“I’m honored of course that you thought of me. But there’s a thing or two I still got to learn about this line of work.”
“Good, start learning.”
Though she herself had only gone there for the first time in my company, Colonel Coca Mavrodin now suddenly turned around and pointed to the wall map. Tracing a finger along the road that twists and turns its way up to the Baba Rotunda Pass, she pointed out the coal-burning lots scattered over the clearings, and finally, up top, the cabin of the road worker Zoltán Marmorstein. Every single sheep pen, shed, and doghouse had been drawn onto the map, as well as the trails which lay like netting over the pass. I knew the area well.
“And what will I be doing up there?”
“Nothing. You’ll just live there — and not alone.”
At this, the colonel pulled a bundle of photos from a drawer and spread them over her desk. They depicted local women, most of whom I knew from the fruit depot, where they’d shown up one after another with baskets on their backs full of blueberries, blackberries, and bolete mushrooms. I knew all the harvesters.
“Go ahead — choose,” said Coca Mavrodin, pointing at the scattered photos, and then pushing them by turns before me. “Just one for now, naturally.”
Among them was that lovely waxwing, Elvira Spiridon. The tip of her nose, her rounded forehead, and her two big brass earrings sparkling even in a photo. The very woman from the sole of whose foot I’d once removed a thorn.
“Choose, and rest assured that any one of them will be happy to move in with you.” The colonel momentarily covered the photo of Elvira Spiridon. “Yes, even her.”
“Miss Coca,” I said, shaking my head in embarrassment, “you’re too kind. I hardly deserve this. And then, of course, there are other considerations.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already spoken with her husband. He’ll let her go.”
Although I knew my way around the Baba Rotunda Pass — and the wall map in the forest commissioner’s office had also helped me get oriented — a soldier drove me to the top in a jeep for a brief survey.
The old dirt road — which the Sinistra bus jolted over on its route once a day, carrying mostly bear keepers and mountain infantrymen — followed the drafty watershed up to the top and then back down into the Bukovina hills. On this day the wind, having picked up its pace with the passing of the silent days of autumn, kept whipping clouds across the mountain meadows. At the highest point stood the road worker’s cabin. Covered by water droplets, the house had a protruding, glass-enclosed verandah: from the porch, when the clouds broke, this or that hairpin turn in the road below sparkled of tar. Socks left behind by Zoltán Marmorstein hung on a clothesline tied to one of its crack-filled walls.
Besides what fit in my pockets, back then I owned a tin plate, two sheet-metal mugs, a horse blanket, a couple of socks, a few odd shreds of fabric, some cord, and a bottle of denatured alcohol. I returned to the old water mill and I stuffed all this into a satchel. Flinging it over my shoulder, and waved good-bye to the fruit depot, to all those barrels with their intoxicating aromas. Then I headed off to my new workplace, the morgue, which stood in a dank corner of the barracks.
Still anxious to know what had become of Mustafa Mukkerman — and, in particular, to learn how much taking two people to the southern end of the Balkans amid those rimy hunks of frozen meat would cost — I stopped off along the way at Gábriel Dunka’s place. He told me, however, that I’d be waiting for the Turk in vain that day: Géza Kökény had been by to see him, and in the course of conversation it turned out that it wasn’t Thursday but, at most, Wednesday.
So my first day of work in the Dobrin morgue probably fell on a Wednesday.
It is the duty of a coroner’s assistant to sit in a room with the deceased and keep watch, making sure that the subject does not stir during his shift. There, on the dank concrete table, lay the former road worker, Zoltán Marmorstein, his trousers full of guts. He did not stir. Those drying socks of his were indeed now mine.
Evening came and Colonel Titus Tomoioaga arrived for his shift. Out in the fresh air, taking frequent gulps from my bottle while trudging my way up to the Baba Rotunda Pass, I was filled with an inexplicable delight. Snowflakes were melting on my face and as the flurries began the moon shone through the hurtling clouds.
By the time I reached the top, snow was gusting on all sides of the road worker’s cabin. Just as I was about to swing the flashlight beam over the steps, I noticed that the verandah window was all steamed up: a scarlet fog flickered and flashed repeatedly from the blazing fire light. So Coca Mavrodin had not been kidding. I was no longer alone.
Inside, the three little red windows of the stove door shone brightly, and a pair of brass earrings sparkled amid the flittering light. Elvira Spiridon sat on the edge of the cot, hands in her lap. Before her were her sandals, removed.
“From now on, sir, I’m living with you.”
“Welcome.”
“They said you’re a man of few words — so perhaps I’ll just keep quiet, too.”
“Well, let’s hope you won’t have any reason to complain.”
Two thoroughly stuffed round pillows now lay on Zoltán Marmorstein’s abandoned cot, along with two freshly washed rag-knit throw rugs — rugs that still smelled of the north wind that had arrived sweeping the pass that day. On the table: an old black cooking pot containing potato soup with a mousy bouquet, half of which had, it seemed, been eaten by someone else. Also on the table, the mountain infantry’s favorite drink: a full bottle of blackberry brandy. Pinned atop its cork, a glittering star of sorts: a silvery golden thistle petal.
“It’s from my husband.”
“Your husband’s very kind. I’m sure I’ll get to know him too. But for now all I’d ask — if you please — is that you don’t start crying.”
“My husband is Severin Spiridon — you already know him, sort of.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well, he got himself into a stupid little mess, and then you came along and helped him. He was ready to give up, but you, sir, came along and breathed life back into him.”
“Ah, that’s right — I remember — and don’t you two have a lovely dappled dog as well?”
“Yes — and our dog hasn’t forgotten you either, sir”
Noticing the sock stir around her ankles, I knelt down before Elvira Spiridon and unwound it — from that delicately veined, hay-scented, warm foot, which I’d already had the good fortune to get to know, in a manner of speaking, what with that certain matter involving a thorn. Now I held that foot once again in my palm.
“Ah,” I mumbled, momentarily distracted, “colonels keep their word, one way or other. And yes, I thought Coca Mavrodin was just pulling my leg. Bless her a thousand times.”
“Yes, it’s the colonel’s wish that I live with you from now on, sir. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to go home now and then.”
“Go whenever you please — you have someone to go home to — just now, please, don’t start crying.”
Uncorking the bottle, I poured some of Severin Spiridon’s gift into two sheet-metal mugs. I found a metal washbasin under the cot, which I filled with water and placed on the stove. Then I tried the potato soup. Hot water started bubbling in all directions, and soon the washbasin overflowed, but meanwhile I’d tasted the brandy: I waved a hand toward Elvira Spiridon to signal that it was time to go ahead, get undressed.
I heard that very singular swishing of clothes mixed with the sound of naked arms and velvety thighs nestling against each another and allowed a long time to pass — with those sounds of water trickling over ribs, and even the sound of skin drying.
But then I chose a vein on Elvira Spiridon’s thigh that, on its ascent, branched out before coming together again. With an index finger I began following its course upward with apparent hesitation.