‘They still haven’t appointed a new director at L’Endebandans, to reblace Mr Lahovary,’ said Petre, who was suddenly talkative. ‘I read it yesterday in Universul. Whoever they bring in, the baber won’t change its bolicy. True, they bretend they’re not caught up in bolitics. But that’s what they all say!’
The street advanced in time with our sleigh, strangely fast. We reached an intersection that I was seemingly seeing for the first time, we crossed it with difficulty, since sleighs and carriages were passing along the boulevard and were not prepared to wait, and then we turned right, coming to an immediate stop. We were plunged within the shadow of a wall. I recalled the unconscious young man and wondered whether he might have died in the meantime. I looked at him and he seemed to groan. There was something terribly childlike about his face, and his blond, longish hair covering part of his cheek.
An imposing, yellowish, two-storey building loomed before us, and above the entrance, beneath the coat of arms, was embedded a clock, whose hands showed half past two. And beneath the clock, large stone letters read: PREFECTURE OF THE CAPITAL’S POLICE.
5
The woman was approaching the end of her Friday prayer, the longest of all the prayers of the days of the week. Epiharia was a model parishioner, for although she was not yet twenty-five, she came before the altar every day, and the priest praised her and cited her as an example to the lazy and slack. In secret, she wanted to become a nun. She knew the prayer almost by heart, and murmured it in a low voice, glancing at the little book she held only to check. “And since it is so, multiply, O Lord, my labours, my temptations and my pains,” said the woman, although at the same time she thought that this was not what she wished at all, “but also multiply and make abundant my patience, my strength, my contentment and my blessedness” — this was more like it — in all the trials that might befall me…” The door opened and an unknown man entered. Epiharia lowered her eyes to her little book: “in all the trials that might befall me.” The man walked forward, looking around him, at the saints on the walls, painted, as the young woman said to herself, with priceless grace. “For, I know that I am weak, unless Thou givest me strength; fearful, unless Thou makest me bold; blind, unless…” Now she could see him and instead of praying, she allowed herself to be drawn by the sly sins of this world and watched as he went up to the altar. Without making the sign of the cross! “Evil, unless Thou makest me good; lost, unless Thou seekest me.” The man too looked lost, his face was as handsome as an angel’s and he was dressed like… like a beggar at the church gate. Where could he have left his hat? He wasn’t holding it and nor had he hung it on the hooks above the chairs… “With Thy abundant and divine power, and with the gift of Thy Holy Cross, to which I bow and which I glorify, now and forever and ever, Amen.” She had fluffed a few of the words, but she was no longer able to concentrate on her prayers. She watched from the corner of her eye as the stranger stood next to the icon of the Mother of God, brought there long ago, in the reign of Constantine Brâncoveanu, as a blessing to all those who crossed the threshold of the church. People came to pray to the icon, some of them in misfortune, some of them for health, some for wealth or for children, and they knelt, their eyes lowered, their pious lips barely touching the saint’s silver casing. But see that man, standing up, looking her straight in the eye, and not for a moment or two, but for minutes on end. How can you look the Mother of God in the eye? What can he be thinking? No, it is not fitting to judge a man standing before the altar, maybe he is an unfortunate wretch, a man without means, God alone judges us, each and every one, wherever we might be. But it is as if some people, like this man, make you feel, I don’t know, they make you feel spiritually straitened. “Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us sinners, your servants” — and here Epiharia made a broad, emphatic sign of the cross, her hand coming to rest on her left shoulder — “Amen.” When her mind reached the word sinners, as if bidden, the man turned toward her. Taking fright, she averted her gaze and looked to the side, at the shield of St George, who for centuries had been slaying the same Dragon with the same spear.
‘Good evening… erm, madam.’
‘The Lord be with you!’
Epiharia had a round childlike face, white skin, and a dimple, also round, beneath her lower lip. Only a single lock of her hair was visible, as her headscarf covered her ears, and was wound beneath her chin and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her expression was serious. The man looked weary. His voice (praise God!) was devoid of hidden thoughts, a downcast voice, and so the woman once more felt her soul at peace.
‘Where might a man without money or belongings spend the night? Might he do so here?’
‘Only if you wish to spend the night with a saint,’ said Epiharia, without thinking of anything bad, but then quickly made the sign of the cross because of the unseemly implication and begged God’s forgiveness aloud for being rash and foolish.
Now the stranger was smiling. He was a different man!
‘No, but I would like to find somewhere. I am… I am unwell. I am ill.’
For as long as he smiled he was as young as a cherub. Without the smile he was much older. You would have thought his voice was bleeding. He looked like a man who had fallen on hard times, as she had rightly divined, and so she had done well not to judge him.
‘Shall I take you to our deacon? He lives two houses further down the street, over there, past that light-brown carriage, or rather the cherry-red carriage. Can you see it? But he has many children; he too is needy. If you can’t find him, come back here to me — my name is Epiharia — and we’ll think of something else.’
The stranger left, but no more than five minutes passed before he came back, making a gesture of helplessness. Nobody had answered his knock on the door. The woman had another solution: ‘We have the key to the house where the painters from the Stork’s Nest stay in summer. In June they started repainting the band of murals with the saints below the roof, but they broke off in November. I can ask the priest for the key, he has it because some of them came here to our church, to do some painting, and they worked now here, now there…’
‘That would be wonderful!’
‘But you ought to know that there is a problem…’
Now the man looked older and a furrow formed between his eyebrows again.
‘It’s a summer-house and there is no stove, nor firewood, nor bedclothes. But you know that man is capable of great control. Simeon the Stylite lived for a great long time atop his pillar. And one day he invited St Theodosius to come see him. On top of the pillar, that is! I can give you a plaid rug, from the priest…’
Off she went, chubby and full of kindness. An hour must have elapsed before she returned. She found the man sitting in the choir stall, his eyes closed. She had brought a large key and explained, with great indulgence for the stranger’s ignorance, how he should get to the house and what he should do to avoid freezing during the night. She placed in his arms a threadbare blanket and gave him a large chunk of bread from the priest, wrapped in a cloth. She also gave him an icon lamp, to shed light. She did not tell him that the priest had urged her in a low voice not to let herself be beguiled by all the city’s ne’er-do-wells; that was of no concern to the stranger. The man thanked her and smiled with teeth as white as fresh snow, although he seemed quite unclear about what she was telling him. But the woman was quite certain that the Good Lord would guide his steps to the right place, as certain as she was that in every path through life it is fated that we should lose our way: for, she herself had once gone astray.