The Days of the King (14 page)

For example, during a period when the Sublime Porte nursed suspicions that Bucuresci might be assisting groups of Bulgarian insurgents and, at the same time, a rumor was circulating in Western chancelleries that there had arrived in the United Principalities thousands of Germans, all men, ostensibly to work on the railroads but in fact ready to enlist, well, it was precisely then that a law had been passed to restructure the army, an act of the sovereign, government, and parliament, but above all an act of the sovereign, with his barracks past and his military aspirations, an act whereby modern training and recruitment rules were introduced, new regiments were established, new garrisons were planned, corporal punishment and operatic uniforms were abolished, the role of sub-officers was strengthened, and thirty-three militia battalions were formed. Moreover, so that the fundamental intention to reform
the army would be clear, Carol had early on appointed to the head of the war ministry a politician, not an officer. Then, further to scatter the mists in the administration, as far as this was possible, he had put an end to the absurd situation whereby the post office and telegraph service were run under the authority of the Austro-Hungarian consulate, a situation which in the past had helped a certain crony of Cuza's—Cezar Librecht, a former sergeant in the Belgian army and deft violator of private correspondence—to get rich by blackmail and the sale of compromising information, even to build himself an astounding house, with neo-Gothic battlements, a Moorish interior, and a wonderful Florentine salon overlooking the garden. On April 1, the elegant palace once built by the logothete Scarlat Bărcăanescu on Doamnei Lane was turned into the Central Department of the Post Office and Telegraph Service, a new institution of that fragile and venturesome state, which was striving not to allow other states to poke their noses into its business. Fortunately, and by the grace of God, the harvest of 1868 had been bountiful, so old debts had at last been paid off, functionaries' wages had begun to be paid regularly, and a part of the money had been channeled into the reserve fund, which had been sickly and malnourished, ready at any time to give up the ghost. Although in November the presidency of the council of ministers had passed from the hands of Nicolae Golescu into the palms of Dimitrie Ghika, repeated elections had not given the prince's party a reasonable majority in the Chamber until April of '69, when the opposition had had to content themselves with just ten deputies out of a total of one hundred and fifty. Then, at last, the railroad, another matter which from the very outset had nestled among the sovereign's plans and notes—something capable of dissipating the national torpor and making the jolting mail coaches that linked the land to the rest of the world a thing of the past—seemed to have settled into a groove, although its steps, as in a dance, were sometimes sideways, or two steps forward, one step back. The Offen-heim concession, signed and sealed on May 24, '68, had included three northeastern lines, like three deep breaths of air, totaling 140 miles. After a series of parliamentary hesitations and tussles in reaction to Carol's having entrusted the Moldavian concession to a Berlin consortium, led by Dr. Heinrich B. Strousberg, the Dukes of Ratibor and Ujest, and Count Lehndorff, the prince had had the extraordinary pleasure in the autumn of 1868 of signing and promulgating the law for the construction of the railroads, which sealed, among other things, the fate of the Roman-Tecuci-Galatzi line, with its short Tecuci-Bîrlad appendage. It was also around this time, in September, when above Bucuresci there floated not only thousands of crows but also flocks of wild geese (exactly one year before Prince Karl would do the rounds of Weinburg, Brüssel, Baden-Baden, and Paris in search of a bride), that a small festivity had been held in the north of the city, on a former property of Dinicu Golescu, to celebrate the laying of the foundation stone of the Tîrgovişte Station. A long, tall potbellied monster called an omnibus, rolling on wooden wheels and drawn by horses, had begun to run to Filaret. It was no more than a covered wagon, with a door at the back and fourteen seats, with stops at Saint Ştefan, the Stone Bridge, and New Saint George. Folk did not jostle to ride in it, and some spat in their breast when they saw it passing.

