Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

‘I have already started it, so you won’t have much to do,’ said Peppin with a trace of regret. You see, I am the proof-reader and translator, not an editor, but given our lack of people I do a bit of everything, rather like a housemaid. I translate from Italian, because my mother was from Arezzo, and from English, when the need arises, but with far greater difficulty. As for orthography, we use the new standard, as you will see here, in the work I have done. Please ask me if anything is unclear.’

Peppin poked his head out of the door to call for some coffee and in a short while Nicu arrived with it. On his own authority, Nicu had also asked for two pies, ‘on the Universu’ slate!’ and winking at Dan once again, he placed them on the desk, wrapped up in paper. The stranger greedily ate one pie, almost without chewing, and then even more greedily smoked the cigarette offered by Mr Mirto.

After an hour or so the job was done, during which time Peppin dedicated himself to his translation about the genius of evil and the stranger wrote without stumbling — he preferred a pencil to pen and inkpot. He had worked without saying a word, as if he were dumb, and smoked another two cigarettes from Mirto’s tobacco tin, until Mirto secreted them in the drawer of the desk and discreetly locked it. At one point Dan Crețu did lift his head and asked what the verb merimetisi meant, with reference to the stomach. Peppin hastened to explain the meaning, although he was rather intrigued by the stranger’s unfamiliarity with the word, which he could only explain as being a result of exile. He concluded that the man had lived abroad since he was little and who knows what dubious business he was mixed up in; which was why the Police were interested in him. Peppin cast a glance at the pieces of paper, out of curiosity, and it seemed to him that the handwriting was not at all elegant, although it was easy to decipher and that was the principle behind it. But far be it from him to judge the result.

Mr Procopiu made the exact same comment immediately: ‘The handwriting is not elegant, but it is easy to read, and that is the main thing.’

He had lit the lamp on his desk, since the shadows of dusk already enveloped the room. Outside it snowed without surcease, but the wood fire and electric light (electricity had been installed a few years earlier along Strada Brezoianu, as far as number 11, which is to say, as far as the newspaper offices) lent the office a pleasant air. Then he carefully read through the material.

(Margin) TRADITIONS: CHRISTMAS FAST

Our questionnaire (centred)

WHY DO PEOPLE FAST (bold)

(Chapeau) The editors of Universul asked this question of 100 respondents. For the benefit of our readers the following are the answers we received. Some serious, some humorous, depending on the person.

21 answered: I for one fast because it is the custom.

13 To keep fit.

13 To gain my neighbours’ respect.

1 To keep in with my mother-in-law.

3 To cleanse my stomach.

3 Because my grandmother (mother, father) asked me to in her (his) will.

3 Because I like beans.

4 Because a good fast is better than a bad dessert.

2 So the grocers can sell their octopuses.

1 Because I am a friend of the Metropolitan Bishop.

4 To get rid of my belly.

3 Because that is how our cook cooks.

1 Because my father is a market gardener.

4 To make fun at our priest, who does not fast.

7 So that there will not be any arguments at home.

2 To please my prospective in-laws, who will not give their daughter away to a heretic.

2 It is the fashion.

9 I have no idea why.

A single respondent answered: ‘Because I am a Christian.’

Whether you have fasted or whether you have not, our newspaper wishes you a Happy Christmas in the company of your dear ones.

While he read, Mr Procopiu kept fingering his waxed moustache, as if to make sure it was still there. From the top of the page he struck out the word ‘respondents’ —’it doesn’t sound good, we avoid radicals’ — and replaced it with ‘Christians’ and at the end, instead of ‘a single respondent’ he wrote: ‘a single subscriber to Universul , of those questioned.’

‘My congratulations, sir, it is very good, you may consider yourself hired,’ said the editor-in-chief. ‘Welcome to our newspaper! But allow me to tell you that we are two of a kind. I was born in 1854, like the late George Lahovary.’

The man shuddered. Procopiu interpreted it in his own way.

‘To die pierced by a sword at the age of forty-three because you have written a political article is some fate, is it not? Well, here at our newspaper we do not write about politics, or at least not for the time being. It is plain that you have had a good education,’ said Procopiu, returning to the subject at hand: ‘Everything is neat and concise. Our rule is that we avoid adjectives wherever possible. You will receive a list of the new abbreviations. And… I would like to give you a… a new hat from our storeroom, employees receive a present at Christmas and it seems to me that you could use some new galoshes,’ he went on, looking in embarrassment now at the new employee’s head, now at his feet. Mention of the word ‘hat’ abruptly caused a sort of unpleasant complicity between the two men. For very different reasons, neither of them was prepared to get to the bottom of the midnight encounter, Procopiu’s flight, and the loss of his hat.

‘Tomorrow you should be here at nine o’clock in the morning. As you probably know, we work on Sundays and we take it in turns to come in to the office. As for the remaining matters, a place to sleep, meals, wages, Mr Mirto, whom you already know, the man with the deep voice, Peppin, will make arrangements. We have another man, Mirto — Păvălucă, Pavel that is — who sits at the same table, but he took the day off today, as he has to see to slaughtering his pig, today being the feast of St Ignatius. On Christmas Day, he brings us all kinds of good things. He has an excellent cook, as you will see. Here we are like a family. A few good editors happen to have left us and Călăuza Bucureștiului and Adevĕrul take swipes at us for not having staff. Once again, welcome,’ he added, rather perplexed that the stranger did not respond or react, and, above all, did not leave. He stood up, opened the door and made a polite bow. At that very moment the telephone rang down the hall and Procopiu rushed to lift the receiver.

‘Hello, Mr Boerescu, my respects! Of course, it is on the front page, who wouldn’t wish to have exclusivity in such a matter? I will come right away.’

After finding out who the newcomer was, the nurse with the white apron conducted Costache Boerescu to the blond man who had been brought in the evening before. The woman felt sorry for the poor boy and sensed, from experience, that he had neither sufficient vital force, vis vitalis , nor sufficient will to live. Which is to say, his vital principle was as murky as the waters of a river after rainfall. He had elegant clothes and highly polished boots, and when they had removed his suit she saw that he had the underclothes of a rich gentleman. On the shirt, covered now with clotted blood, was sewn a handsome monogram: three letters with curlicues like snails’ shells spelled R. O. Z.

The first thing that Mr Costache did was to hold the gas lamp close to the shirt that hung from the back of the chair and to study those three letters. His journey had been worth it for that alone. He sat down at the wounded man’s bedside and lost himself in thought, ignoring the grumblings of the well-fed man whose leg was in plaster. It was too hot, the room was too small, and the stove was too close, and so he opened the window a crack and took a deep breath of the cold outside air. He saw a cab stop at the entrance and shortly thereafter the nurse showed Neculai Procopiu inside. Silently, Procopiu sat down on the other side of the bed. To him, a hospital, a sanatorium, was a kind of church or temple, where it was not fitting to speak. Dr Rosenburg also made an unexpected appearance. He had been informed that he had important guests, and although on the Sabbath he tried not to leave the house, he reckoned that an exception would not go against him in heaven. He was not at all a religious fanatic. He ordered that the second man be moved to a different room, and applied gentle persuasion when the man protested and complained of boredom, and then he called for a chair to be brought. Then he sat down with difficulty, for he suffered from osteoarthritis. Being a physician does not exempt one from diseases, as would be fitting in a just world.