176 292
Ioana Pârvulescu
176
Rather than clicking his
heels and saying: ‘Yes, sir!’
the Police’s best coachman
soundlessly moved his lips.
He knew very well that at
Dr Rosenberg’s Hospice,
patients without any name
or papers were taken in,
many of them in a serious
condition. The City Hall paid
an annual fee to the Hospice
for this service, and likewise
to Dr Șuțu’s establishment
on Plantelor Street, where
persons with no means of
subsistence were treated.
And on top of this, his wife
was expecting him at home,
as he had to slaughter the
pig. It was the Feast of St
Ignatius, after all.
You can tell the chief’s a
bachelor! He thought to
himself. Why had he got
it into his head to make a
suggestion like that, when
he knew the chiefs’ working
method: if you’re the one
who comes up with an idea,
then you’re the one who
acts on it? He ought to be
charier with his words. But
he promised himself that
he would go home first and
then visit every madhouse
in the city. That vagrant
was a menace. Since Petre
brought him in yesterday,
things had been going badly
for everyone. He was like a
curse.
‘Who relieved you?’ asked
Costache.
‘I sent Ilie, ’cause he’s got a
fast cab. But if it were up to
me, two legs would be just
as good. You don’t need four
wheels to follow him.’
‘All right, never mind. See
you don’t stop off at home
first! There’s plenty of time
for the pig this afternoon!’
called the chief after the
coachman, confirming his
reputation as a mind reader.