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Ioana Pârvulescu
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a strange look: ‘You’re not
in your right mind! You’re
lunatic. You escabed from
the madhouse, didn’t you?
I read in the newsbaber
that they make you swallow
quicksilver, so that your
beard and your moustache
fall out. You fell to fighting,
like our Lahovary on
Filibescu Street, tried to kill
each other in a duel, with
swords and bistols! The devil
take me if I can understand
what’s wrong with such
beople!’
For a time he trampled the
snow with the toe of his
boot, without taking his
eyes off me: ‘I’m taking you
to the Bolice. Let them deal
with you. Even though I’ve
seen that there aren’t too
many cobbers around the
blace at the weekend, we’ll
find one to lock you in a cell
sure enough.’
Then he tried to heave the
young man into the sleigh.
He struggled with the body
for a while and in the end
yelled at me, releasing a
whiteplume fromhismouth,
as if he were smoking: ‘Why
don’t you helb me? I can’t
lift him by myself!’
I grasped the blond young
man by the shoulders, as
instructed by Petre. He
was heavy. Petre looked at
me scornfully. We laid him
on a plaid rug, on top of
the logs. Petre tidied him
up, as if he were arranging
goods for display, put his
hat on his head, rummaged
in the inside pocket of his
coat, whence he removed
a deer-skin wallet, which
he immediately concealed
in his own pocket. All of a
sudden I realized what had
been niggling me ever since
Petre said he intended to
take me to the Police.