Herr Alexianu, seemingly worn out from his report, asked Fräulein Iliuţ to remoisten the cloth on the side of his head. While she went to get some fresh water, he lit a cigarette, but after carefully inhaling one time he stubbed it out, with a look of torment. He took pains to avoid noticing us, and made a point of elaborately cleaning the charred tip of the cigarette before returning it to the pack. We thought we saw in his gestures a certain worldliness that he had gleaned from his exposure to wider horizons — they no longer seemed so brutally fidgety. But that could also be ascribed to his suffering. We kept quiet and remained inconspicuous until Fräulein Iliuţ returned with the newly dampened soothing cloth, which she applied with motherly tenderness on Herr Alexianu’s forehead. The sight of this hunchbacked Samaritan was moving, and reminded us of the fairy tales with bewitched characters who can only regain their form after long and laborious trials. We always expected that one fine day Fräulein Iliuţ would be transformed into a radiant princess, and I was fearful that this might happen before I was old enough to declare my love to her. I often dreamt of this moment, and though there was nothing I wished more than to see it come to pass, I wondered how much she would retain of the strong and somewhat pitiable charm that naturally and effortlessly emanated from her deformity.
Incidentally, my secret love for Fräulein Iliuţ soon brought a bitter disappointment, whose source was none other than Fräulein Iliuţ herself. It had to do with a certain turn of phrase that she explained to us, and although her definition was perfectly correct, it did not satisfy our curiosity. So while we remained devoted to her with all our heart, we no longer believed she was a princess who had been bewitched.
Herr Alexianu spent several minutes regaining his composure under the moist cloth before continuing his report, at which point he uttered the phrase that immediately captured our fantasy: he lost face.
But first I want to recount the events that led up to that:
After the colonel had left him standing there, Tildy himself was about to turn around and leave the room. But then Năstase spoke to him, as Herr Alexianu related—
“Permit me to introduce myself, Herr Major,” he said. “My name is Năstase, Vintilă Năstase, student of human nature, if you will. I come from a good family, and so may take the liberty of addressing you without incurring your immediate displeasure …”
“How may I be of service?” asked Tildy, without the slightest sign of impatience.
Năstase smiled. “You are very polite, Herr Major. Uncommonly and exceptionally polite. You know our saying: One can choke a guest with curds. By that I mean to say, that your politeness, your perfect manners, your aura of gallantry — it’s all like a great arsenal of weapons. You are a knight, Herr Major, armed and prepared. They say that street curs step aside for a born cavalier: they can smell his presence. Do they step aside for you, Herr Major?
Tildy: “Up to now they have.”
“Up to now. And suddenly they’ve stopped, Herr Major? That’s a bad sign. In fact, that justifies the question I would like pose to you, if I may. You are a person of character, Herr Major. I would be insulting you if I asked whether you knew that the concept of persona originally comes from the masks worn by actors.”
Tildy: “What would you like to ask?”
Năstase, who had earlier risen from the sofa and approached Tildy to address him, gestured around the room. “We were all witness to your conversation with our esteemed colonel, whose birthday we are celebrating. We were impressed with the elegant way you had of dealing with a truly embarrassing situation. Chapeau bas, Herr Major! Without diminishing your own stature in any way, you did not spare the colonel anything either — truly well played. Very well played indeed. The ladies were particularly impressed. Because even if we do love our little father Mitică, we can both agree that he is peasant through and through, can we not?”
Tildy: “Surely you don’t wish to speak with me about my superior officer, who happens also to be our host, do you?”
Năstase: “Of course not, Herr Major. I simply wanted to compliment you on behalf of all of us. I only mentioned the colonel in order to convey to you the depth of our understanding and the extent of our regard for the way you comported yourself. My own interests are literary, consequently I don’t stint on words, which must irritate a military man. I beg your pardon. I admire you, Herr Major — you will permit me to be so frank. There is something saintly about you. A saintliness devoid of kindness. I find that extraordinarily interesting …”
Tildy: “You wanted to ask me a question.”
Năstase: “Yes, of course — presuming that you are so willing. You have a face worthy of admiration, Herr Major. I wanted to ask you: When will you lose it?”
Tildy: “I don’t understand you. Please put it more clearly.”
Năstase: “My question is quite clear: When will you lose your face, Herr Major? Of course I could phrase my question differently, like our host, the colonel, whose words you seem to have understood: When will you become a human being, Herr Major? But surely you know what I’m getting at, you must know what I mean …”
Tildy wanted to walk away without replying, but Năstase blocked his way: “You are so impeccable, Herr Major, that it strikes me — and forgive me for saying so — as a kind of tactlessness. Your irreproachable standard serves as an embarrassing reminder for your fellow human beings that they are, in essence, riffraff. But if you truly wish to crown your chivalrous qualities, for social reasons, so to speak, you need to have a weak spot, no matter how small. After all, even Achilles had a vulnerable heel. On humanitarian grounds as well as for reasons of tact. One should not resemble the gods too closely. And what about your hero Siegfried? Wasn’t there a certain linden leaf? Forgive me, Herr Major, but it is precisely that small chink of vulnerability in the armor of the invulnerable that makes heroes bearable. We derive consolation from knowing that ultimately they, too, are mortal. It makes the street curs less sad. You should have a little more sympathy for the curs, Herr Major, even if you despise them beyond measure. You know nothing of their sorrow.”
Tildy, after some moments of silence: “You are probably right. I assume that is all you wished to say to me.”
Năstase: “Of course — but no — what else was it? Ah yes, I wanted to inquire after the health of your wife? She is ailing, as I’m told. It doesn’t behoove me to ask what from or why. Just like Madame Turturiuk, I haven’t had the privilege of making her acquaintance. I hear she leads a rather withdrawn life. Quite in contrast to her sister, the beautiful Ileana Lyubanarov. She is well known in this company. Or should I say … extremely well known. Ask anyone here and you will find unanimous confirmation. They say her temperament is a legacy of the Paşcanus. It’s very regrettable that Madame Tildy leads such a secluded life.”
At that, Tildy looked Năstase in the eye for several seconds, and Năstase withstood his gaze, then bowed to Tildy, smiling with exaggerated politeness.
“You will hear from me,” said Tildy. Năstase stepped out of his way.
What happened next explained to us why Herr Alexianu had been so little engaged in his report up to that moment, as if everything he had described so far had been a long-winded but unfortunately necessary introduction. And this despite the fact that his idol Năstase was in the center of the events, which would have normally elicited a minutely detailed account and boundless commentary.