Gregor von Rezzori - An Ermine in Czernopol

Tildy: “I don’t understand you. Please put it more clearly.”

Năstase: “My question is quite clear: When will you lose your face, Herr Major? Of course I could phrase my question differently, like our host, the colonel, whose words you seem to have understood: When will you become a human being, Herr Major? But surely you know what I’m getting at, you must know what I mean …”

Tildy wanted to walk away without replying, but Năstase blocked his way: “You are so impeccable, Herr Major, that it strikes me — and forgive me for saying so — as a kind of tactlessness. Your irreproachable standard serves as an embarrassing reminder for your fellow human beings that they are, in essence, riffraff. But if you truly wish to crown your chivalrous qualities, for social reasons, so to speak, you need to have a weak spot, no matter how small. After all, even Achilles had a vulnerable heel. On humanitarian grounds as well as for reasons of tact. One should not resemble the gods too closely. And what about your hero Siegfried? Wasn’t there a certain linden leaf? Forgive me, Herr Major, but it is precisely that small chink of vulnerability in the armor of the invulnerable that makes heroes bearable. We derive consolation from knowing that ultimately they, too, are mortal. It makes the street curs less sad. You should have a little more sympathy for the curs, Herr Major, even if you despise them beyond measure. You know nothing of their sorrow.”

Tildy, after some moments of silence: “You are probably right. I assume that is all you wished to say to me.”

Năstase: “Of course — but no — what else was it? Ah yes, I wanted to inquire after the health of your wife? She is ailing, as I’m told. It doesn’t behoove me to ask what from or why. Just like Madame Turturiuk, I haven’t had the privilege of making her acquaintance. I hear she leads a rather withdrawn life. Quite in contrast to her sister, the beautiful Ileana Lyubanarov. She is well known in this company. Or should I say … extremely well known. Ask anyone here and you will find unanimous confirmation. They say her temperament is a legacy of the Paşcanus. It’s very regrettable that Madame Tildy leads such a secluded life.”

At that, Tildy looked Năstase in the eye for several seconds, and Năstase withstood his gaze, then bowed to Tildy, smiling with exaggerated politeness.

“You will hear from me,” said Tildy. Năstase stepped out of his way.

What happened next explained to us why Herr Alexianu had been so little engaged in his report up to that moment, as if everything he had described so far had been a long-winded but unfortunately necessary introduction. And this despite the fact that his idol Năstase was in the center of the events, which would have normally elicited a minutely detailed account and boundless commentary.

But then the following happened, and only now did the real Herr Alexianu emerge, so to speak, from behind the dampened cloth, which hung over his eyes like a partially raised visor:

When Tildy started to leave the room, Herr Alexianu happened to be standing in the doorway. And because he did not step aside quickly enough in order to let Tildy through — a gesture of respect, which, according to him, he had no special reason to show the major, based on what had transpired — Tildy gave him a resounding slap on the face, in front of everybody, taking the man so completely by surprise that Herr Alexianu had no chance to ward off the blow.

Herr Alexianu recounted this with Roman plainness, even greatness.

“Just as I am standing here with you, that man struck me. I am neither embellishing nor exaggerating. He hit me in the face. Without any cause, and quite unjustly. But that’s neither here nor there. I was hit in the face.”

He relit the cigarette he had previously extinguished and smoked it, albeit wincingly, one long drag after the other until he finished it.

“You can rest assured that Tildy would not have gotten that far if he hadn’t caught me off guard. Consequently there’s no need for me to be ashamed that he managed to hit me. Some of my friends jumped in to hold me back, but I made no move to pay him back right away. It is not my custom to fight in public. Those are peasant manners. Besides, he was in uniform and I respect the dress of honor more than some who wear it — and it has yet to be determined with what right they do so. I also said as much to Năstase, when he attempted to console me. I don’t need any comfort or consolation, I told him. Others may, but not me. ‘What are you going to do?’ Năstase asked me. ‘People will say you got your ears clipped at good old Mitică’s party. All right. But you should have picked a better occasion than old Turturiuk’s birthday. After all the man’s about to retire.’ Honestly I expected more from Năstase. And I wasn’t afraid to tell him that to his face, either. With all due respect for your intelligence, I told him, your jokes are often tasteless. So maybe your intelligence isn’t quite so high and mighty after all. Besides, Tildy raced out so fast it was impossible to follow him. He left the house at once. I for my part found no reason to do the same. It would have looked as though the incident mattered to me, as if I’d really taken a beating, if you know what I mean. It would have been the equivalent of confessing a bad conscience, which would have suggested that I somehow sensed I deserved to have my ears boxed — in other words, that deep inside I felt I had provoked it somehow. But none of that means anything, because it doesn’t apply — as interesting as it is to speculate. You see, I’m far enough above the incident to consider it from the point of view of an outsider and not a participant. At the same time, however, I’m not so removed as to not draw any conclusions. Yesterday morning, as I have since learned, Tildy challenged Năstase to a duel by sending his seconds. I myself spent the entire day at home, without their paying me a similar visit. Evidently he wishes to avoid getting seriously involved with me. Well, well, he’ll be hearing from me, this German …”

A few days passed before the excitement generated by Herr Alexianu’s report wore off. And because we didn’t dare tell anyone where we had learned about the events — else we would have been forbidden from paying further visits to the seamstress — Fräulein Iliuţ was the only one we could discuss them with.

We asked her: “What does it mean: to lose your face ?”

Fräulein Iliuţ explained to us that it meant to fall out of one’s role, to be guilty of a shameful deed, or else to let something happen that doesn’t match what is expected of us.

We searched her eyes to find out what she was trying to conceal from us, but that really was all she knew, and she had no need to reassure us that was the case.

So she wasn’t a bewitched princess after all. She was never going to change back from a hunchbacked seamstress into her real figure. Because bewitched people are children’s allies. But she was just like everyone else; she, too, was part of the conspiracy of grown-ups bent on convincing children that words and things mean no more than what meets the eye, and that whatever they might sense and suspect beyond that meaning has no reality.

So the world was even more enigmatic than we imagined. And we were being kept from understanding it. And even Fräulein Iliuţ was part of the conspiracy.

Because what Fräulein Iliuţ told us could not possibly be everything there was behind such a phrase as to lose your face.

In this respect Widow Morar was much more part of our world. She had us repeat the phrase a few times, then closed her eyes and said, very slowly, her golden teeth glowing in the abysmal ugliness of her leathery, shamanic mask: “It means your face is completely extinguished. It means that something is going to happen that will wipe it away, the way a sponge wipes chalk off a slate — or someone wipes away what you’ve drawn on a misty windowpane.”