Silence. Only Misha curled at his feet, snoring and purring away beneath the blanket. Then suddenly the noise of engine and wheels racing madly on the cobblestones. He couldn’t stop himself; the car’s lights — like a plane taking off — lit up the room, then he tossed the blanket aside, Misha miaowed in fear, and he put on his slippers, headed straight for the door, pushed the handle down, and, in a few moments, found himself outside in the street, shouting curses. The car was no longer to be seen. Criminals! Brutes! He went a few steps in the direction he thought the big black car had taken, off to the left, then turned back and saw the white body lying in the road. The wings were long — longer than the arms. He stroked them: a soft white fluff, as on a goose or swan. He looked around but saw no one, bent down, grabbed the young man under the arms, and began to pull him, the wings dangled listless, perhaps he wasn’t dead, perhaps he would come back to life. There wasn’t a soul in the street, it was silent and smelled of lilies and carnations. A preternatural silence. All that could be heard was his slippers dragging on the paving, then on the ground covered with little tufts of grass, then on the steps, the three steps, and the banging of the handle. The wings wouldn’t fit through the doorframe, so he had to turn the body on its side; it wasn’t too heavy and felt warm through the thin silk shirt with a large lace collar. Then he became afraid and began to push and shake the body of the winged creature that he was dragging into his home without really knowing why: perhaps he’ll pull through, perhaps he’s just unconscious. .
Mihalache folded his arms on his chest and sized Leo up. It wasn’t scorn in his eyes — rather concern and a natural curiosity. The dirty collar, the bloodstain, the shirt open at the chest: he was missing a button. Poor old Leo! But he said nothing and threw the dice again. Then it was Leo’s turn to throw, but he did it so awkwardly that the dice bounced onto the floor, one rolling under the bed, the other somewhere on the carpet or under the chair. Mihalache bent down to look for them, forget it, Leo said, to hell with them! let’s call it a day. He dropped on all fours beside Mihalache, who had stretched out on his belly and was groping under the bed. Forget it, Leo shouted, and the other turned his head, both afraid and puzzled; his fingers touched something soft and fluffy, was that a goose under the bed? Leo grabbed his free arm and began to shake him: leave it be, just leave it there! Mihalache withdrew his other arm and, without saying anything, leaned on the chair and pulled himself up. His hip struck the backgammon box, which had been placed carelessly on a backless kitchen chair; the box toppled over, and the pieces scattered all around the room.
The young man had a large head, reddish hair, and a pale round face. He was handsome, with wings longer than arms that he had used to fly over the city, alone in the harsh air high up in the sky. What could he do? He went to the window: the street was just as quiet and empty as before. For a moment he thought of reporting it to the police, but who would believe him if the man really was dead? They would pester him with all kinds of questions, perhaps give him a beating as well. He took the corpse in his arms and lifted it onto the bed. He stroked the blue velvet pants and the shiny leather shoes with long pointed toes. Perhaps he’ll open his eyes. . He pulled a chair beside the bed and sat thinking for a long time. Something had to be done, that was clear, but what? The young man had thin lips and a pale face, probably he’d broken something when he crashed down onto the road, like a watch falling on cement, and that was the end of that. There was no point reporting it to the police, or shouting for someone to help. What help? He turned the body on its belly, the wings didn’t even fit on the bed.
He went panting into the barber’s shop, red in the face, his hair tousled — he must have been running. They all looked at him questioningly. Mihalache stopped working too, raised his scissors to ear level and tapped them a few times, as if to say he’s crazy; the others laughed, what a joke, and from his corner Lic
cackled stupidly: been flying, have you, Mister Leo? Yes, I’ve been flying, and they roared again: ha! ha! ha! look at Leo circling high above the city, gliding softly like a hawk, like an eagle, and yes, like a lion with big white swan’s wings, high up there. .
1 An alcoholic drink made from wine yeast.
Cold
The streetcar was going faster than usual. I was smiling. The speed broke up the forms of houses and people. Other trams glided along in the opposite direction: red, yellow, and blue, so quickly that all I could make out were the colors. The images became long and distorted; maybe they were no longer streetcars. Then, out of the blue, it began to snow. Large flakes fell like pieces of lint, so slowly that they seemed unreal. Honestly, you’d have thought the window was being whitewashed. The city gradually receded into the distance, the houses ever lower, more and more thinly spread. After the last one came an endless iron fence, not very high, and beyond it fog was banked in the shape of monstrous clouds. I had to get off. A few figures were standing there as the streetcar slowed down and stopped. In their long faded blue smocks they looked like shop boys. But they had wings: small, strange, scarcely visible, but definitely wings. Their oblong faces welcoming smiles. Each in turn flapped his little wings. Feeling cold and uneasy, I stuck my hands in my pockets and set out. What was all that bowing about? Although I didn’t know the way, I looked straight ahead and speeded up. Not only was it cold, I really did have to hurry. Dusk was becoming a grayish-white shroud. I was almost running alongside the fence. I was cold. For a moment I thought of retracing my steps to find them — perhaps they were coming in the same direction — but I could no longer see anything back there because of the fog. The tarmac road ahead was clear, although unfortunately the restful white light soon took on yellowish hues. I understood when I bumped into a first tall object: I had entered a forest of lampposts. The fog became denser. The posts weren’t visible, so I had to grope the cold damp steel with the palms of my hands. Tiredness overcame me. I crouched down at the foot of a streetlight, wrapping my arms around me in an attempt to get warm. Then I stood up and began to jump up and down, slapping myself on my sides and hips. The fog had wrapped me in a shirt of ice; little by little the brutal cold was boring inside me. I blew on my hands like a lunatic. I couldn’t run: I’d have risked banging into all the lampposts. “Like a rat in a trap,” I shouted out. “A rat!” I scarcely heard my own voice. Someone was throwing cotton wool over me, wrapping me up and stifling me. And the cold! I felt it gnaw at my muscles, just beneath the skin. I felt stiff all over. Threads of fog were entering my lungs. And on top of everything I couldn’t forget that I was coming from somewhere.
Through the Keyhole
He was late again. The corridor was empty; he took long strides down it, dragging the soles of his dusty shoes over the cherry-colored carpet. He paused for a few seconds: the tapping sound of a typewriter came from one room, laughter and giggling from another. He was more than a quarter of an hour late, no point in hurrying. Only a few more steps to the door of his own office — a door lower and grayer than the other one, which opened every day and would open now too. For a moment he was tempted to look through the keyhole, but he managed to stop himself: there was no point, Petrache would certainly be there inside, he always was, except on very rare occasions, like when his father was run over by a bus and killed, and he phoned from the hospital in a calm, perhaps slightly husky, voice and said simply that he wouldn’t be coming in; only later did they find out what had happened. When he came back, he went as always into their office to check if anyone was late. He’s not a bad man — Magda, for example, had been diligently filing her nails and chatting through pursed lips — but he won’t stand for carelessness or unpunctuality. That’s how he is. . He won’t say anything to him now either, won’t give him an earful, just fix those blue, watery eyes on him — such a contrast to his dry, stern face. The latecomer will feel confused and hesitant again, will finally mumble an excuse: the clock, the trolleybus, an accident that blocked the road; Petrache will continue staring at him, without saying a word, then suddenly turn and look out the window at the rooftops of nearby houses due for demolition; a new block is going to be built there.