The girl didn’t come, nor did I see the boy with the violin. The army man turned off his light. It started to rain again — a fine, copious rain. I sat at the table, facing the window as I usually do. The telephone was in its place, motionless, never anywhere else; it’s always there, in the corner on the left. It seemed larger than ever, lying with even greater menace in its perpetual wait. I didn’t know what to do. I was bored, I didn’t feel like doing anything. The girl wasn’t at home, there was no sign of the violinist or his mother, and the officer had probably gone out too. I went and knocked on Matilda’s door. No answer. I opened it. There was no one in the room: neither she nor Mihalache. They weren’t in the kitchen either. I was alone. I went to the window again. Someone entered the telephone room. I couldn’t see who, but I felt there was definitely someone there. I strained my eyes. To the right, where only a bit of a sideboard was visible, I glimpsed a figure dressed in such glaring colors that they shone even into the semi-darkness at the back of the room — especially the red and the yellow. Then I saw that a long neck, ending in a small head, rose above the shape. It disappeared into the area I couldn’t see from my window, maybe into the bathroom. I waited. My heart thundered for a few minutes, feeling as if it was about to burst. It was the bird, the one from the flea market. I no longer had the slightest doubt. Look, there it is! It’s moving there by the sideboard. Visibility was very poor, there was less and less light. Rain continued to fall, stubborn as ever. Clouds gathered ever darker in the sky.
I took off my pajamas and began my gymnastic exercises as usual. I was no longer afraid, just excited. Now I knew. I had to keep calm, avoiding fear or impatience. Now I knew. The bird was walking around, getting closer, will come here one day. Now I was sure. I sat on the bed, head in hands. There was no longer any point in leaving; no point in setting foot outside of Matilda’s. I lay on the bed, face up, legs tight together, hands stiff beside my body. The stretcher slopes down, as if it’s slipping from the hands of the bearers. They speed up a little, but choose carefully where to put their feet. The river gleams in the sun, dark and silvery.
The Accident
A droning could be heard in the sky as old Leo said sorry, just a second, and went to the window, one hand holding his razor, the other smeared with lather. He failed to spot the plane and nervously pulled the rather dirty curtains, but the droning went on, where can it be? said Leo, and, sorry, I’ll be right back. Mihalache had also stopped work: he raised his scissors to ear level and pretended to tap his forehead a couple of times, as if to say he’s crazy; the others laughed at the joke, the droning moved off, becoming less and less audible, and old Leo returned to the shop, puffing and red in the face, I saw it, it was very high. .
Did you see it, Mister Leo? Yes, I did, and he wiped his hand with a towel, then began to sharpen the razor on the leather strap hanging from the wall. His customer, one cheek shaved, the other still soapy, muttered something or other, and Leo excused himself again and applied some more lather. He then took a couple of steps back, as if to admire his work.
Lic
began to speak about aircraft: the French had built a huge one with God knows how many seats, incredibly fast, six or seven hundred miles an hour, I promise you, I’m not making it up. . No, Mihalache interrupted, it was the Americans, not the French, isn’t that right, Mister Leo? But old Leo didn’t feel like talking, his mind was elsewhere. He scratched his head with his little fingernail; his hair was turning gray at the temples, and there were a couple of bald patches he had no way of hiding. He looked in the mirror: his mustache was still black, shiny from brilliantine, not yet dyed. It was their problem if they didn’t believe it. .
Been flying this month, Leo? He didn’t answer. He had to be careful when he was scraping the razor over someone’s throat. How they fidgeted all the time! They asked him things just for the sake of it, because they thought he liked to talk, but the whole shop knew that every month Leo took a day of his annual leave to fly to a distant city, one summer he even got as far as Budapest, in a plane so big you didn’t feel you were flying. And each time he’d tell them how the flight had gone, whether there had been air pockets or something wrong with the engine, where it had stopped en route, all kinds of little details, but there had to be a limit, he couldn’t spend all day rabbiting on. He washed the customer’s face over the sink. Eau de Cologne? Alcohol? Then some fanning with the towel, careful, almost tender strokes of the comb, how young he is, and what a surprising resemblance to the other one! He could see it more clearly now that he was shaved. The young man got up to leave, and old Leo felt himself blush as the guy slipped him a tip.
Mihalache was the only one he sometimes chatted with properly, when they were playing backgammon. He told him that it was best in really small planes, because in the big ones you didn’t feel you were flying: you sat in your seat like at the theater, looking out the window at the sky or at clouds as motionless as foam sheep, so that if you couldn’t hear the dull sound of the engines you’d think it was all a con, that the plane wasn’t moving, what do you mean, not moving? just that, I don’t know, like it was hanging from a cable. . What funny ideas you have! Mihalache said, and he shook the dice in his hands like a crapshooter.
They didn’t play in the shop, Mihalache came to his place, he was younger and still a bachelor, you don’t know how lucky you are, old Leo said — and he laughed heartily, poured two glasses of drojdie,1 cheers, then wiped his mouth and mustache with the back of his hand and gave a smack of satisfaction. The dice left Mihalache’s fist and rolled endlessly, okay, you throw them, and Mihalache smiled, right, you’re cornered now, you can start reading a paper so you don’t get bored, and Leo slapped his knees, poured another glass and downed it in one.
Haven’t you ever got dizzy, or felt like throwing up? Old Leo shook the dice in his big red hand — why don’t you try it for yourself? The younger man knew Leo would like it if he looked completely taken aback, and maybe he really was. He leaned over the board, one arm raised and his fist still clenched so as not to drop the dice: try what? I’d never climb into one of those chicken coops, if that’s what you mean, and the dice rattled merrily. Leo smiled a little haughtily — you’re afraid! No, I’m not, but the idea just doesn’t grab me. That’s what we have trains for, no? Why shouldn’t I go by train, where you can look out at fields, mountains, rivers. . What’s the big rush?
Misha had lain down on the flower-patterned bedspread: he was used to the shake, rattle, and roll of the dice, so he was able to sleep soundly. Old Leo, a smile still on his face, continued to play without paying much attention. A car speeded by crazily in the street, a dog began to bark and others followed suit: one hell of a racket. Some ducks quacked with fright in the garden. Old Leo went to the window, then came back. What’s up, aren’t you playing? He took the dice and threw them onto the polished wooden board. He made a bad move. He slapped his thigh, but you could see he didn’t really care. What’s up, Leo? Mihalache put his hands on his hips and looked Leo up and down. One of his shirt buttons was missing, his collar was dirty, even the smock he wore at the barber’s was none too clean.