Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

What can I say but that my heart stopped when I saw the servant’s sign? I thought that it was Alexandru and I was lost. No, it was not he, but Nicu. I asked him why he did not enter. He told me that he was very busy and that he had business with me. I felt his little hand, colder than mine, opening my palm and in my palm I felt something hard and yet tickly. It was a box covered in velvet and tied with a little bow, but I did not open it, lest somebody see me. I took it to my room and hid it inside a clock: this is my hiding place. In the salon I was no longer able to pay attention to anything, although Mama and Papa each told me about their ancestors and about Greece, which I have never visited and probably we shall not go there even this summer, because we do not have the money and Papa does not have the time. And then Jacques and I withdrew. I quickly told him about the box and he was dying of curiosity about what was inside: ‘I think it is something imporrtant, I sense it, I even suspect what it might be.’

We went to my room, he sat on the couch — and that memory pierced the very heart of my soul, like a bullet — and I went to the clock. I unlocked the door and took out the velvet box. I gave it to Jacques to open, to let him have the pleasure. And his round eyes were like the oily coffee beans purveyed by our Armenian, Levon Harutunian. In his language Levon means the same as Leon, Papa’s name: they are both lions.

‘There is a note, folded in four. Oh, and beneath the note there is a ring. Shall I read it?’

I sat down, overcome by a kind of faintness, and my little brother read: ‘‘You and your family are invited to our New Year’s party. We must…’ underlined ‘…begin the year together. Al. L.’’

‘Is that all?’

‘That is all.’

I felt like crying, and then Jacques added: ‘For us men it means more than for you girrls.’

And he handed me the box, the note and the ring. I tried on the ring. It is mounted with a small ruby surrounded by a few diamonds, and it is indeed very beautiful, but it is too big for me. A pity, I will not be able to wear it. I was filled with sadness.

*

This morning, we resumed our usual routine, as if everything were the same, except that everything is different. Victory Avenue was different, the empty space left by Sărindar Church was different, the people were different, the waters of the Dâmbovița were different, slower, and Jacques’ seagulls were flying in a different direction. But I thought: perhaps all these things are the same, perhaps the seagulls are flying the same as usual, the Dâmbovița is flowing as fast as usual, the people were the same, the empty place where Sărindar stood was the same, Victory Avenue was the same, but I am different. And why, pray tell, should I be different? Perhaps it is because the year has almost passed and the last grains of sand in the hourglass are now rushing down. Perhaps the waters of my rivers are approaching a cataract. Perhaps I am adding a circle to the trunk of life, like a tree, and I am growing (although I have not grown since the age of seventeen!); and I am seeing the world from a different perspective. I feel that time has begun to flow more swiftly: yesterday before I knew it night had fallen, and today likewise. Immediately after lunch — which was Spartan, since Papa takes care that we should not overeat at this time of year, when all the people stuff themselves; once he told us how to prepare a meal in accordance with the digestion time of each food and to combine foods with a low digestion time with sauces and broths, so that we would not tire our delicate stomachs and tender livers. Immediately after lunch, rather than resting, I went into town with Nelu, who was pale after his illness and could barely hold onto the reins. As for myself, I feel I cannot sit still! I went to Universul to pick up another box of Luminous Fountains , one with all the necessary parts, so that Jacques will at least be able to enjoy them at New Year. As I was going in, Mr Crețu was coming out, he greeted me, but without taking his hat off, and then he seemed to remember and quickly took it off, which made me laugh. He is very nice. I care for him, as for a muddleheaded brother. We talked and he mentioned that he was the guest of Alexandru, not in the big house, or rather the Livezeanu palace, but in a smaller residence of his in the centre of town. And so I have discovered some news. I half rejoiced, because it means he has a heart, and I was half aggrieved, because I know what such residences are used for. At least now it is occupied by a man!

Nicu was tired and still had a long way to go in the pitch darkness. He sensed rather than saw the Muzzle behind him. He heard his panting. He broke into a run, but it was as if he had iron balls shackled to his ankles, like the ones old man Cercel had told him convicts wear. He thought that he would be able to escape only if he could rise above the earth and so he flapped his arms, seeing himself as if from the outside as he rose little by little, like a duck. At first, something was dragging him down, then he succeeded, he was now a metre above the Muzzle, then higher and higher, he escaped, it was now light, below him were houses, lots of little houses, he could see roofs and chimneys and church spires, he took care not to bump into them; and fields and forests, he could see the green tree-tops softly rustling, and then it was as if he were being pulled downward again, but he strained, he dug in his heels, and he kept himself aloft and nothing bad could touch him there. He heard a cock crowing, closer and closer, louder and louder. Oh, Lord, what joy, what joy, and what pain, what pain!

‘You were flying, you flew by night again!’

It was dark, winter, he was below, on earth, but in his dream it was summer and he was up in the sky. But what if the world in the dream were real and the world, now that he was awake was the dream? He closed his eyes, trying to prolong the flight, but he did not succeed. No, unfortunately, he knew full well that flying was the dream and his bed was the reality. That he could stay as long as he liked in bed, but that the length of the dream did not depend on his will. His mother was already busy in the kitchen, which meant that she felt well. And he felt well now, for he was warm under the quilt, curled up, and he was wonderfully happy after flying, as if he had really been flying, he was happy that he had no cares that day, that his mother was well, that Alexandru’s little parcel had been delivered safely to Iulia, that they had not asked him questions, and above all, that the lottery was so near: there was only one day between him and the result. His arms and hands and fingertips and legs and toes and head and hair and ears and nose and mouth, and heart which today was nicely coloured, as on the doctor’s chart. All were waiting, not only for the next day, not only for the New Year and the wish you are allowed to make, because it will be fulfilled, but above all for the future, when he and Jacques would be grown up and stroll each with a charming young lady on his arm, who smelled of lavender and wore a colourful dress that rustled and glinted in the light. In the winter the young ladies would skate holding hands with them on Cișmigiu Lake. Strangely, he could also see Jacques skating next to a young lady. He was impatient, he could hardly wait to grow up and he felt that he was destined for great things, that he would be an important man, like Mr Dan Crețu or Mr Cazzavillan.

‘Mama?’

She had come up to his bed on tiptoe and seeing that the boy was awake, she lit the gas lamp, kissed his hair and told him to come to the table.

‘It’s cold in here, there are ice crystals on the windowpane. Dress up warm, mammy’s little chick.’