stase pass alongside them, concealing her laughter with a hand to her mouth. Once, when they were away somewhere, I went up to the frame and realized how they had been spending their time. They had driven hundreds of nails into the wretched stakes, until the box they had brought with them on the first day was empty. But soon then they came with another box, and the hammering started again at an even faster pace. They boarded up the legs of the frame from top to bottom. With what skill they drove in the nails! I had to admit it: the kids certainly knew their trade. The heads of the nails were colored in various shades, so that together they formed all kinds of ornamental patterns.
Autumn came. Mrs. Igntescu, with Ion’s help, laid in provisions for the winter, and at the far end of the yard Mrs. Nstase boiled down tomatoes to make a preserved sauce. The rabbits had multiplied on all sides. One evening Berta was taken to the maternity hospital. The joiners went about their business as slowly and meticulously as ever, though with a somewhat greater resolve to finish the job. The day came when they finally fitted the crossbar — a thick, beautifully shiny beam, into which they had driven nails in such a way that it seemed to have black and red painted stripes. The acrobats spun around it, hammering in the last nails. They strengthened it in the corners with diagonal slats. Then, for the first time, the strange thought occurred to me that our carpet frame had become a gallows. It was still rectangular, but stood much taller, and in the end was beautiful to look at. I for one liked it that way; I had no need of a carpet frame. But why didn’t Mrs. Igntescu or Mrs. Nstase protest? However hard I tried, I couldn’t make any sense of that. Where would they beat their carpets now? One thing was perfectly clear: only an acrobat with a stepstool could climb up and hang a carpet there. But how would he then beat it? One day, when the milkmaid made a delivery, I asked her what she thought about the transformation: it’s a gallows, you see, not a carpet frame any more. She laughed good-naturedly, poured some milk into my jug, and went on her way. Should I tell Mrs. Igntescu that those charlatans had taken us for a ride? It’s true that she didn’t know they’d broken the frame in the first place. At the time I’d been as silent as the grave, so was I now going to. .? Still, it was really getting to be too much — here in our backyard. Mrs. Igntescu will really raise hell, I thought with some pleasure. Those kids had better watch out! She’ll incite the whole neighborhood against them. . The acrobats had just finished decorating the frame with flowers and multicolored streamers. One had a reel of thin cable on his arm — a kind of silk cord. He twirled it around, closing now one eye, now the other. A rabbit nibbled lackadaisically at his heel. I won’t tell Mrs. Ign
tescu a thing; she can see for herself. It was she who hired them, after all. Now it’s too late. Perhaps she wouldn’t even believe me and would make me look like the villain of the piece. That kind of thing’s happened before. I opened the window to let some cool air in. The sun was setting. The kids took off their jerseys and went to wash at the pump. They were cheerful, more cheerful than ever. They splashed and jostled one another, laughing with their mouths wide open. Their wet bodies glistened with a reddish hue in the sun. Mrs. Igntescu herself brought them some towels. They gamboled around her, splashing her with water as they chased after one another. Caught up in their playfulness, she began to giggle as if someone was tickling her, and slapped them on the back with her chubby hand. She moved her broad hips jauntily. Mrs. Nstase came out too, together with her husband, Mr. Nstase. Ion picked at his nose and broke into a slanting grin. Everyone was laughing, so very happy. Then the young men suddenly reined themselves in. They became serious rather abruptly. They picked their jerseys clean of dust and wood chips, then put them on again. Mrs. Nstase sent the brood of chickens off to their coop with the help of a stick. The rabbits went home of their own accord, attracted by the cabbage leaves scattered there. Only the rooster stayed behind. The young men made some gestures by way of asking Mrs. Nstase for something. Of course they can, if they’ve finished their work. They thank her and bow gracefully in unison. Mrs. Igntescu jauntily goes inside, taking Ion with her, and the two of them come back dragging the large Persian carpet. They young men give her a grateful look. Oh, it’s no bother really! They hurry over to help her, and with a few deft but powerful movements spread the carpet out at the foot of the gallows. They look at one another, exchange smiles, and get the performance under way. First they warm up with a few graceful cartwheels and midair somersaults. Then all three at once make an amazing jump onto the crossbar and, as on a trapeze, execute some figures worthy of the greatest acrobats. They twirl round the bar, fluttering like so many wings, throw themselves into the air, hang from one hand, raise themselves up, feet pointing skyward, then drop their heads down and — as everyone holds their breath, dizzy with fear — grip the bar with their feet and remain suspended like bats. After standing stock still for a few moments, Mr. Nstase begins to clap his big hands together. Bravo! Mrs. Igntescu blots her temples and sweaty brow with a handkerchief. Oof! What a thrill! The young men drop down, still fresh as daisies, and turn to face me. Just then old man Cpri
appears too, shriveled and hunched over. He’s been ill and has a dry cough. The acrobats look toward me. I feel a bit awkward: I’m not sure what they want. The others also stare at me, and Mrs. Igntescu lets out a contemptuous snort. Fortunately, though, she looks at the young men with such fondness, and they soon start their routines again. This time they dance. The sun sinks ever lower, casting a reddish hue on their cheeks. And how their eyes glimmer! At first there is something stiff and solemn in the way they dance. Grave faces, concentrated expressions. They circle the gallows slowly, coiling elastically round the poles in silence. It’s a snake dance. Everyone looks at them excitedly, perhaps even with a little trepidation. Little by little their movements become more vigorous: the somersaults are faster, their faces no longer so serious. Their eyes sparkle more and more. Their arms move almost furiously, their bodies convulse, the dance becomes a frenzy. Faster and faster and faster. Their faces, tinged by the last glimmers of the sun, have something diabolical in them. All that can be heard now is the long-drawn-out hissing of snakes. The boys stop suddenly — right in front of me, very close to the window where I’m stationed. They take a deep bow. Exhausted but happy, hands clinging to their sides, they stare straight at me. They smile in a candid, childlike manner. An indescribable joy blossoms in their eyes. They’re so tall, as if they have trickled down from somewhere. They stand straight, right there in front of me, until I can no longer contain the smile of approval for which they have been waiting.