Ioana Pârvulescu - Life Begins on Friday

‘Good evening… erm, madam.’

‘The Lord be with you!’

Epiharia had a round childlike face, white skin, and a dimple, also round, beneath her lower lip. Only a single lock of her hair was visible, as her headscarf covered her ears, and was wound beneath her chin and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her expression was serious. The man looked weary. His voice (praise God!) was devoid of hidden thoughts, a downcast voice, and so the woman once more felt her soul at peace.

‘Where might a man without money or belongings spend the night? Might he do so here?’

‘Only if you wish to spend the night with a saint,’ said Epiharia, without thinking of anything bad, but then quickly made the sign of the cross because of the unseemly implication and begged God’s forgiveness aloud for being rash and foolish.

Now the stranger was smiling. He was a different man!

‘No, but I would like to find somewhere. I am… I am unwell. I am ill.’

For as long as he smiled he was as young as a cherub. Without the smile he was much older. You would have thought his voice was bleeding. He looked like a man who had fallen on hard times, as she had rightly divined, and so she had done well not to judge him.

‘Shall I take you to our deacon? He lives two houses further down the street, over there, past that light-brown carriage, or rather the cherry-red carriage. Can you see it? But he has many children; he too is needy. If you can’t find him, come back here to me — my name is Epiharia — and we’ll think of something else.’

The stranger left, but no more than five minutes passed before he came back, making a gesture of helplessness. Nobody had answered his knock on the door. The woman had another solution: ‘We have the key to the house where the painters from the Stork’s Nest stay in summer. In June they started repainting the band of murals with the saints below the roof, but they broke off in November. I can ask the priest for the key, he has it because some of them came here to our church, to do some painting, and they worked now here, now there…’

‘That would be wonderful!’

‘But you ought to know that there is a problem…’

Now the man looked older and a furrow formed between his eyebrows again.

‘It’s a summer-house and there is no stove, nor firewood, nor bedclothes. But you know that man is capable of great control. Simeon the Stylite lived for a great long time atop his pillar. And one day he invited St Theodosius to come see him. On top of the pillar, that is! I can give you a plaid rug, from the priest…’

Off she went, chubby and full of kindness. An hour must have elapsed before she returned. She found the man sitting in the choir stall, his eyes closed. She had brought a large key and explained, with great indulgence for the stranger’s ignorance, how he should get to the house and what he should do to avoid freezing during the night. She placed in his arms a threadbare blanket and gave him a large chunk of bread from the priest, wrapped in a cloth. She also gave him an icon lamp, to shed light. She did not tell him that the priest had urged her in a low voice not to let herself be beguiled by all the city’s ne’er-do-wells; that was of no concern to the stranger. The man thanked her and smiled with teeth as white as fresh snow, although he seemed quite unclear about what she was telling him. But the woman was quite certain that the Good Lord would guide his steps to the right place, as certain as she was that in every path through life it is fated that we should lose our way: for, she herself had once gone astray.

A soundless voice that I alone hear, stronger than my poor tortured body and my poor terrified brain. I talk to myself in order to grow accustomed to myself, in order not to be so afraid of my fear and in order to be sure I have not lost my mind. I am afraid of them, of myself, of Him who plays with us. I am surrounded by beings that seem to be the fruit of a diseased imagination. But why do they not disappear? Why can I hear them? Why am I unable to use my mind in order to understand how my mind works and whence comes this fear? It is as if I were inhabited by a stranger, who knows many things about me, and who shapes me as he wills. Why do you fight with me? I am beaten in advance; you, or Thou, will have the power. I am defeated in advance. What satisfaction can you gain if you show me that you are more powerful? I know it as well as you do! Yes, you have won.

When something bad happens, you always await the next blow. I huddle up inside myself and wait.

The three-pronged key swiftly did its duty and thus I entered. It was pitch black and I waited for my eyes to grow accustomed. Then, by groping around, I explored the place. There was a plank bed, like in a mountain cabin: a long platform on which, I think, ten people could have slept, squeezed together. I could have done with ten people. The room was cluttered with things, as in a store, and I kept bumping into them, without seeing them. In one corner I came across some empty buckets and even managed to knock them over. You’re not a chair; you’re not a table. But there was a small window with a broken pane. I placed the rolled-up blanket on the so-called bed and I would have lain down that very instant, had I not been so cold. My whole body ached, from my head to my wet feet. A hot bath, some hot soup, some mulled wine with cinnamon, or at least a cup of tea. I had eaten the bread during the first steps I took, all of it. The icon lamp had gone out. I had to light it; I had to kindle a flame in that icy room. Might the church be unlocked? There must be at least one candle burning there. I went back outside and dragged myself to the church door. It was locked. The windows were high up and there was no question of my reaching them. Shouldn’t the House of the Lord always be open, especially at night, and especially in winter? But no, it seems that we are not welcome all hours. When the Lord is not ready for guests, he knows how to stay aloof. Or maybe He too needs his hours of sleep. I went back, discouraged and more exhausted than ever. Yet again I had to wait for my eyes to grow accustomed to the pitch black. I was shut outside the world. I undid the string tying the blanket and out of it fell a little package, wrapped in paper. It was surely a gift from the woman, from Epiharia. I groped for a long time on the cold, dusty, filthy floor. The package must have been very small and light; it made not a sound when it fell. I found it only after I had scratched my hands on some jagged objects or splinters. I went to the threshold, where there was more light, and tore off the paper. Inside the paper she had wrapped a box of matches, with long, thick sticks, and a little crucifix. ‘God is awake,’ I said to myself. ‘God be with you!’ the woman had said. I would have to be careful not to waste the matches. I readied the icon lamp, closed the door, lest a gust of wind blow it out, rubbed my hands together for a long while, so that my fingers would not be numb, and then, groping like a blind man, took a matchstick, carefully scraping it over the knobbly sandpaper. The matchstick snapped. It was only after a number of attempts, with impatient hands, that I succeeded. A flame appeared and gently tilting the lamp I managed to light it, although I burned my fingers in the process. Yet I did not feel the burn; for there was a light, which soothed me. It was my lamp. I was able to see the objects around me: some paintbrushes, empty leather chests, which were old, their lining torn, stones of every size, ragged clothes, an empty, dirty bottle, a broom made of twigs, a hammer, nails, and things to which I could put no name. I used them nonetheless. I warmed my hands on the lamp, and then I gathered the stones to make a hearth, in which I placed the torn paper from the parcel — a piece of newspaper — and the lining torn from the suitcases. I spent a while snapping the twigs from the broom and made a fairly large heap. I did not waste any more of the matches, whose white phosphorus was now more precious than gold, but set fire to a paintbrush, which gave off a revolting, suffocating, unbearable reek of paint, but which burned well. I kindled quite a decent fire and the air lost a little of its chill, while the smoke poured out of the broken windowpane. I gathered all the rags off the floor and laid them on the plank bed, and then, in the overcoat Petre had given me and in the blanket Epiharia had given me, I lay down. I kept the icon lamp burning. Behind me, unintelligible, the longest day of my life faded away.