An Ermine in Czernopol (13 page)

Even Turturiuk was so taken aback that he didn't embrace Tildy and seal the reconciliation with a brotherly kiss. “The embarrassed silence that followed,” said Herr Alexianu, “was felt by all.”

This awkward scene was interrupted by a fortunate coincidence that allowed for a saving exit, as Gyorgyovich Ianku finished his tango at that very moment, and Madame Turturiuk, wearing her very cosmopolitan dress, left her dancing partner, walked over to the two officers, and said: “What's going on with you two? Is this a fight or a declaration of love?”

Turturiuk (his conciliatory inclination was reemerging, under the influence of the wine): “Look here, my little woman, by all the Easter votives of the Metropolitan!” (To Tildy) “Isn't she a sweet one! You should see her when she's all undressed!” (Again to Madame Turturiuk) “Permit me, Alexandra, to introduce my comrade, Major Niculaie Tildy.”

Madame Turturiuk (with a cosmopolitan smile): “We know each other from sight, I believe. I'm very sad, Major, that your wife was unable to grace us with the pleasure of her company.”

Tildy: “No one regrets that more than Tamara herself, Madame. She is ailing and hasn't been able to go out for some time.”

Madame Turturiuk: “So I hear. Please give her my best regards. Unfortunately I haven't had the privilege of meeting her, but I admire her greatly.
Elle est très élégante
.”

Tildy gave a curt bow, and Madame Turturiuk burst out in hearty laughter. “You can see right away you're not from the capital. Otherwise you would have slapped me.”

At that point, according to Herr Alexianu, a clear look of bewilderment registered on Tildy's otherwise expressionless face, and in a very wooden voice he asked: “Madame?”

Madame Turturiuk: “In the capital, if you tell an officer his wife is elegant, it is an insult. Because it means either that she steals her clothes or that she has a lover who pays for them. An officer never makes enough money to buy fancy clothes.”

The colonel roared with laughter at the well-played joke. Still catching his breath, he gave his wife a slap on the ass and added: “Or else he has a mistress who gives him enough money.”

Madame Turturiuk didn't spare her husband her own look of astonishment at his unexpected riposte. Only Tildy didn't laugh, as was to be expected.

Just then Gyorgyovich Ianku started up the tango “Drive on, Coachman.” Madame Turturiuk stood there a few moments, fully expecting that Tildy would ask her to dance, as propriety demanded. But Tildy, once again master of his “English” demeanor, made no move to do so, and the situation would have become embarrassing all over, if Lieutenant Boldur hadn't saved the day by jumping up from the couch and leading the colonel's wife away. Even the colonel just stared off pensively for a moment, gave a deep sigh, and then walked off without saying another word to Tildy.

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.

But then the following happened, and only now did the real Herr Alexianu emerge, so to speak, from behind the dampened cloth, which hung over his eyes like a partially raised visor:

When Tildy started to leave the room, Herr Alexianu happened to be standing in the doorway. And because he did not step aside quickly enough in order to let Tildy through—a gesture of respect, which, according to him, he had no special reason to show the major, based on what had transpired—Tildy gave him a resounding slap on the face, in front of everybody, taking the man so completely by surprise that Herr Alexianu had no chance to ward off the blow.

Herr Alexianu recounted this with Roman plainness, even greatness.

“Just as I am standing here with you, that man struck me. I am neither embellishing nor exaggerating. He hit me in the face. Without any cause, and quite unjustly. But that's neither here nor there. I was hit in the face.”

He relit the cigarette he had previously extinguished and smoked it, albeit wincingly, one long drag after the other until he finished it.

“You can rest assured that Tildy would not have gotten that far if he hadn't caught me off guard. Consequently there's no need for me to be ashamed that he managed to hit me. Some of my friends jumped in to hold me back, but I made no move to pay him back right away. It is not my custom to fight in public. Those are peasant manners. Besides, he was in uniform and I respect the dress of honor more than some who wear it—and it has yet to be determined with what right they do so. I also said as much to Năstase, when he attempted to console me. I don't need any comfort or consolation, I told him. Others may, but not me. ‘What are you going to do?' Năstase asked me. ‘People will say you got your ears clipped at good old Mitică's party. All right. But you should have picked a better occasion than old Turturiuk's birthday. After all the man's about to retire.' Honestly I expected more from Năstase. And I wasn't afraid to tell him that to his face, either. With all due respect for your intelligence, I told him, your jokes are often tasteless. So maybe your intelligence isn't quite so high and mighty after all. Besides, Tildy raced out so fast it was impossible to follow him. He left the house at once. I for my part found no reason to do the same. It would have looked as though the incident mattered to me, as if I'd really taken a beating, if you know what I mean. It would have been the equivalent of confessing a bad conscience, which would have suggested that I somehow sensed I deserved to have my ears boxed—in other words, that deep inside I felt I had provoked it somehow. But none of that means anything, because it doesn't apply—as interesting as it is to speculate. You see, I'm far enough above the incident to consider it from the point of view of an outsider and not a participant. At the same time, however, I'm not so removed as to not draw any conclusions. Yesterday morning, as I have since learned, Tildy challenged Năstase to a duel by sending his seconds. I myself spent the entire day at home, without their paying me a similar visit. Evidently he wishes to avoid getting seriously involved with me. Well, well, he'll be hearing from me, this German …”

A few days passed before the excitement generated by Herr Alexianu's report wore off. And because we didn't dare tell anyone where we had learned about the events—else we would have been forbidden from paying further visits to the seamstress—Fräulein Iliuţ was the only one we could discuss them with.

We asked her: “What does it mean:
to lose your face
?”