Leaning against the wooden backrest of the banquette and careful not to disturb the dozing Elena who was resting her head on his right shoulder, Joseph Strauss continued to gaze through the window of the train, but he both did and did not see the yellowish-gray, red-flecked landscape. His mind was in a great library, where thousands of volumes showed an esteem for the German, French, and Latin languages, where the candles in the candlesticks had just been lit and the aroma of tobacco harmonized with the pattern of the Afghan carpet, and where he learned the secret things that had languished in the deepest recesses of the prince's mind, soul, and even trouser crotch. Coughing more than once, the prince had told him how tangled are the ways of the Lord when bodily desires are aroused, how great the shame can be, at dawn, with testicles drained and soul laid waste, what a miracle it was that the girl was blind, and how good and evil, both together, lay hidden between her thighs, what a pest the mosquitoes were and how agonizing his bout of malaria had been, how much he had hoped that his visit to the Crimea would bring him the hand of a Russian princess in marriage, how devious and slippery Tsar Alexander had proven to be, like a fish, what a silence there was from the continent's royal and imperial families when the question of marriage to a Romanian sovereign came up, how sour the nights were at the age of thirty, and how bitter the evenings, how happy he was to be going to Prussia and how determined he was to come back with a wife, whoever she might be. Pouring the wine and avoiding his eyes, Carol pronounced words such as
gratitude, loyalty, powerlessness, fear, trust, separation, devotion,
and the like. Herr Strauss's fingers gripped the glass with a slight tremor, and his lips did not let it go until it was drained. He must have been very pale, he imagined, as he sat in the second-class railroad car, or perhaps he had blushed, listening, waiting, silent. Karl Ludwig had thanked him assiduously, because he understood like no one else what it meant to be witness to loneliness and distress, to prepare enchanted tea, and, above all, to procure a woman in absolute secrecy for a man who wore a crown. And it was precisely that understanding, as the dentist observed and the prince was torturing himself to say, that was about to sever their relationship like a saber whirling through the heated air of the room, that weighed like a millstone, almost dragging down the ceiling. With convoluted formulations, the prince had confessed to Joseph, who was cold, very cold, how difficult it would be for them to meet again. He asked him to forget what deserved to be forgotten and not to be angry if he never called him to the palace again. He refilled the glasses and begged his forgiveness. They drank. They embraced.

The train slowed as it entered Giurgiu, then made a dreadful screeching noise as it braked. The wind seemed gentler by the Danube, and the river, which they reached in a horse-drawn cab, the same way they had reached Filaret Station, greeted them placidly and dazzlingly, for the sun had managed to break through the clouds. They bought roasted corn, and the old woman who was turning the cobs over the fire, having looked Elena up and down, permitted herself to tell the lady that, given how swollen her belly was, she was sure to give birth to a boy. They all laughed, and Joseph refused the coppers she handed him as change. Then, chatting, husband and wife headed toward a meadow with thistles and hawthorn bushes, beyond the grain silos, barges, and bustle of the port. After a while, once she had finished describing the recipes for some Serbian pies, the kind with meat and vegetables, Elena Strauss went to the riverbank and cupped some water in her palms. She drank. And they embraced.

 

Like any woman waiting for nine months to elapse, Elena wanted her soul to be at peace. The walls had been whitewashed and the floorboards waxed. She had picked out all kinds
of cloth and sewn a host of little shirts, diapers, and bonnets. She had knitted sweaters, vests, and socks (so small that they looked like clothes for a tomcat). She had ordered a little green quilt and spent two hours in the workshop making sure that the tradesman stuffed it with clean, new wool, not scraps. She had frequently counted the bundles of wood in the shed in the back yard, and in December (when the price was triple) she had persuaded Joseph to pay for yet another sled of dry logs. She had settled on a light, lindenwood trough in which to bathe the baby and an osier cot in which to put him to bed. She had taken care that the larder lacked for nothing, as a long and tense winter awaited them. She had checked the rushlights and stock of candles. She had scoured the pots with lye and polished the silver cutlery with salt and vinegar. She had asked the wife of Peter Bykow to help her pickle cabbage, cucumbers, and bell peppers (so as not to wrinkle the hands of a pregnant woman). She had slept much and made some changes around the house, guessing that otherwise none of it would be taken care of for quite some time to come. She had called an upholsterer for the chairs in the day room, all of whose backs were ragged and scratched, asking him to replace the velvet with material of the same straw yellow color. She had not understood why Siegfried had turned his back then and crawled under the chest of drawers, with his ears flattened to his head. Just before the pendulum clock struck eleven, while Herr Strauss was still in the ground-floor surgery and she was crooning a song in her native Serbian, the tomcat emerged, lay down on his belly among the balls of wool, and with the pads of his forepaws began to push them softly, very softly, so that the yarn unwound to the rhythm of her knitting needles. Some while ago, placing him in her lap and stroking him, whispering to him, she had persuaded him not to steal her balls of wool, not to roll them around and rip them to shreds. She had not taught him, because he would not have let himself be taught, but from that moment on Siegfried had patiently begun to help her, as if he had known the motion of knitting needles all his life.

