Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

‘Have you communicated the results of the lottery?’ asked Peppin, calmly, since neither he nor Pavel had bought tickets.

‘Yes, they are appearing tomorrow. I did not win, but what can I say? I was hardly expecting to. Not many people bought tickets, because the weather was bad. The draw was not held in Cișmigiu, as planned, but at the Hôtel Boulevard. The issue will be rather flimsy,’ fretted the editor-in-chief, at which Pavel shrugged one shoulder and Peppin both.

They paid great attention to the clichés brought in by Marwan for ‘Our Illustration’ — in the end they had come to an agreement on the price — they were indeed very good, it did not even matter what you might write next to them, and so if nothing came up by tomorrow afternoon, with the photograph and the satirical poems by Marion (their colleague Dumitru-Ion Marinescu) the issue could be saved. Pavel took off his spectacles (for myopia) and looked closely at the images. One was of Victory Avenue viewed from above, from the first floor of the Theatre, and had been taken in the snow; you could pick out the individual snowflakes, and there were people and carriages made small by the perspective. The other had been taken in fair weather, next to the offices of L’Indépendance Roumaine , which the staff of Universul envied for its technical endowments: all the machinery had been brought from abroad and the newspaper looked like Le Figaro .

‘Is that not Mr Costache Boerescu?’ asked Peppin and began to laugh.

‘It is indeed. Marwan pointed him out to me, when he brought it in.’

‘He will have a surprise,’ even Pavel laughed softly.

‘And then some!’

Two of the seagulls that usually wheeled above the Dâmbovița had today come as far as the window of Costache Boerescu’s office at the Prefecture of Police. They were enormous and floated together, their movements in incredible synchrony, as if somebody were simultaneously pulling unseen strings. Costache gazed at them sadly: probably he would never be in such soothing harmony with anybody. About the couples around him he generally knew more than he would have wished. As a rule, he liked one of the two more than the others, but as Peppin Mirto said, you have to take married couples as a single package; there is no other choice. There were some he sincerely envied, because they flapped their wings and changed direction at exactly the same moment as they flew, and such a pair was Agatha and Leon Margulis. Would he have been able to fly in harmony with her? What would have become of her life if she had chosen him? Would she have been happier? And what would have become of his life if Iulia…

‘The priest from the Icoanei Church is here,’ announced the sergeant at the door.

Costache stood up to greet him.

The previous day, when, truth to tell, few people ventured out in the blizzard to go to church, Epiharia, who knew all the parishioners by name or at least by sight, had been surprised to see a distinguished man holding a cane with a silver knob in the form of a beak, a man who had never been here — of this she was sure! — who had never hung his hat on the peg above the seat at the end of the row and peacefully listened to the service for the Sunday following the Feast of the Nativity. His mind did not seem to be on things holy, however, he kept looking at the walls, stroking the wooden arm of the chair, although the priest, on seeing him, had all of a sudden become livelier and spoke of the Flight to Egypt so beautifully that he himself might have been present when the angel told Joseph to take the young child and his mother and flee: ‘And weeping and great mourning, and Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.’ Epiharia wiped the tears from her eyes and little did she suspect, seeing the newcomer look at her from time to time, that the reason for his being there was her insignificant person. She left the church last, as usual. Before her, a man and his daughter made the sign of the cross both at the same time, he a broad cross with his broad hand, she a little cross with her little hand, and Epiharia gazed at them with love. But the newcomer was standing by the door. He greeted her and said he wished to speak with her. Luckily, the priest came up to them, with an air of gaiety. It was a good job that he did, because she was flustered and her face had turned scarlet, to the very dimple in her chin. They fell to talking and with mention of the name Dan Crețu, the man with whom she had been alone in the church not long ago, it turned out that the newcomer was the Chief of Public Security. He discovered something that interested him regarding the missing icon. The priest offered to continue the discussion the next day, because now he had to go home to his wife, who was ill.

‘Take a seat here, by the fire,’ said Costache, inviting the priest to sit in his favourite armchair, the one in which Iulia had sat not long ago. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea? I am indeed very curious as to what else you can tell me about the icon, which, if I understand rightly, has put the whole Church in an uproar. What I do not understand is how an icon could disappear without the Police immediately being informed.’

The priest was glad to sit down by the fire. Like all people forced to stand motionless for long periods, he had problems with his back. Speaking quickly and copiously, in a manner you would not have expected from a pious man, but using choice words, as you would have expected, the priest explained to him a number of matters. His host made a note of them on a sheet of paper. In short:

The miracle-working icon from the Sărindar Church. Distinguishing signs: diamonds on the shoulders. After demolition of the church (1893) it was taken by the future (now former) Metropolitan Ghenadie.

After the scandal broke out the Metropolitan was taken from his house by force, the icon was — apparently — in a safe. But it might equally have been given to somebody else.

The Metropolitan, now in reclusion at Căldărușani Monastery, accuses those responsible for his arrest of stealing the safe with the icon, but they deny it and accuse him.

Because of its large diamonds, the icon is of inestimable value. The newspapers and female public were on the side of the Metropolitan, reckoning him to be innocent, although he had been condemned by the Synod.

‘And what does Your Holiness say?’ said Costache, trying to find the right form of address. ‘Did the Metropolitan steal?’

‘Let us not sin in our choice of words, maligning a servant of the Church,’ said the priest sternly. And then, in a whisper, looking around him, lest he be overheard: ‘I am wholly on the side of His Holiness the Metropolitan, but not even in thought can I cast doubt on a decision of the Synod. The Unclean One has a hand in it all. Sooner it was one of your men, a policeman, who, taking advantage of the confusion a year ago, you remember how sudden it all was, stole the safe, icon and all. I doubt that he is still in the country.’

‘The Unclean One… We will find him!’

The twins were eating soft-boiled eggs and their mouths were smeared with yolk.

‘When is New Year? I want to see it more quickly!’ said Ștefan, with whom his sister agreed, as always, nodding her head vigorously, with her mouth full.

‘Call for it and it will come!’

They loved Uncle Alexandru more than Uncle Mișu, because he always encouraged them, rather than him trying to calm them down. Ștefan therefore believed himself entitled to shout at the top of his lungs: ‘Year, year, come more quickly!’

His mother gave a start and scolded him, but then seeing her son’s puzzled little face, she asked somewhat more gently: ‘Who is being naughty?’