Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

Four women and a serving boy had worked up until now on decorating the table. The Rosenthal plates had gilded borders, pink roses and green-gold leaves, and so everything had to match these colours. Marioara had taken care of the arrangements herself. Pink roses, ordered in advance and delivered on time, alternated with white, opening rosebuds, and the napkins, ironed into fans and fastened with silver rings plated in gold, in the form of curled dolphins, were of pale green cloth. The plates for the hors d’oeuvres rested on the dinner plates like porcelain chicks in their mothers’ laps. The other plates waited in stacks, twelve for each guest. And then there was the brand new plate-warmer from Vienna. She had tested the chime of the champagne glasses with her fingernail. The sauce dishes, coffee and tea services, port-liqueur, olivière, samovar, cafetière, all were to hand, but placed to one side, without irritating the eye. Each guest’s place was set with four silver forks and as many knives, and two spoons, for the early courses, the knives at the same distance as the forks, not one millimetre more, the fish knives in their correct place, and the spoons above the plates. The soup tureens were also of Rosenthal porcelain, with frilly handles and knobs on the lids. The urn had white undulations and gilt borders, but the lid, alas, had a hairline crack: the cook had accidentally knocked it and then burst into tears, but there was nothing that could be done now, it was too late to replace it. Marioara finally tore herself away from her work of art and hurried to dress and arrange her hair for the most important evening of the year and to get her three children ready. For her, the thirty-first was like placing a full stop at the end of a sentence, while the first of January was like writing the capital letter of a new sentence, in large, thick script, like you see at the beginning of a chapter in a novel. She was dying of curiosity to meet Mr Dan Crețu at last. In her life there were not many events, apart from the children’s illnesses and her parents’ quarrels.

Alexandru Livezeanu barely had time to arrive home, to change for the party for which he had no enthusiasm. He put on his most handsome cufflinks, a present from his father, and regretted that the rules did not allow flowers in the buttonhole of his tailcoat. He felt as if he were blossoming within. Since the twenty-seventh of December, he had been filled with shame and joy and shyness and timidity in front of people, the likes of which he could have sworn he had never felt before. The New Year, at least this one, was nothing but a noisy occasion, which risked drowning out the delicacy of the thoughts and experiences he had acquired in the last few days. Or perhaps the strength of his silence would drown out the din and the unuttered feeling would be heard like the cry of silence in the midst of the commotion. He felt half luminous, half plunged into darkness. The light came from the past; the darkness was for the future. His greatest fear was that she might not come, after their last meeting, because since then he had not seen her and she had not sent a reply to his invitation. The doctor and his wife had announced that they were coming; Marioara had told him. As for her, there was not a word. His hand trembled as he adjusted his silk bow tie, but the mirror did not let him down, reflecting a face that regarded him differently.

Hristea and Maria Livezeanu were squabbling through the open door between their rooms as they prepared for the festive evening. For them, New Year was an occasion for constantly renewed accountings. They managed to recapitulate all the accusations of an entire lifetime, beginning with the moment when they met and Hristea had eyes for anyone but Maria, although she had done what she did to lay hands on the young swain. The time-line of their argument had reached the previous evening, when the gentleman had returned late from his club, as usual. He reminded her, she reminded him, in an endless duel, from which both emerged thicker-skinned and more obstinate than ever. As for the boy, Alexandru, he had let him get completely out of hand, said the mother, and felt her tears begin to flow. A teardrop left a furrow through the powder on her wrinkled cheek. Hristea approached and, as usual, fastened the string of pearls at the back of her neck, a silver wedding present, but he did so clumsily, earning fresh reproaches. Madam Maria Livezeanu was full of nerves: too many unfamiliar guests.

One by one the coachmen came to a stop at the platform, which had been swept clear of snow. There was a frost. The first to arrive was Mișka’s cab from Theatre Square, the one with the two handsome white horses. From it alighted the four newspapermen from Universul , Procopiu and the Mirto brothers, all in festive garb, and then Mrs Procopiu, followed by Dan Crețu, whose clothes fitted him remarkably well, thanks to Alexandru, or more accurately Alexandru’s tailor. He was unrecognizable, and Neculai Procopiu had to remark that for the first time since he met him, his editor fitted in with the décor. Mrs Procopiu gazed at him pensively and her husband could not tell whether her heart was now in her eyes. Peppin, who had lately put on weight, had been astonished to find that his tailcoat no longer fitted. He had had to borrow one from his uncle at the last moment, one that was rather short on him, while Păvălucă’s best undershirt, for festive occasions, was moth eaten; it was a good job it was not visible. As for the editor-in-chief, he felt ill at ease in the pair of shoes he wore only on the most special occasions, as if his feet had grown in the meantime. Toader, the cheerful groom, leapt forward to assist them and conducted them to the steps of the entrance, above which the light bulbs were lit and fir garlands hung. It was eight o’clock. Another four hours until midnight.

When she saw Dan, Marioara had the biggest surprise of her life, the man of whom they had spoken so much, the man of mystery, the man whom the press had even suggested might be a stranger to these times, Mr Dan Crețu or Kretzu was an absolutely ordinary man. Her disappointment was short-lived, since she liked Mr Crețu’s face, and then, having first hesitated, he delicately kissed her hand, Marioara gave him a seductive, dimpled smile, which she had been saving for an awfully long time, ever since the divorce: now she had rediscovered it.

At half past eight the Margulis family carriage arrived, an old conveyance, but with freshly curried horses and harnesses garnished with new red tassels. Nelu, the coachman, had recovered, but his face was still gaunt. With her voluminous skirts, Mrs Margulis barely fit on one of the bench seats, while the doctor was flanked by Jacques and Nicu the urchin, to whose outfit the whole family had contributed: he looked as if he was fresh out of the box. The lad was red in the face, he felt hot, and his eyes squinted sideways beneath eyebrows couched at an acute angle. Jacques struggled to prevent his crutch slipping, but on the steps the groom quite simply picked him up and set him down by the door as if he were as light as a snowflake. Alexandru, who had at that moment made his appearance at the entrance, although it was his parents who received the guests, felt a lump in his throat when he saw that Iulia had not come with them. He refused to believe his eyes. Half the light in him went out and he sensed the emptiness of a long night opening up before him. But before he could ask, Nicu said to him aparté : ‘She wasn’t ready!’ Alexandru quickly seized the opportunity and offered in a man-of-the-world voice to go and fetch Miss Margulis, since he was a skilled driver. ‘Drive slowly!’ the worried doctor barely had time to call out behind him as Alexandru left.