Every evening we go downtown, meeting Victor and my father's other old friends. Bucharest is bigger than Czernowitz, but colder. The sharp winter winds pounce on us from the alleys and lash at our faces. Of late, Father has changed beyond recognition. The depressions that he suffered from in Czernowitz don't appear to weigh on him here. Though he does drink and does speak enthusiastically, this is not the dangerous enthusiasm of Czernowitz. It's pleasant to be with him. When he's happy, everything around him seems happy — even the walls of the house. It's a pity he spends most of the day in the studio. When he emerges, he's as pale as chalk and immediately collapses in sleep. After two or three hours, he'll revive and we'll go out to the park. I don't dare to enter his studio when Father is at work. I think of his studio as an arena, where there are many demons in the guise of dwarfs. The demons are lithe and sticky, and they taunt Father. Father pulls them off, but they keep coming back, and they cling to him. I'd already heard about the demons in Czernowitz. Father would say—“Those demons!”—and make a gesture with his right hand. Even though I couldn't see them with my own eyes, I could feel their disturbing presence. Now it's clear to me: we've brought them from Czernowitz. In my heart of hearts, I pray that one day Father will muster the strength to push them far away.
We see Victor almost every evening. His stature and his clothes completely contradict his actions. From up close he looks like a poor, neglected man; his clothes smell of grease. He wears a striped blue suit that is faded and wrinkled; it's clear that he wears it all the time. It's strange — that the suit says more than his face: it speaks of his desperate attempts to help impoverished artists; it tells of nights without sleep. Father asks Victor if he painted in his youth. “Yes, I did paint,” he replies, a smile stealing over his round face, “but heaven help those paintings!” Victor's impoverished appearance is misleading. On the day of our arrival he presented Father with a wad of banknotes, and every time he sees us, he gives more. Father says, “That's enough.” But Victor cannot help himself. We sit in a café for two or three hours, sometimes till the last tram is about to depart, but we have not yet gone into a tavern. True, on our second day here Father equipped himself with some bottles. But here he drinks only at home.
Victor is planning a large exhibition of Father's paintings for the spring, to be held at the Raphael, a well-known gallery that is currently being renovated. “It's going to be quite an occasion,” says Victor, his childlike eyes glowing. He has boundless faith in Father. I'm afraid of this faith, and I remember our last day in Czernowitz: Father tearing up sketches and paintings and shoving them into the gaping mouth of the stove. The landlord implores him, “Sir, don't destroy what you've made,” but Father pays no attention to him and continues to rip up papers and canvases, feeding them to the fire with a fearsome glee.
One day Victor arrives at our house with a woman. She is tall and blond, and she has a smiling face. Father goes to greet them, and Victor introduces her as Suzy. Suzy is to come to us every day from nine to three to be Father's model.
“What is a model?” I ask Father at lunch.
“A woman whom one paints,” Father replies, without raising his head from the plate.
Suzy appears the following day and enters the studio. I stand by the door and eavesdrop. “I'm twenty-nine and I've been married, but it didn't work out,” Suzy tells Father. “Since I got divorced, I've modeled for two painters, and from now on I'll be happy to serve you, too.”
Father asks some questions, and Suzy answers and laughs. Then they fall silent, and the only thing to be heard is the scratching of charcoal on the paper.
I go into the kitchen and sadness comes over me. It seems as though Father is also about to be taken from me, and I will be put into an orphanage. I decide that I will run away to Halina's village and await her resurrection there.
At three o'clock the door of the studio opens and Suzy comes out without looking at me. In the evening Father complains to Victor that it's hard for him to draw a woman who is also modeling for other artists. Victor asks why, and Father gives an example, and everyone at the café laughs. I understand nothing of what he has said, and yet I feel relieved.
This evening Father is in a good mood. He tells jokes and imitates people, and he narrates a long story about the famous art critic who at first had praised his work and then retracted what he'd said. Only a few days earlier Father had been mute, quite unable to produce a sound. Now he not only converses and expounds, but he even recites poetry and sings. In my heart, I pray that the demons that beset him in Czernowitz will not overcome him here. When the demons engulf him, his mood plummets, and depression darkens his brow and seals his mouth.
Suddenly Victor sinks to his knees and announces, “We will change the order of priorities.”
“What priorities?” asks Father.
“Artists should be at the top of the ladder.”
Father also sinks to his knees, and he embraces Victor; everyone laughs.
41
Victor has brought a new model to the house — a small and slender woman called Tina. Her expression is one of naïve wonder. Her lips tremble, and it's clear that speech doesn't come easily to her. I see at once that Father likes her.
I stare at Victor's round face. Sometimes he seems like a practical man whose actions are reflected in his every movement, and sometimes he seems so distracted that if truth be told, he doesn't know what he's doing. In the café, he eats sandwich after sandwich, and when it's almost midnight he says, “We have to go home; I've got a long day ahead of me tomorrow.” It's not hard to guess that there's no woman waiting for him, and no hot dinner, and it's doubtful that he has changed his shirt in the past month. But he takes good care of us: every time he comes, he brings us vegetables and fruit, and a chocolate bar or box of candies for me.
Father works from morning till night. Through the door I hear the scratching of charcoal on the paper. Sometimes it sounds like he's trying to remove a stubborn stain from the paper. When Father paints I feel his efforts, and sweat covers my entire body. To share in his labors, I doodle on a pad and invent math problems.
Last night I dreamed of Mother. She was tall and full of gaiety, and her hair spilled over her shoulders as it had during our summer vacation. But her eyes were listless. She spoke of the orphanage in which she had grown up. She had already told me something about it. Her parents died very young, and the Jewish orphanage had been her home. Now it could clearly be seen in her eyes that she was an orphan: they were sunk into their sockets, and the more I gazed into them, the more sunken they appeared. I woke up frightened; Father was in a deep sleep and did not hear me.
I remembered how run-down the orphanage in Storozynetz had looked, and pity filled my heart. Once I had asked Mother if she remembered her parents. “Nothing now,” she said, and shrugged. Her words surprised me. Then I swore to myself that I would store in my memory all the people and the sights that have passed before my eyes, so when the day came I would be able to say: “Of course I remember. How could I forget?”
I get a letter from Mother today. Father doesn't ask me what she writes, but I tell him anyway. Mother wants to visit me at Christmas. Not a word about herself. I feel that even these few sentences did not come easily. I fold the letter and put it inside the writing pad.
Father is painting feverishly. The little woman appears each morning and emerges from the studio at three o'clock. Father's face has changed over the last few weeks, and in the evening, when he sits close to me, I feel the tension that simmers within him. I'm afraid of this tension and of his restrained movements. But even more than that, I'm afraid of the demons that surround him. The demons that were invisible in Czernowitz jump around here in every corner. Sometimes Father makes an abrupt gesture to drive them off, but they don't go far. I see them next to the sofa and beside the bed. They are very small beings in the shape of people. On the whole they are lively, but occasionally they fall prey to some kind of distress, and they shrivel up and disappear.