In the morning, as the upholsterer made his way through the snow, with his apprentices carting the six chairs behind him, on two of the chair backs it was still possible to read the following:

(cat year fourteen thousand three hundred and eighty-six, month of Fresh Fish, fifth day—April 27, 1869)
Their bodies do not have fur, I tell you, wonderful one, with your flecks like coals, their bodies do not have tails, know you, Manastamirflorinda, with your tufts of flame, they are both as white as yogurt, they are slender, they rustle, they hide beneath coverlets and sheets, behind curtains and doors, the light quivers, the sunbeams stream in tresses and ripples, the candles go wild, the flames dance, shake, flicker, the darkness leaps, day and night merge, fuse, the sheets are cast aside, slide to the floor, and fall dumb, their skin is beaded with dew, I see entwinings, archings, twistings, I hear soft moans, whispers, tender words, perhaps snatches of song, it would not be hard for me to say, vengefully, that humans meow and purr, but you, O queen, you will prick up your ears and you will not blink, your little nostrils, like pomegranate seeds, will snuffle the scent, you will not believe me, I would never lie to you, the sounds of love trickle down the walls and are quenched, my masters tumble onto the rug and are inflamed, her hair is long and black, below her shoulder she has a spot, on her creamy chest have swollen two large round hummocks, like wild mushrooms, are they firm? the hands of the kind doctor touch
them, cup them, tend them, his lips
imbibe them, protect them,
there
is no need of bandages, scalpel, Liquors, he has learned to heal them, sometimes...
(here the velvet is torn away, in the place where the upholsterer had ripped off a scrap and carefully examined it, pondering the bolts of material in his shop) ...
from her movements emanate warm and greenish mists, peace settles over the room like a fine powder, coming through the window, it is not the smoke of the stoves, it is not the steam from the food on the hob, it is not the aroma of apples and puddings in the oven, the breeze that wafts from her gowns is like a caress, I feel it on my nape, down my spine, under my whiskers, tranquility and joy have settled over our house, thou, Manastamirflorinda, thou hast felt the air on thy evening visits, with Otto Huer, the barber magician, thou hast looked into nooks and chests, among the books, thou, O queen, hast unfailingly understood that the heart of my mistress ticks gently, her laughter is as sweet as milk, I ever strive to find it and drink it, her words are like partridges, I stalk them and gulp them up, Joseph's eyes seem drunk, and they have shed all trace of woe.

(the following cat year, the month of Warm Dens, on the third day—December 4, 1869)
From that huge belly, my love, know thou, fifteen kittens will emerge, her belly has swollen to the size of a barrel or a sack oflentils, I am awake before dawn and I wait, I keep watch, the miracle might happen at any time, from beneath the quilt there wafts soft breathing, sleep will not be denied, the kittens lie curled up, they stir and they grow, yet another night vanishes without them emerging, yet another day arrives on tiptoes, I divine it, soon the coffee will be boiling in the pot, the dogs will be barking outside, the arm of my wonderfu/
master guards her, embraces her, for the time being dreams take the place of words, the fires have not been lit, it is cold, I crouch, I stretch, I am hungry, morning drags its feet, there are blossoms of ice in the windows, hosts of gray fluffy flakes are flying, the hour is nigh when they will be white, then Joseph will depart, whispering to me requests known only to us, I will rub against his ankles, the moments will be mute, then, know thou, O queen, I alone will remain here to keep guard, I try to be pleasing to her, to enliven her, I nudge her slippers over the floor, I bring from the coat rack the scarf and the mittens she has knitted, I even push the chamber pot from under the bed with my paw, I seek lost buttons under the cupboards, Elena spends most of the time stretched out in the armchair, she dozes, she toys with the balls of wool, she reads, sometimes she calls me to sit on her knees and in her lap, she runs her fingers through my fur, I press my head to her belly, I count, fifteen kittens are gamboling and scuffling inside.