Mihail Sebastian - The Accident

Gunther was playing chess with Paul. Nora, sitting in the armchair, read next to the fireplace with Faffner lying at her feet. Only Hagen was restless. Sometimes, unexpectedly, he tossed the ash-coloured cape over his shoulders, lifted the hood and went out into the night with the lighted lantern.

“He’s going to look for her,” Gunther would say.

Faffner trembled, got up from his spot and went to the window, to the door, scratching at the threshold, waiting.

As evening fell, Nora became silent. There are two Noras , Paul thought. The daytime Nora and the nighttime Nora . Curled up in the armchair next to the fireplace, lost in the book she wasn’t even reading, she seemed to be waiting, inviting him.

“Are you tired, Nora?”

It was something other than tiredness. It was a kind of capitulation. Everything in her being was setting out for the night. Only when Hagen extinguished the lights, when Gunther said goodnight, did she open her eyes.

“You’re going already? Is it that late? Have you finished your game of chess?”

She climbed the stairs, leaning on Paul’s arm. Sometimes, in bed, she lay her head on his right shoulder. It wasn’t a gesture of tenderness: it was a gesture of disbelief, of anticipation.

She undressed slowly, with lazy movements, lost in her thoughts and still silent. She had a stern, alert expression; not dreamy but turned inward towards her own thoughts.

“You’re beautiful, Nora.”

Only after thinking this over did she reply. She took seriously the things that were said to her.

“I’m thirty-two years old, my love. And I’m dark. I don’t know if I can still be beautiful… Maybe I was at twenty, at twenty-two… It’s a flash that passes and leaves something else in its place…”

Her body was strong, with a slight heaviness in its long, firm lines. Nothing adolescent here , Paul thought, watching her. Nothing was uncertain, everything was filled out. Broad, serene knees, foreign to uneasiness. Long thighs, full hips.

“You’re beautiful, Nora. You’re pure harmony between yourself and yourself, and that harmony is called beauty.”

She stood in front of the mirror and brushed her hair, which fell over her shoulders. She stopped, with the brush in her hands, and turned towards Paul. She was naked and at peace.

“I’m afraid I have to complain.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re telling me something that was one of my secrets. Something I always hoped, with a tiny anxiousness, that someone would understand and tell me.”

She had tears in her eyes.

Her embrace withheld nothing. In the most intense moments she kept her eyes open, with a deep, attentive gaze, as though she were listening. She remained for a long time with her head on his right arm, in an endless silence.

“I like your hands, Paul. They’re big, heavy, rough. I like to feel them on my shoulders, on my hips. They don’t know how to caress or they don’t want to caress. But I like their weight.”

She took a long look at those boney hands which, even in their present domesticated state, retained a certain hardness. She kissed them. She poured her whole female sensual gravity into this act. Paul was unable to suppress a twinge of embarrassment.

“No, Nora.”

She didn’t understand. “How stupid men can be, Paul! So many superstitions, so much fear… You’re afraid of the simplest things. Only a woman knows how to really kiss hands, my love, and make it into something beautiful.”

She approached him with her eyes closed. She showed neither hysterical haste nor bashful modesty. Every movement of her body spoke of authenticity and conciliation.

Morning revealed again the sharp, alert Nora, ready for the trail. In her blue jacket with her peaked cap pulled over her forehead she was, like him, a skier.

No troubled feelings lingered between them from the night, which had passed without leaving behind a trace.

IT WASN’T SNOWING. The light was like cinders, but the clouds seemed to be farther away and the horizon more open.

They left their skis at the Touring Club, stuck into the snow with the tips facing up, and climbed to the summit of the mountain.

“Maybe we’ll see Braşov,” somebody said.

They couldn’t see anything. Postăvar floated alone amid an ocean of clouds. The pine forests that covered the opposite slope in the direction of Timiş melted after a few hundred metres into a whitish fog.

“Down below us is the Timiş Valley. Over there is Piatra Mare. To the left is Braşov.” Nora pointed out with her hand places that were lost in the mist, enveloped in nothingness. “You know what’s happening in Braşov tonight?” she asked suddenly. Still smiling, she replied: “They’re performing the Christmas Oratory at the Black Church.”

“Is it the twenty-third already?” Paul said, surprised.

“Yes.”

He remained still for a time with his gaze trained in the direction of Braşov, invisible behind the mist. The haze seemed to soften the distances. “What do you say? Would it be madness if we went down to Braşov this evening?”

“It might not be madness,” Nora said, “but it would certainly be daring.”

“Is it that hard?”

“Hard, no. It’s long.”

“And you don’t want us to try it?”

“Of course, Paul. If we do a morning of serious training beforehand.”

He accepted all of her conditions. After the long run that lay before them, the evening’s concert would be a reward.

Gunther received without pleasure the news of their departure.

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Nora assured him.

All through lunch, the boy continued to frown. Only towards the end of the meal did he brighten up. “I’ve sung in the Christmas Oratory , too. In a choir, of course. I was in grade seven and we were asked by the school to perform. I think I still remember a few things today.”

He thought for a moment and finally, turning his gaze towards the window, as though he were seeking someone there, he began to sing:

“Brich an, du schönes Morgenlicht,

Und lass den Himmel tagen.

Du, Hirtenvolk, erschrecke nicht

Weil dir die Engel sagen…” 21

He pitched his voice too high and the final note, although clear, made his cheeks turn red.

“Mama was down in the church. I can see her now, next to the third window on the right. She was smiling. She was the only person in the whole Black Church who was smiling. I felt that she was listening to me. I felt that she was answering me.”

He kept looking towards the window. Finally, he averted his gaze from there and spoke again with the grim tone that they had heard on other occasions. “A real Grodeck doesn’t smile. Watch them carefully this evening. The whole clan will be gathering there. Dozens, hundreds of members of the Grodeck family. Not one of them smiles.”

Nora tried to soothe him, to bring some peace to his tormented child’s forehead. “Tell us the truth, Gunther. Do you want us to stay?” “No. But I want you to come back.”

“Understood. Tomorrow evening we’ll be here to light the Christmas tree together.”

Before they left, Gunther drew them a map of the trail. From the SKV chalet they would go down the leisure run, which would take them as far as the centre of Braşov. It was a groomed trail, with a gentle slope (the Saxons called it the Familienweg 22), well marked with blue-and-white signs right to the end, but from which several smaller trails branched off towards Timişul-de-Jos, Noua and Honterus.

“But if you pay attention, you can’t get lost.”

The map he had drawn was clear and detailed. In the margins were all the landmarks that they might meet along the way and which he recommended they watch out for. In addition, he gave Paul a compass and showed him how to use it. Nora would have to carry bandages, cotton and vials of pills in her backpack.