Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

Here, Papa paused and explained to Dan Crețu who Frosa Sarandy was, since he seemed not to have heard of our great actress. In the meantime, our guest was eating pensively, Mama was whispering to the servant, telling her what to fetch, what to take away, although she had coached her beforehand, Jacques and I were making all kinds of discreet signals, and Giuseppe was guzzling heartily and laughing raucously. When dessert arrived, Papa received an urgent call. We are accustomed to it. I do not know how, but on holidays especially, illness always arrives, like an uninvited guest. And so he told us the end of the story in a hurry: ‘At the performance, Manolescu père was in the audience. The lad’s name was not on the bill: next to the part of Tochenbourg in A High-class Ball there were some asterisks and his father did not recognize him with his make-up on and with his Pantaloon voice. But at the end of the play, the audience cried out: Millo, Millo, Frosa, Frosa! And even more loudly: Tochenbourg, Tochenbourg! And when the curtain was raised, Millo took the debuting actor by the hand and in a booming voice introduced him: Grigore Manolescu! In short, since now I have to leave, his father kicked him out of the house. A few years later, Grigore Manolescu triumphed in Hamlet . I was thirty-four, and so it was in… in the autumn of 1884, I even remember the day, how could I forget? It was the 2nd of October, your mother’s birthday. I have never seen the like: people were falling on their knees in front of him, the audience was thrilled, the ovation lasted for minutes on end, in the wings everybody was in tears. Today’s theatre seems pallid, lifeless, compared with what your mother and I used to see in our youth,’ and here Papa looked at Mama with a smile.

I asked him whether he knew when and how Grigore Manolescu died.

‘Seven years ago,’ he said. ‘He was only thirty-five! It was from smoking, he lit one cigarette after another —’ and here he glanced at Dan Crețu, like an upset father; you would have thought he had some right to scold him, but to Papa we are all like children ‘— and after his final performance he collapsed in his doctor’s arms as soon as he left the stage. They buried him with the pages of Hamlet laid on his chest, as he had requested in his will, and with a procession of weeping mourners. I was there too. It was like at the theatre, When I arrived at the cemetery and asked where the grave was, the man at the gate gave me directions and added: ‘But the dead man hasn’t got here yet, we’re expecting him to turn up at any moment!’ But anyway, I don’t have time to tell the whole story right now…’

Both Jacques and I were left open-mouthed, because Papa is very sparing with his words most of the time. To think what our parents conceal! I would have dearly liked to see Papa aged twenty, in Paris, when he was a student! Papa bid his guest farewell and we were served the Christmas sweet-bread. I did not want to share out the presents without him, and so I postponed it until tomorrow. Mr Crețu was very embarrassed at not having brought us anything, he mumbled apologies, but we knew that he did not have any money and Mama said, laughing: ‘The cobbler does not have time to make boots, and the forger does not have a chance to manufacture banknotes. I am joking, please do not take it amiss, but you are as dear to me already as Jacques and Julie, you may count yourself one of the family. The present you have given us is your being here, it has done us the world of good.’

Oh, this coming from my mother!… Dan Crețu does not even know what it means, for if he had known, he would have leapt up and embraced her. Now it is almost midnight, I look back and in my mind I thank Dan Crețu for having made me forget my misfortunes. He has been invited to come tomorrow, for lunch, when Mr Costache and Nicu will also be coming, and this proves that the new guest is dear to all of us. I did not fall in love with him (although his smile is the loveliest I have ever seen), but somehow he is like an older brother to me. It was the most beautiful Christmas Eve in the Margulis family. Dan Crețu gave my little brother a thousand signs of friendship. Jacques was happy too, and before we lit the candles on the Christmas tree, his eyes glittered in the dark like agates. Now I understand: Jacques has inherited Mama’s black agate eyes, while I have to put up with the age-old mistrust of green eyes. Papa has not returned yet. Will I receive a reply tomorrow?

Marioara gazed with great concern at her younger, but much taller brother. Alexandru kept going out to smoke, he quickly ate what was served and rose from the table, which was inconceivable at the best of times, but unforgivable when you had guests. Each time, the company watched him in amazement, turning their heads as if on a signal, but nobody dared ask him about it. Mișu supposed that it must be connected to a woman, as it always was with his brother.

Conu Costache had arrived laden with sweetmeats from Inger’s confectionary shop on Strada Carol, which likewise surprised the family: it was a break with tradition, which demanded sweets from Capșa or Fialkowski, or ever since Fialkowski fell ill, Capșa alone. The Christmas tree reached almost to the ceiling, which was tall. Decorating it had required a ladder. The chandeliers were all lit, and the lights were multiplied in the mirrors of the salon. Nevertheless, Hristea Livizeanu was in a bad mood, as he always was during the holidays, and vented his nerves on his wife: ‘Be so kind as to tell your son that when we have guests…’

But his lady wife was never lost for a reply; she took pleasure in such battles with her husband. They were like two generals engaged in a war of attrition, she with her small, wrinkled head, but with a décolleté that revealed the splendid camellia flesh colouring of the women in the family, and he with his scarlet face and white side- whiskers.

‘Tell your son, you mean, I may have borne him, but as for his inheritance, that was provided by none but you. The other two have inherited me,’ and here the lady gazed first at Marioara, with her perfect little nose, and then at Mișu, with the lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead, lending him an impish air.

Maria’s older sister, Elena, a spinster, always took Hristea’s side, and had her reasons. Elena tried to divert Costache’s attention from the family scene: ‘Mr Boerescu, what is the news concerning the young Ochiu-Zănoagă? I do not expect you to know who shot him yet, but do you at least have a motive?’

‘Miss, I must disappoint you. I do not know, we do not know, the Police do not know anything yet.’

Mr Costache was out of his element. The evening promised to be hard, and was presently intolerable, whereas he had been hoping for a little peace. The roast was insipid, although it looked marvellously browned and garnished, or perhaps the atmosphere altered the taste of the food. He sipped the wine, which, on the other hand, was impeccable, since the Livezeanu family had the best wines in the Capital, and he felt slightly heartened. Marioara smiled at him, with her dimpled cheeks, but it was an unconvinced, almost frightened smile. In that moment, from the street they heard a choir singing shrilly and with false notes: the carollers had arrived. Mr Hristea began to sing along, immediately followed by his wife, drowning out the children’s voices; he in a baritone of extraordinarily pure timbre, she in a soprano, whose velvety warm voice was unexpected from one so war-like. Their voices interwove tenderly as they looked at each other as if they had not seen each other for a long time: they formed a happy couple, their mouths opening together in harmony as they sang the same words. Costache suspected that music was one of the reasons they had stayed together for so many years and looked pityingly at Elena, who was suffering and had hunched up, with a pained look on her face.