“I'll get myself a studio first thing.”
“Just telegram me and I'll send you anything you need.”
“Thank you, my dear friend.”
“Don't thank me.”
“But I want to thank you.”
“There's no need. Good-bye, dear friend. Don't forget to write me. I'm not going to budge from here.”
And with these hurried words we parted from Victor and were pushed into our compartment. There were no longer any empty seats, and Father regretted not taking Vic-tor's advice to buy seats in first class. He sat me down on the suitcase and stood next to me. I was tired, but I saw clearly the spacious house in which Victor had put us up, the chests of drawers, the wide beds, and the great light that streamed in from the large windows. Now it all seemed distant and imaginary, as if I hadn't ever been there.
I asked Father if we would return to Bucharest.
“Of course we'll come back. In Bucharest we have such a true friend. He'll welcome us with open arms whenever we come.”
I sensed the trembling in his legs, and it hurt me that he had no place to sit down.
48
Then I fell asleep and I saw Mother. She was in a swimsuit, sitting alongside the stream and preparing a midmorning snack. Her face was clear and open, and a bright smile played upon her lips.
“Mother,” I said.
She turned her head slowly toward me. I'd always known this way she had of turning her head, but now it was as if I were seeing it for the first time. I felt her love for me, and I was gripped by silence. She immediately explained that she'd wanted to come to me at Christmas and take me to the Carpathians, but things hadn't worked out. I didn't know what she was talking about, and I wasn't going to ask her. Her love was so apparent that it completely overwhelmed me.
“Mother,” I said again.
“What, my love?”
“How long will we be here?” I tried to hold her attention.
“All the time,” she replied after a brief pause.
“And I won't see Father anymore?” I asked, then regretted it.
“I, at any rate,” she said in a tone that I recalled well, “intend to make the summer vacation last as long as I can.”
“More than a year?”
“More than five years,” she said, with a peal of laughter.
“And we won't leave here?”
“Why should we leave?”
“I thought perhaps we would travel to the city.”
“What do we need the city for? The city destroys all hope.”
“Hope.” I tried to probe this familiar word, which suddenly sounded suspect to me.
“How else would you say it?” wondered Mother. This sentence was also something I recalled, but I didn't remember when it had been said.
Then I stopped talking and Mother prepared sandwiches. Her thin sandwiches, with yellow or white cheese. Mother's sandwiches had a fresh taste that they retained for hours.
“Why don't you ask me what I've been doing all this time?” I asked.
“I know everything.”
“How?”
“I'm with you, even when you don't see me.”
“So you know Victor?” I wanted to test her.
“Of course I know him. Victor was with me at the teachers' seminary. He was an outstanding pupil. But he didn't want to be a teacher; he was drawn to art.”
“Strange.”
“Why strange? He was always short and round and very generous.”
After the meal we went down to the dark lake. The trees at the dark lake are always low and dense, protecting you on all sides, and we swam without clothes. Mother was taller without clothes, perhaps because she gathered up her hair. It was unusual for her to dive under the water and stay under so long. I was scared and shouted, “Mother!” Hearing my shout, she surfaced and floated.
When she came out of the water I started to ask her whether she had married André. Mother made a dismissive gesture with her hand, as if to say, “Let's not talk about it.” But I couldn't hold back and I asked her anyway. Her face darkened and she said, “Why do you ask?” Her question, or, more accurately, her rebuke, was so sharp that it left me mute. She immediately added, “And suppose I did marry, is that a reason to lash me with knotted whips or banish me forever?”
I was shocked by what she said. “I love you, Mother.”
“I hope so,” she said suspiciously.
“Why do you say ‘I hope so’?”
“What should I say?”
I didn't know how to respond, so I was silent.
“If I've been mistaken, do forgive me,” said Mother in an affected tone of voice, which immediately saddened me.
We didn't speak the entire way home. Once inside, Mother took off her shoes and put them in the corner. Then she threw herself onto the bed and covered her face with her hands. I knew that I hadn't behaved well toward her, and yet my heart still did not let me go over to her. I stood in the doorway and watched her. The more I looked at her, the more I knew that she had been meaning to say something to me, but would not tell it to me now.
I woke up as the train came to a sudden halt, and I saw Father standing next to me. When he saw that I was awake, he knelt down and hugged me, as if he hadn't seen me for a long time.
49
Toward morning we reached Czernowitz, and we hurried straight to the café that Father loved, the Alaska. The proprietor gave us a warm welcome, calling out, “How come you disappeared on us, my dear fellow?”
“I've been in exile.”
“Where in exile — if one might ask?”
“Everywhere outside Czernowitz is exile.”
“If that's so, then you've been redeemed and you deserve a good breakfast.”
And the breakfast came soon enough: toast, fried eggs, and cream cheese, to say nothing of the fragrant, hot coffee. The proprietor sat next to us, and Father told him about Bucharest, about the exhibit, and about the anti-Semites who had the city in their grip, casting terror in the streets and the cafés.
“Not that they're lacking here.”
“But here they're quieter.”
“That's what you think.”
“In Bucharest they're swarming in every corner.”
“And what did the art critics say?”
“Those critics are short and fat, and they are really asking for a good thrashing.”
The owner burst out laughing and said, “Arthur is Arthur, and neither place nor time will change him.”
After the meal, we went downtown to the Herrengasse. It was a bright, chilly day. Father was in good spirits. He unbuttoned his coat and walked about the cold streets as if it were spring. People were glad to see him and hugged him. I saw from close up how much Father loved his hometown, its people, and its language. Here, unlike in Bucharest, he was a native son; here everyone knew him by name and liked him.
At noon we entered the church refectory and ate corn pie with cream. Here, too, Father was greeted with gladness. People sang and cheered for Jesus, who promised redemption to all the faithful. Father gazed at those singing with great intensity, as if trying to engrave them onto his heart.
Then the venerable old man came in, supported by two young people, and silence fell upon the hall. He began by blessing those seated, praying that Jesus should dwell among them, that their eyes should see only good, and that they should judge all creatures favorably, for only on account of favorable judgment does the world exist. I liked the phrase “judging favorably,” and I asked Father what it meant. Father put a finger to his lips, signaling silence.
The venerable man also talked about the poor, the downtrodden, and the sick, whom Jesus loves, saying that all those who help them support Him. Treat the poor well, for they shall bring redemption, the old man concluded, and then everyone stamped their feet.