Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

After the carols outside had finished, Alexandru came in, said that he had taken care of the gifts for the carollers and asked Costache to grant him two minutes of his time after dinner. Marioara’s fear turned to horror, and Mișu too began to realize that something was wrong, and that his previous suspicions had been off the mark. Their parents, on the other hand, feeling better thanks to the communion of their voices, were oblivious of everything else, as if they were on their second honeymoon. Costache had remarked a visible brightening on Alexandru’s part since he had come back in and was intrigued as to what had happened outside.

Up until last year I wrote my diary in French, but after I attended a lecture at the Athenaeum about the poor Romanian language and how many tempests it had weathered without it being uprooted completely, I made the grand decision to write only in Romanian. But sometimes it is hard, because intimate things are much easier to put down on paper when you write them in French. For example, this evening, I would have very much liked to hide behind a foreign language, like behind a carnival mask, to write how excited I am and for what reasons, mais puisque j’ai promis d’écrire en roumain, je dois tenir promesse. And so courage , let me take a deep breath and write in the language of my ancestors (which is not entirely true, since some of them were Greek). Today Nicu, Mr Costache and Dan Crețu came for lunch, and also Signor Giuseppe, I almost forgot. I began with Nicu, my brother’s official guest, because I kept trying to catch his eye and divine whether my envelope had arrived where it had to arrive and whether he had brought a reply, but as if on purpose, the lad was always looking at somebody else. It was not until he left that I was able to take him aside and ask: ‘Did you give him it?’ He nodded, but still without looking at me. Then I asked him whether he had brought me a reply and he shook his head. It seemed to me that he felt sorry for me, maybe he suspects something; maybe he saw that the addressee did not care. But then he added: But I think he is coming at five. Green and red. I kissed him on the top of the head; for me it was the best of presents. I did not get a chance to ask him anything else, about what green and red might mean — it sounded like a password — and whether Alexandru had told him specifically to say those words, because Mr Costache came up to us to say goodbye. He irritated me, angered me even; it was as if he were following me. He had been moody throughout lunch, annoyed, which is not in his nature, and now he said rather abruptly: ‘Who is coming?’ But Nicu vanished, and I pretended not to hear. He has no right to interfere in my life and usually he is so tactful that you would not even think he were a policeman. He asked me to come to the Prefecture of Police tomorrow morning, if I can, because he has to talk to me about something privately. He had already spoken to Papa and asked him to accompany me there, on his way to the surgery, and either he or somebody else will bring me back home. I do not understand what it could be or how I could possibly help him, and the invitation to the police station is the most unusual rendez-vous a man has ever given me. And the day after Christmas too, when everybody stays at home! But most of all I am preoccupied by Nicu’s words: ‘But I think he is coming at five. Green and red.’ Why does he only think so? Why is he not sure? Perhaps he did not have time to write a reply? Or is he playing cat and mouse with me?

After lunch, Jacques and I gave everybody, but especially our neighbour, Signor Giuseppe, a big surprise: we gave a concert rendition of Handel’s minuet. I made only three mistakes, Jacques a few more than that, but everybody said it was perfect, although I think we rather grated on their hearing. Mama and Papa were truly surprised at our present and the progress we have made without a music teacher (we gave up lessons a year ago, to save money), and then I brought Jacques’ carillon and accompanied the clock, as if we were making the time sing in three different ways, and Giuseppe began to applaud like a madman. He has something of the gondolier about him, with his glossy black curls and his pencil moustache, and he is very gallant with me, but without ever going too far. I like Italian people, they have a warmth that does not suffocate you. He came to stand next to the piano, he took my hand and kissed it in recognition of ‘this celestial music’ and since my manina was cold — as my hands always are — he began to sing from Puccini’s latest opera, La Bohème: ‘Che gelida manina se la lasci riscaldar…’ Papa, who speaks Italian, translated: What a cold little hand, if you will allow, let me warm it… He was a seductive Rodolfo, I a Mimi who could barely contain her laughter. And then Mr Costache continued Rodolfo’s aria, how about that! He knew it very well and from time to time he looked at me as I sang, but in vain, since I understood absolutely nothing apart from the word signorina . At one point he turned to look at Mr Crețu, however, and Papa told me in a whisper that it was about a theft and a box or something of the sort. Signor Giuseppe was enthusiastic, he embraced us all for joy, it seems that he even attended the premiere in Turin (or did he say Milan?). I discovered that Mr Costache has an enchanting voice and sings very well, and I told him so. And that he speaks Italian, which was a surprise. Things I would never have imagined about him. Maybe he was more carefree in his youth; a pity that he has chosen a profession that ages him. For, rarely have I seen him in a good mood. But what about Papa? Both men are gloomier than anybody else I know.

I gave Jacques the Luminous Fountains from Universul and Nicu The Mewler . When we were about to make the fountains, we discovered that the instructions were missing, and so I shall have to go back to the newspaper offices to get a full set. I shall have to take this one back, and so Jacques was sad. The Mewler mewled twice and then refused to mewl any more, but Nicu said it was better that way, because he did not like cats, — he has a dog and he keeps it in the yard, because it is full of fleas. Papa’s hat did not fit, although I had measured it against the old one. I sat perched on the crown of his head so comically that we all laughed. An example of how a man can end up with laughter instead of a present. Ah, yes, and for Mama I bought Veronica Micle’s Poesies . She thanked me from the bottom of her heart. You would have said that it was exactly what she wanted, but Mr Costache later told me that he knew she did not like the work, although I cannot see why. As for me, they gave me a nice white fur muff. I hate muffs, because it is as if my hands were cuffed. And nor are they fashionable any more. Nicu did not bring Jacques anything. Apparently there had been a mix up and he kept explaining something to him in a whisper. And so I proposed that in the next few days we should redistribute our unsuitable presents by means of a tombola draw, but they all thought it an absurd suggestion and looked at me in consternation. It was a complete catastrophe.

Anyway, the most difficult part concerned Mr Dan Crețu. When he saw Mr Costache, he was struck dumb, while Costache kept trying to pry things out of him, as if it were an interrogation. I thought he went too far. After all, they were both guests and the candles on the tree had been lit for reconciliation. But in the end, reluctantly, and more out of embarrassment, Dan Crețu still had to say something and in this way I discovered something new and exciting. Petre, Inger’s coachman, who found Mr Crețu and the young boyar from Giurgiu, is supposed to have taken a wallet from the dying man’s pocket. Mr Crețu said it en passant , I do not think he thought it important, but Costache was troubled, he almost rose from his chair and left, and only good manners prevented him from doing so in the end. And so, unlike yesterday, today was very confused, as if somebody had put spokes in our wheels, or at least in two of the four. And the two wheels still turning like a velocipede relate to Alexandru and me, to our permanently precarious balance.