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Life Begins on Friday
163
‘What do you mean there
are not many people there
at the weekend? What day
is it today? Isn’t it Monday?
Today was Monday!’
Petre did not deign to reply.
He seemed clear in his mind.
The horse was moving at a
trot and the surroundings
were innocent enough,
and yet I was about to lose
my mind. The trees arched
whitely overhead, then the
open road, the sun, again
clumps of woodland and a
lone bird fluttering without
a care. We soon reached
the main road, where many
different tracks could be
seen mingling together.
‘It’sFriday,’hecondescended
to say – seemingly mollified.
Having risen before dawn,
after a night of restless sleep
and exhausted by my own
agitation, I think I then fell
asleep.
‘Just a hob, a skib and a jumb
and we’ll be there!’
My opening eyes were
seized
by
the
most
astonishing scene I had ever
beheld. The sun was high in
the sky. The light suffused a
bustling street: carriages to
which were harnessed pairs
of glossy horses, an ox cart
creaking under a gigantic
barrel, hansoms, irritable
coachmen, one- and two-
storey buildings in whose
windows glinted the rays
of the sun, shops with gaily
painted signs. The people
were seemingly all dressed
in the same fashion, one
matching the other. The
ladies wore hats swathed
in scarves tied beneath
the chin; their waists
were unnaturally slender
and their heavy garments
reached to the ground. The
men all had bowler hats
and canes. Two officers in