Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

In a low voice they spoke together about the strange aspects of the case.

‘Do you think there is any connection between Mr Dan Crețu, whom I have just hired — he is well educated and I think he is from abroad — and this young man?’ asked Procopiu with a trace of alarm.

‘Probably. Coincidences are rare in our trade, but not out of the question,’ replied Costache, in an equally low a voice. ‘Usually two or three matches will give you a definite answer. For the time being we have only one, connected to the finding of these two.’

Dr Rosenberg, whose hair was completely white and whose voice was of exceptional gentleness, informed the two men as to the young man’s condition.

‘Dr Margulis sent word that I should come, if I could, because he expected a brief interval of lucidity before… And I think it would be well, as he also suggested, if I give him an intramuscular injection of caffeine, which helps to revive, so that he will have the strength to speak clearly.’

But he warned them that some dying men passed their moment of lucidity in complete silence, while only their eyes spoke, while others spoke in a deceptively logical manner that was hard to understand, and others still let out heart-rending cries or were gripped by ecstasy. And he recounted a number of cases, the most encouraging of which had been that of a woman a few days previously, who before dying said she could see a powerful light and was flying towards it. When she gave her last breath, she was bathed in a beatitude that could be read in her eyes.

They were silent for a long while. Procopiu stood up and went to the window, Dr Rosenberg looked at the patient, almost dozing off, and Mr Costache took refuge in his own thoughts. From time to time he twirled the points of his auburn moustache, twisting them down from their wonted upright position. He had given up wearing a beard a few years ago, after much hesitation. He now thought he looked younger without it. All three gave a start when the patient opened his eyes. For the first time they saw his eyes and were struck by limpid brown depths. His huge eyes were full of astonishment: the patient was trying to understand where he was.

‘Be calm, you are in good hands,’ said Dr Rosenberg in a caressing voice. Remembering the advice of his fellow physician Margulis, he left the room almost at a run to fetch a syringe from the pan of water boiling over a low flame on the stove in the next room.

When he came back, the blond man had sat up in bed and was saying something in a slurred voice. Costache took out a visiting card and a pencil, trying to write down what he heard: light, Popescu, light, stars, Holy Mother. He also thought he heard something like dar (“gift”) or sar (“I leap”), but then, as if relieved of some unknown burden, the blond young man exhaled and stopped breathing. Dr Rosenberg, holding the syringe in the air, had managed only to squirt a test droplet, like a tear. All he could do now was close the man’s eyes, confirm the death — at eleven minutes past six pm, Saturday, 20 December — and record it in the register. Procopiu was clasping his hands together. Costache had fastened his eyes on the words he had written on the visiting card and avoided looking around him.

Dr Rosenberg asked: ‘who will take care of the funeral if we know nothing about him? Shall I inform the Town Hall, as usual? Mayor Robescu is away in Vienna until the New Year, but Mr Bursan is on duty and in fact he deals with such matters.’

‘Be so good as to wait until tomorrow. As it is winter, I think it will be possible for you to move him into an unheated room. I will let you know, since I hope to discover his family. And you too,’ said Costache, turning to the newspaperman. ‘Have somebody waiting by the telephone, please: number 297, if I remember correctly?’

As they left, they met the priest from the Icoanei Church, who had come to administer the last rites, but had arrived a few minutes too late. Nonetheless, he went in and performed what was needful, reckoning that it is never too late for important matters. Costache spoke in a low voice to Procopiu. It seems that not everything he had learned should appear on the front page, where some things were best said and others best concealed; in any event, it should be printed no earlier than Monday, because he hoped to have new information the following day. The editor waited for the tram and went home, to recoup the hours of sleep he had missed the night before.

Conu Costache set off on foot. He had given Budacu the day off so that he could go and slaughter his pig. He strove not to give his men cause for smouldering resentment. It had now stopped snowing and the fresh snow sparkled here and there in the glow of the street lamps. Costache’s feet left large prints in the white of the pavement, with a line of small, deep points on the right, left by his cane. Popescu was a common enough name; it would be difficult to find out anything about it. Light, stars, Holy Mother : these were all things that probably pertained to a man’s last moments. Although… He had not heard the rest clearly. Was it gift ? On the other hand, R. O. Z. would be an easier clue to follow. At home he had an alphabetical list, which he himself had compiled, of all the monograms of Romania’s important families. And the young man had spoken Romanian without any trace of an accent, and so he was not a foreigner.

Although Costache was known for his brisk gait, he now trod slowly, heavily, and felt overwhelmed by melancholy. The friendly face of the young man and his dark eyes blended with the shadows of night. Yet another child who had been fooled by the feeling he was immortal! He thought that without doubt, in that very instant, a mother or a father or sisters or brothers were experiencing dreadful fear, because the boy had not come home for two days. Perhaps they had gone to his friends and with each negative answer another hope had been dashed and the conviction that some disaster had befallen him took ever-firmer hold of their hearts. Such agonizing fear is only the beginning. Worse still is the hope. Why do hope and worry exist if they have to end like this? It is as if despair has need of a prelude full of cruelty. And if in the case of joy many believe that the waiting is the most beautiful part, when it comes to pain, the waiting is the most horrible part; the waiting for great pain. And pain, as he knew all too well, has a multitude of tentacles, like an octopus. You lop them off in vain; there are always enough of them to choke you.

He did not look up the monogram that evening, as he was invited to the Margulis house for dinner, and only had time to change quickly, otherwise he would be late. The dogs barked in people’s back yards as he approached, and even more loudly after he passed. He saw that the clouds had broken up and in the gaps there gleamed a few stars. Stars, light? The smoke from the chimneys rose in straight lines, a sign that tomorrow, Sunday, the weather would be fine.

‘A bath in a tub with a shower, please,’ said the man, in a strong Moldavian accent, and handed over two lei. He remained with his hand outstretched, waiting for the change.

It looked rather shabby, but to the Grivița Baths came all varieties of the unwashed. The bath attendant was very proud of the fact that he had been born in Bucharest, although he was short on other merits. On Saturdays in particular, it was crowded, as people came to freshen themselves up, ready for Sunday, and the bath attendant hated Saturdays. And ever since Mayor Robescu started giving out free bath vouchers to the poor, it was dreadful! Not to mention the fact that they were insolent and wrote in the complaints book: ‘He gave me a dirty towel!’ Or ‘Down with the Mayor!’ and ‘Long live the King!’ ‘The bath attendant is foul-tempered!’ One of them had even copied out an obscene joke from The Ant , about a woman who was looking for a watch that had disappeared from her house and just when she thought she had found it in a young man’s trousers, her husband turned up.