You were waiting for some miracle or other, dear Dan. You were waiting for your new life, looking out of the broken windowpane.
7
The Ringster coughed and hawked a thick glob of phlegm onto the stone floor, deliberately, so as to nauseate the foppish sergeant who was guarding him, who looked like a young man who had had a mollycoddled upbringing. He was there for the sake of form, since Fane had no means of escape: the doors were locked and bolted. Unlike ordinary men, who sleep from evening to morning and work from morning to evening, Fane did things the other way around. During the day he had caught a few hours of sleep, but he felt on top form: there was money to be had. He could smell money from a mile off, and that invigorated him. He had begun the night stretching from Friday evening to Saturday morning in a good mood. The sergeant, bored, attempted to make conversation, but Fane cut him short: ‘Shut it, Jean, I’ve got work to do!’ To make his life simpler, he had once explained, he called everybody Jean.
The sergeant’s head started lolling, and finally his chin came to rest on his chest. Soon, he started snoring, and Fane avoided making any noise, since he had the fine movements of a wild animal, an instinct he had imbibed with his mother’s milk. He was a handsome man; narrow in the hip, broad in the shoulder, with cunning eyes the colour of frost-nipped plums, long eyelashes and long moustaches, which left no woman indifferent. The silvery box did not look like it had much of a lock, just three numbered rollers, but the mechanism was more like a toy. Fane dialled the rollers, with his ear pressed to the mechanism, to hear how they tumbled. He always went by his sense of hearing, like a bat. At first, he was unable to make out anything clearly, but when he repeated the circuit again and again, and the first roller reached zero, it made a faint sound. He left it in that position and went on to the second roller, which also made a click on zero. He did not even bother with the third: he turned it to the same figure as the first two and heard a clearer click, which coincided with a hiccup from the sleeping sergeant. The sergeant opened his eyes, and Fane leaned over the box as if he were hard at work, covering it with his broad chest. The sergeant watched him for a while, and finally his eyelids drooped over his small eyes again.
The Ringster put the box down and opened it without making the slightest sound. On his face could be read boundless amazement. He carefully rummaged through all the compartments, put everything back, turned the rollers, and crept to the door, whistling softly for Păunescu, who was on duty. He asked to leave the room for a rest break
At dawn, in the office on the first floor, Costache was informed that the locked case was missing. Down below in the basement, Fane kicked up a fuss to cover his tracks: ‘What have you done, Jean, if you can’t even trust anybody in a police station,’ he shouted. ‘Who can you trust then? Idlers, layabouts, bunglers!’ Then he went back to sleep, satisfied that he had a wonderful Saturday ahead of him.
Saturday, 20 December: Commotion
1
Thank the Lord, my little brother was jollier this morning, on our walk. He was also delighted to espy little Nicu, the errand boy; his red cap always strikes the eye. The boy never stays still. Jacques, the dear thing, would have jumped down, had he been able. But our carriage was moving, and the wee imp was in front of where the Sărindar Monastery used to stand (it still pains my soul that they demolished it, it was Bucharest’s cathedral, and people say dire things will come of it). And so as the horses sped past he called out to him, telling him to visit us as soon as possible, although he had seen him just last evening. I am not sure whether Nicu can have heard and I do not think he will come; I saw yesterday that he is afraid of Mr Costache. Jacques and myself go out daily for an hour, in the morning, along the embankment, to look at the seagulls — this is his main entertainment — while Papa reads Universul, which is his main entertainment. This morning he gave a start when under the heading of Events from the Capital he found an item about the topic of our conversation yesterday and even more so when he saw (dear Papa!) that he himself was mentioned, albeit in a brief parenthesis. When we returned, he twice read us the news item, lowering his voice for the parenthesis: ‘‘The man under arrest who was found unconscious yesterday almost frozen near Băneasa Forest (by the lakes) has declared that his name is Dan I. Kretzu, that he is a newspaperman and not a malefactor. He has provided no explanation as to what took place and despite the efforts of the Police, it has not been possible to find one person to confirm his identity. Since his state of health is less than desirable, he has been given medical attention. (Dr Leon Margulius…’ they spelled my name wrong, the idiots! ‘…was kind enough to examine him.) Investigations are in progress.’’ I laughed when I heard that he was ‘a newspaperman and not a malefactor.’ I think such an explanation is welcome in this day and age. Papa shooed me away.
With the notebook I started yesterday I began a new life. My life therefore begins on Friday. I have reached Chapter 25 in my book, ‘in which all the principal personages think fit to leave Brighton.’ As for us, here in Bucharest, all the principal personages have arrived in town, where they will remain until at least New Year. At least so I hope.
Mr Costache will be furious: the newspaper item does not mention him even in parenthesis.
*
Late evening. Here I am writing again, rather than reading. When Safta took his stovepipe hat, Mr Costache pinched her on the —, as he often does when he thinks nobody is watching. But then he saw me and cast me a strange look. We sat down to dinner rather upset, because dear Jacques was feeling out of sorts. He was sad that Nicu had not come. I tried to cheer him up and because he is a good child, he feigned that I had succeeded. He did not want to join us at the dinner table. He lay in bed instead, and I gave him the clock with the figurines, to wind it up to his heart’s content. He likes the sweet and ineffably sad minuet of the male and the female figurines, which bow, join hands, spin, part, and join hands once more. Jacques says he would like to know how the story ends; it is like a fairy tale. It depends how long you turn the key: Sometimes it turns out well and the two remain hand in hand. But sometimes it ends badly, and the two porcelain figurines stand twisting to the side and looking into the distance. Jacques swears that the expressions on their faces alter when they look into the distance. Mama can barely control herself in such moments, but nor can Papa, and he is a doctor and a grown man. And so it did us good when our policeman arrived with news from around town. He filled our heads with the duel in which poor Lahovary was killed, with the charges of intentional murder brought against the men from L'Indépendance Roumaine, with political pressure, since there are many who wish to believe that the crime was hatched by former friends, now adversaries. He also told us something spicier — the Bastaki trial, Bastaki being the adulterous paterfamilias, whom Miss Gorjan attempted to kill with a revolver. Miss Gorjan was the daughter of General Gorja, being the woman he seduced. The jury felt sorry for her and acquitted her, and after that the courtroom erupted in a cry of ‘Down with Bastaki!’ But Mama impatiently asked our guest how it could be possible that they had still not been able to open the stranger’s case.