Gregor von Rezzori - An Ermine in Czernopol

We could never find out if Tildy himself had in fact incurred such high and risky liabilities, or whether Tamara Tildy had run the debts up behind his back — though in his name, possibly enabled by the fact that she could be considered the only legitimate heir to old Paşcanu. Even so, every child knew what the enormous sums were used for — sums well above the demands of even the most luxurious lifestyle. Nor did the press fail to take up the matter, and the leading daily, Vocea (The Voice), went so far as to publish a lead article under the headline “Czernopol: A Center of International Drug Trade?” which made numerous unsubtle allusions to the case of Major Tildy, though without the slightest reference to the presumed suppliers of the unfortunate lady, nor any explanation of how our city deserved such an appellation.

The possibility that a third party might be responsible for inflating the case into a public affair, and for entirely different purposes, could not be overlooked. At first only Herr Tarangolian had picked up the scent with his Levantine nose. His heavy eyes, which floated in the oily yellow veil of the liver-diseased, rolled more indolently than usual behind his thick eyelids — in his case, always a sign of extreme alertness and dangerousness. His sentences were more polished, his gestures more exaggeratedly polite: whoever knew the prefect couldn’t help notice that something was going on, and that he was in his element. He spoke of General Petrescu with an almost tender irony, an affectionate attentiveness, rather like a fencing master who gently raps his opponent’s blade to assess his skill, or offers a halfhearted feint suggestive of this thrust or that cut — until finally he performs a true attack entirely unexpectedly and with alarming power and efficacy.

“Don’t say anything against vanity,” he explained, fanning cigar smoke under his nostrils with obvious pleasure. “It is a manly trait, a romantic one, the coquettish sister of pride, whose menacing histrionics it transforms into a flowery garland of dainty grace. And it especially becomes the military man! Because is there anything more elegant than a martial bearing when it verges on coquetry? Isn’t that exactly what lends his elegance its deadly earnestness? And doesn’t the wish to excel in the bloodbath of a battle show a beautiful love of extravagance, a willingness to squander everything just for the glances and sighs of the young women who line the streets to greet the returning victors? There are occasions when the very traits that people point to as examples of how old-fashioned our nation is, how far behind the times, make me happy and grateful to be its child, and to live among my siblings. Isn’t it delightful to watch our generals cultivating the passions and gestures of Napoleonic officers? Take, for instance, my friend Petrescu’s ambitions. The political game he is pursuing so arduously is really nothing more than an expression of his warrior-like restlessness, the impatience of a knight worried that he might disgrace himself through idleness, who engages in the business of the state because he has no war in which to prove his rank among men. The will to power —so full of sound and fury, but we are most inclined to accept it when we realize that it’s really all about the ladies on promenade in Czernopol whispering their admiration … Incidentally I will predict that the article in Vocea is only the first of what will become a whole series of similar pieces. And I will be paying them all the more attention as they represent the journeyman’s labor, so to speak, of a young man who is not unknown to you. I’m talking about the children’s former tutor, Herr Alexianu. Vocea has acquired his promising journalistic gifts, and he is finding it a much more suitable and fruitful place for his polemical talents than if he had followed Năstase’s malicious cajoling and founded his own paper, which would no doubt have been the wittiest rag around, but for a limited readership — yes, alas, a very limited readership …”

In any event, when Tildy’s case became public it acquired a certain piquancy, which the local gossips made all the more delectable. As for the major himself, no one doubted that had he been free to act on his own he would have categorically protected his wife and assumed all of her liabilities. Unfortunately, however, he was in strict isolation for the foreseeable future. Aside from that, it was unlikely he could cover any debt at all, since he was now utterly destitute. And so it would have amounted to nothing more than a beautiful gesture, which would hardly have created much of a sensation, since the character of the last knight —or “the dumb German”—was already widely known. As things stood, the scandal was unavoidable. Suits, demands, and seizures rained down on Tamara Tildy. The bailiff had to arrange a forced entry. The small names among the creditors gave the affair its “human interest” as Herr Tarangolian remarked sarcastically. “The case is so embarrassing,” he said, “that there is nothing to do with it except turn it into a tale of the grotesque.”

None of it caused old Paşcanu the slightest discomfort. On the contrary, malicious as he was, he actually gloated to see his daughter, who he was convinced hated him, and his son-in-law, who he was convinced despised him, in such a situation — and it would have given him great satisfaction to see them come begging at his doorstep. But, strangely — and Herr Tarangolian had certain suspicions concerning this as well — at about the same time the news was spreading that there was something almost deceitful about the way that Tildy — or his wife — had fallen into financial ruin, rumors started making the rounds that Săndrel Paşcanu’s own finances were far from rosy. People went so far as to doubt his fabled wealth, declaring that the business with the jewels he collected for his dead wives was a fairy tale, and that even his Titian was a fake. And what followed proved these sudden doubters right. The death of Săndrel Paşcanu set off an economic catastrophe that affected the entire city. The whole lumber business — which was of incomparably greater significance for Tescovina and its capital than the drug trade — was hit very hard, and that had grave repercussions for other trades. And not only that: certain transactions involving state funds were uncovered that were more than merely dirty, and a whole gallery of public figures was exposed in the most embarrassing way. And so the terrible events that would one night turn Czernopol into a witches’ cauldron, when the basest instincts ran amok, were preceded by other incidents that were disconcerting on any number of levels.

But it would be wrong to suppose that old Paşcanu was simply trying to save what he could with his childish scheme. We later overheard a conversation between our parents and Herr Tarangolian in which the prefect had his own insightful explanation ready and waiting. But Uncle Sergei would have none of it.

“You no understand what is proud man’s act of desperation,” he said. “Forgive me, my esteemed friend, but in this case your psychology is not enough.”

“Don’t call my knowledge of people and characters ‘psychology,’” answered Herr Tarangolian. “That would do offense to my modesty.” He closed his heavy eyelids for a moment, as if he wanted to suppress a smile. “I knew the old man very well. It’s quite true that he was dumb enough to be proud — in his way. But not so dumb that he didn’t know exactly what chances his maneuver really had of succeeding. Even if the swindle had gone through, the winnings would have covered just a fraction of his debt — what am I saying! — not even enough worth mentioning … No, no, it was something else entirely …”