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Life Begins on Friday
165
up. I did not ask myself how.
I shall think about it when
I feel able; for the time
being, I am not able. Like
never before, I felt the urge
to look, to feast my eyes on
the spectacle of everyday
life. Petre said something
to me. I did not hear him,
because my eyes, which
focused on the details as if
through a huge magnifying
glass, had replaced all my
other senses. Suddenly, one
image struck my retina like
a hammer. It was a building
I seemed to recognize:
Bucharest’s
National
Theatre, on Victory Avenue.
In the plaza in front of the
building small hansoms
covered with tarpaulins
stood ina row, andthesnugly
dressed coachmen were
talking among themselves.
Snow-laden trees marked
the semi-circle of the plaza.
So, I was on Victory Avenue.
I had, in a way, come home
and my parents’ house must
have been but a few steps
away.
‘Good God, where have you
brought me?’ I groaned.
‘To the bolice station. I told
you!’ came the immediate
reply from up on the box.
‘Whether they’ll send you
back to the madhouse, that I
can’t say, but at least there’ll
be beople to take care of
you. I couldn’t leave you
lying there, like him, who
got shot with the bistol.’
Petre’s harsh but not hostile
voice brought me back to
reality: to the new reality.
I plunged back into the
unruly city. To the left, on
the blank lateral wall of a
splendid building, beneath
the oddly squashed outline
of a roof whose chimneys
were smoking, I saw an
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