adopted a serious attitude, which contrasted with her usual pert expression, and went on: “I like you a lot. Where are you going? I’ll go with you.”
“Where am I going, my poor child? Alas, I don’t know that myself!”
Sperantza opened her eyes wide. “Haven’t you got a house?” she said.
“Not any longer.”
“Your father? Your mother?”
Ioan shook his head.
“They’ve been put in the ground, haven’t they?” she said, gravely. “That’s because they’re dead, my friend.”
“Yes, they’re dead,” Ioan repeated, mechanically.
Sperantza had an idea. “Come with me,” she said. “I’ll take you home.” She added, by way of explanation: “It’s not very big, but you don’t take up much room.”
“May God protect you, Sperantza,” he said, tenderly. “Wherever you’re going, I’ll go!”
Sperantza seized his hand. He let himself be guided by her, happy to follow her and hear her chatter. Sperantza immediately began to tell her story. Her mother made flowers for the shops in the Strada Mogosoi; her father worked at the gasworks; they were poor; they had once been rich, before they came to Bucharest. Sperantza had been born “on the other side of the mountains;” she could read and write, well enough to count and manage the household budget, even though she was only seven. She had a bird, a dog “of her very own,” and she also had a friend. “A grown-up friend!” she said, with proud satisfaction.