Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

The Universul questionnaire on fasting had been published that morning, signed by Dan Kretzu, and occupied half of the front page. Most of the newspaper’s articles were unsigned, so when a name appeared on the front page it was seen and remembered. Procopoiu had intended it as a surprise, wanting to help Kretzu stand out. And there had been talk of their new employee, he was well known, and so his name could only help sales of the paper. Even now the ladies from the Materna Association, meeting at the crèche on Strada Teilor, were talking about menus for the fast, about the findings of the questionnaire and the mysterious stranger who had written them up.

‘Dr Istrati, whom my husband has known since he was a medical student — now he is a chemist — has harshly criticized the way people fast here and the way they then stuff themselves from Christmas until the feast of St John, so that their stomachs, shrunken from the fast, come under attack, bombarded with food,’ Agatha attempted to explain, but the ladies did not laugh at her joke, preferring to continue talking about Dan Crețu. Each of them knew from their servants various details worth sharing. Lucia Argintaru, a fidgety and still quite young-looking brunette, replied. ‘Everybody knows that Dr Istrate is an atheist, and so don’t let him tell me about fasting…’

Agatha looked at her in amazement, because she had thought her more intelligent, but Lucia brought the conversation back to the topic all the women wanted to discuss: ‘That stranger shaved off his moustache and beard in order not to be recognized, which is what people do when they want to go unrecognized.’

‘He was mixed up in a life and death love affair, it seems that he was being pursued by a cuckolded husband,’ added Marioara Livezeanu, Alexandru’s sister, ‘my children’s nurse told me.’

Since her divorce, Marioara had been reading novels and dreamed of stories full of passion. Normally, she had her feet on the ground and had enough common sense not to listen to rumours. She was beautiful, like her brother, her skin was the colour of camellias, inherited from their mother, with a small nose and dimpled cheeks.

Agatha expressed her astonishment. She knew of nothing of the sort and in her opinion the man was a stranger in hardship who did not have any source of income and was looking for a position in our Capital, which was full of opportunities: ‘Don’t you see how many foreigners come her and start businesses. On the street you hear all the languages of Europe! I think Mr Crețu is a decent man, who has lived abroad. If the Police immediately released him and Universul has employed him, it means that he is an honest man.’

‘ Pas du tout, ma chère , the Police are following him, Budacu, a very good coachman, has kept an eye on him the whole time, and so he cannot be an honest man. He is sooner un voyou who has not yet been exposed,’ interjected the corpulent wife of Caton Lecca, who did not flinch from divulging the secrets of the Prefecture, which was why she was highly prized in ladies’ circles. ‘Your friend Mr Boerescu is the one who placed him under surveillance.’

Agatha felt a blush begin to colour her cheeks, because the wife of the Prefect of Police wasted no opportunity to wound her and to impute to her the tension between Messrs Lecca and Costache. It was known that the Chief of Public Security had been in love with Agatha and although she could not abide him, the Prefect’s wife admired him, and perhaps in different circumstances she might have abided him very well: to her it was not all comprehensible why their friends had preferred to be Mrs Dr Margulis, an ordinary physician who had no fortune and who, unlike Mr Costache Boerescu, did not command respect by his mere presence. Had she been in the place of Agatha Margulis…

‘It is true, now I realize that I too saw a police carriage near him,’ said a timid young woman with a round face and grave eyes. She had been introduced as ‘Miss Epiharia Surdu, the most devout parishioner from the Icoanei Church, who regularly lent a helping hand at the children’s crèche and lives on Strada Teilor.’

‘I met the stranger,’ continued Epiharia, ‘in our church. He was like an angel from far away, not a man of our world.’

Lucica Argintaru regarded her with a mixture of surprise, scorn and envy.

‘I would be delighted to meet him. What if we invited him, as a journalist, to…’

In that moment an elderly, voluminous (she was not wearing a corset) woman stood up, having thitherto sat withdrawn and not taking any part in the conversation. She was dressed without grace, in a thick skirt and a dark coat of simple cut, but her still chestnut-coloured hair, parted in the middle, was carefully arranged. She wore no jewellery apart from a wedding ring. Her nose was rather aquiline, and her mouth and eyes lent her an expression of boundless sadness, but also a determination that immediately silenced the other women’s twittering.

‘Let us not forget, if at all possible, why we have come here,’ she said in a tone whose harshness came not from its timbre, which was pleasant, but rather from some inner suffering.

Her name was Mrs Elena Turnescu, and she was the wife of an eminent surgeon. The renown preceded her wherever she went. She had inherited a large amount of property, and had had two husbands and four children. After the death of her second husband, the doctor, to whom she had been a wife, nurse and confidante, and after losing two children, a son and a daughter, she had been left with two sons. Accumulating human misfortunes in her eyes and heart, Mrs Turnescu had dedicated herself with all her strength to charitable works. Not only did she make more than generous donations to people who had fallen into misfortune, but also she did everything in her power to found institutions such as this shelter for orphaned children, for example, and to make sure they functioned well. And so people’s feelings towards her were of admiration, love, but also a kind of respectful fear. For a long time nobody had heard her laugh. Sometimes, very rarely, she smiled.

Epiharia met her in the only place where she ever met people: at church. She came the next day, as modestly dressed as she was now, but accompanied by two servants, who were carrying large cardboard boxes. The lady opened the boxes and took out some curtains for the icons, which were so beautiful that they took Epiharia’s breath away. Mrs. Turnescu explained that they had been embroidered by ‘her’ girls, from the charitable home. Then, the lady had gone to the deacon and given him a hundred lei, whispering something to him. She had probably discovered that he had many children and scant means of raising them. Seeing Epiharia’s interest, she had spoken to her and warmly invited her to help twice a week at the new Elisabeta orphanage on Strada Teilor. As for the fact that the young woman lived on the very same street, both women had agreed that it was one of those coincidences that have a source higher than the level of humanity.

After Mrs. Turnescu’s reprimand, the ladies quickly stood up and each went to the dormitory and the children in her care. Agatha found that a little girl who resembled her Maria had a fever and took fright. The girl’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes glassy. It was lucky that Agatha knew what to do: like Mrs Turnescu, she was cognisant of the diseases her husband fought. But the little girl seemed delighted to have visitors; she threw her arms around Agatha’s neck and told her she had learned to sew. Before she left, Agatha gave the presents for Christmas Eve to the woman who ran the orphanage.

Nicu thought his must be dreaming of her gentle voice, which now woke him from his sleep: ‘Nicu, darling, I’m going to work, to earn some money. Christmas is coming and people still need things cleaning. Be good.’