Life Begins on Friday. Ioana Parvulescu
for a priest.
4.
‘Do you believe in God?’
Nicu had entered the so-called painters’ house without knocking and without being surprised at the mess inside. His house was no palace either, but in any event, when his mother was well, she tidied up, cleaned and washed, for she was a washerwoman by day. In summer, she went to wash down at the embankment, where all the women bathed, stark naked, alongside the men, without embarrassment. In winter of course, it was harder; and she went only to houses that had running water. The poor woman had ‘washerwoman’s hands’, all red and swollen. On the rare occasions when she caressed him, he could feel the calluses on her palms; it was as if she were applying a cheese grater to his face.
Inside, the stranger, resting his head on some rags and wrapped in a light-brown blanket, was looking towards the window, through which the light was beginning to dissipate, and whenever a gust blew through the broken pane a few snowflakes entered, only to perish. The stranger didn’t look as well as he had the evening before; he had sprouted a stubbly beard, making his cheeks look dirty. He no longer looked anything like Iulia. His face seemed more sunken. Nicu very much liked the question about God and it was a sign of great friendship on his part when he asked it; for it was his latest discovery. In any event, his range of conversation was limited, although the teacher used to say that his tongue could never stop wagging and sometimes clipped his ears or caned his hands for it: ‘You’ve got an itchy tongue!’ he would say, or: ‘You can’t sit still, you’d think you’ve got worms!’ Nicu had indeed had worms, but Dr Margulis had treated him with garlic and celery root and sweetmeats. He wanted to befriend the stranger, because it was obvious from a mile off how helpless he was. He was not expecting to receive an answer to his question about God, and so he went on, in his teacher’s tone of voice: ‘I believe in electricity. But I also believe in God, when I’m in a tight spot. Today I believe.’
‘Today you’re in a tight spot? What day is today?’
Look how the stranger is talking to him and look how he understands what he means, said Nicu to himself. He isn’t stupid, or ill in the head: he’d noticed that all too well yesterday. But Nicu did not feel in his element and so he answered: ‘Today is Saturday and I’m out of sorts.’
‘So am I,’ observed the stranger, drily, still looking at the windowpane, hoping for a ray of sunlight. But the sun was cold and broken.
Nicu would have preferred it if he had asked: ‘Why?’ Then, he would have told him about the wallet he had been seeking in vain all that morning. He felt he could tell the stranger that. And if the man was a Martian, maybe he would know where it was, without having to look for it, and he would know whether there was a lottery ticket in it and whether the numbers were the winning ones, because otherwise there was no point bothering with it.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Nicu. He knew what it was, but the stranger didn’t know he knew.
‘Dan Crețu.’
‘Mine’s Nicu, but at school the teacher calls me Niculae, Stanciu Niculae. Do you know Kretzu the pharmacist, the ginger one? His hair isn’t curly at all. Sometimes he sends me to fetch all kinds of ointments, tablets and powders that cure you. I’m an errand boy,’ said the lad, trying to sound modest, although he was very proud.
‘What are you doing here?’
Nicu didn’t know what to say, and so he saw to the fire.
‘I’m going to the Stork’s Nest to buy a candle. It’s a nice name, isn’t it?’
‘Nicu?’
‘No, the Stork’s Nest! The cantor told me that a long time ago the storks used to build their nests on the roof. It was a shingle roof. I’d be really glad if they came again, I like all birds, even crows, and Jacques, who’s my friend, likes seagulls a lot. We look at them because they fly... I’d like to fly. I’ve even dreamed that I was flying. And Jacques sometimes dreams the same thing, poor thing. Have you ever dreamed you were flying?’
‘I’ve done more than that. I have flown,’ said the man, and Nicu could hardly believe that his suspicion was being confirmed: the man was from the planet Mars and had fallen to Earth. Disturbed, he did not dare ask him anything else.
He vanished for a few minutes and came back with a thick, lighted candle, sheltering the flame with his cupped hand. He gathered some sticks from amongst the rubbish lying around the room and lit them with ease. Then he ran back outside. This time he came back with some water in a chipped enamel cup.
‘I couldn’t find any tea. If you like, I’ll heat it up over the fire. I’ve brought some bread, they were preparing it for the service, because tomorrow’s Sunday. They didn’t want to give me any wine, because they thought I’d drink it, but I’ve never drunk win in my life. Aren’t you hungry? Eat.’
And he emptied the pockets of his coat.
‘Have you ever spoken on the telephone?’
The man nodded, chewing.
‘I have too, three times already, at Universu’. Mr Cazzavillan the director let me. It’s difficult to hear, what with all the crackling and popping, but you’d think the other person was right there, in the horn of the receiver, as small as a doll, except you can’t see him. Some look like their voices, but others you can’t recognize, you’d think they’d got the wrong voice, like it wasn’t tailored to fit them. Would you like us to be brothers?’
Nicu received no answer. He said nothing for a while and then sighed. He took the cow from his pocket and fiddled with its legs.
‘Now she’s called Fira, you know... Look, I came to help you,’ he said, looking from the corner of his eye at the bread that was vanishing into the stranger’s mouth. The stranger was now sitting up, on the edge of the bed. ‘I’ll help you and maybe you can help me, I mean, maybe you’ll be just as kind, sometime. But I’ll help you anyway, for free.’
Nicu looked as if he had swallowed something and it had stuck half way down his gullet.
‘Who sent you?’
The question sounded rather harsh, and the lad pondered for a short moment.
‘My gran said that God sends us and He knows everybody’s path... They wrote about you in Universu’, old man Cercel read it to me. I know how to read too, a little, especially when it’s in capitals. Capitals are the big letters; that’s what we call them at our newspaper. And if you’re a newspaperman, as it says there, I’ll take you to Universu’, because Mr Procopiu needs a man who knows his letters and who can write nicely. Mr Procopiu is a kind of boss; Mr Cazzavillan the director is the only boss bigger than him. He’s been looking for a man ever since the feast of St Demetrios, when three editors left at the same time, and he still hasn’t found anybody. You know how to write, don’t you? Are you really a newspaperman?’
The man had either not heard or did not want to answer. Nicu examined his coloured footwear. Now he could see the lilac stripes against the green ones more clearly. The shoes didn’t look at all solid and they were still damp from the night before. He had slept with his clothes on, like a tramp.
‘Maybe they’ll give you a pair of galoshes at Universu’. The best ones are the St Petersburg brand; all the young people wear them. They’ve got a double sole.’
Nicu took him by the hand, as he used to do with his mother when she didn’t really know what was going on. He picked his bowler hat out of the bucket and wiped it on the sleeve of his coat, wondering where it had come from. As he had told Jacques, he knew for sure that the man was bareheaded. The Margulis family’s cook had told the boys about people who walk in their sleep, when there is a full moon, as if they were wide-awake. They walk along the rooftops and if you call out to them, they fall, but otherwise ‘nothing happens to them.’ Might there have been a full moon last night? He hadn’t noticed. He gave the stranger a critical look. You’ll be embarrassed by him on the street dressed like that, he thought, what with that overly large greatcoat and him looking