“That’s right, esteemed Mr. Arsen, that’s what Tomaž thought. Tomaž knows what goes on, like in October when Bela Kun and the mob came, shouting no more masters, no more méltóságos úr Arsen, now all are equal, all brothers! But Tomaž knew that would be catastrophe. And Tomaž thought that maybe méltóságos úr Arsen would come back one day, so from his own good heart he painted windows, brought new tiles, and swept every day. Then a man from the Magistrate came and said the house would be pulled down, so Tomaž should repair nothing more. Then Tomaž went for the last time to see Mr. Arsen, but esteemed Mrs. Katarin came outside the house and said, becsulet szavamra, let them pull it down, let them pull all down! So tell me the truth, esteemed Mr. Arsen, what more could I do?”
What more, indeed? Although he hadn’t yet reached Martinović’s distracted state, his thoughts often wandered, and he mixed up people, events, and years. Thus his dismissal had become entangled with Bela Kun’s violence, and he spoke unhappily of Simonida, as if for some time she hadn’t belonged to me at all. But at the same time it was certain that my suspicions had done him a painful injustice, and I was left with only one means to redress it: Tomaž Šomodjija would be the first person honored with the announcement of the “return of Arsénie Negovan,” and the first one invited to share in it.
“Does that mean that esteemed Mr. Arsen has come back?” His body straightened up, his every word was accompanied by a hearty bang on the bench with his ironclad stick. “Esteemed mister is again taking work in his own hands?”
“Bien sûr! That’s why I came.”
“And Maestro Tomaž will again be in the service of méltóságos úr Arsen, caring for the house on Paris Street?”
“Of course.”
“Becsulet szavamra?”
“Becsulet szavamra, Maestro Tomaž. From this very moment on!”
Even now I feel a tingling of pride when I recall with what pleasure, eagerness, and hope we took pencils and notebooks from our coats — he the battered account book which I had given to him with Simonida’s keys, and I the saffian leather notebook which I had always taken with me on inspections. In the latter, under March 1941, I had written the date of Niké’s auction — my last pro memoria. As for Šomodjija’s account book — all my superintendents had similar ones — he jotted down in it all the important events in Simonida’s life, and whatever was needed for her care. I used to read it on the spot, crossing out the unnecessary requests but transferring the appropriate ones to my saffian notebook, so that I could verify their implementation.
Before crossing over to Simonida, I opened the notebook and immediately below the note about Niké (as if the narrow white space beneath didn’t signify an absence of twenty-seven years), I wrote clearly: June 3, 1968, Simonida.
“That’s it,” I said. “Now we can get down to work.”
To get to the house, we had to go around the crane, which had dug itself in like a wooden catapult in the middle of Simonida’s weed-infested garden. It was rusted, broken in pieces, and full of dust, but from its greedy, protruding iron head hung a hook with a weight. The iron ball hung there peaceably, as if gathering strength to launch itself upon my last-born’s tender walls. I went up to the machine and noticed with pleasure that it was itself quite damaged by the blows it had inflicted on houses. Still, the foul and ugly machine was awaiting its moment, not knowing that it would never come. For I had already thought of a plan by which Simonida could defend herself from demolition.
“Maestro Toma, that garage must be removed and the barrier fence restored as soon as possible.”
“Remove garage,” said the concierge as he wrote. “Restore barrier fence.”
“Fill in the façade, wash it, and spray it with paint.”
“Wash, fill, and spray façade.”
“I’ll decide on the color later, but I think it’s going to be pearl.”
“And what about the pointing, esteemed Mr. Arsen?”
“Scrape out the pointing neatly, scrape the grills on the cellar windows, the courtyard wall, and the balcony with a wire brush. Coat with red lead and paint in black.”
While I fingered the oak front door, tapping like a doctor on the peeling outer layer of its surfaces, I heard Maestro Toma explaining my presence to the neighbors.
“That méltóságos úr Arsen, he will not allow his house to be pulled down.”
“Maestro Toma, note down: restain the front door and varnish it. What state are the other doors in?”
But we were already inside Simonida. From the athletic hallway one might think that the bulk of the house lies to the left. But no, there she quickly ends in a side wall; only on the right can one move forward into attractive perspectives. If you open one of those doors, you find yourself in a totally unexpected gallery lined with elegant carved woodwork reminiscent of the icons of a Mount Athos altar screen. Where you think you’ll find a palatial room, you’ll encounter a warm, dark chamber. Your view will break out into open space just where you expected a wall. The walls are not subordinated to any known geometrical system; the ceilings change heights with disturbing agility. For this unusual house there are no valid laws, no rules. At first you feel deceived, humiliated, perhaps angry. Then, just as you’re on the verge of losing patience, you realize that you cannot rest without penetrating her secret, and so you go around her again, taking the same route. But now the rooms are entirely different. You know no more of her than before, but whatever the rent, you accept her. That was what my Simonida was like: unexpected, mysterious, inconstant, magical — a conjuror’s box whose gifts never end.
“The key is her unexpectedness,” I said, “but that key is lost.”
“Pair of new keys,” wrote the concierge.
“Do you know why?”
“Nem tudom, esteemed Mr. Arsen.”
“Because right up to the quattrocento, architects thought themselves masters of their buildings. And owners of houses, too, of course. And why, Mr. Tomaž, why did they believe that?”
“Nem tudom, esteemed Mr. Arsen.”
“Because for centuries — ever since the dolmens and menhirs — it was thought that buildings were ordinary manufactured articles, inheriting the inanimate nature of their materials. It was thought that a stone in a wall was as dead as a stone in a field, that a beam differed from its oak ancestor only in the form it was shaped by the carpenter. What a mistake, what an unforgivable error!”
The time had come for me to leave Simonida. Although there was no threat that my sortie would be discovered — Katarina had not planned to return from town until the afternoon — it was essential for me to rest and gather my strength for the delicate conversation which I intended to have with her. Before going, I wanted to draw Šomodjija’s attention to several additional repairs. In that connection, I experienced so pleasant a surprise that here I must break off my confession for a moment.
•
Article 7. As a special legacy, to Mr. Tomaž Šomodjija, the caretaker of my house on Paris Street, I leave for his lasting ownership the basement of my three-story house on Rigas de Feras (No. 24), and a cash sum totaling the twenty-three years of caretaker’s wages of which, through no fault of mine, he was deprived.
•
Before I had made a single one of my additional observations, Maestro Tomaž said:
“If the esteemed Mr. Arsen will allow, I will show him a list of repairs.”
From his account book he took out a long list which he began to read from; it left out neither the replacement of the broken guttering and the worn stair treads (seven in number) nor anything else. In view of all that, how could I have not written in a legacy for him?