178 292
Ioana Pârvulescu
178
in a straight line, like a man
who had just had to swallow
an undeserved reproach,
but controlled himself with
dignity. Costache disguised
his sudden good mood. The
lad was holding his cap by
the visor in his left hand and
shifting his weight from one
foot to the other, leaving
splashes of water and mud
on the wooden floor. The
cop signalled the other two
to leave the room.
‘Are you left-handed?’
Costache had as keen an eye
for details as didDrMargulis,
except that the cop had an
eye for every single thing,
whereas the doctor had an
eye only for the symptoms
of disease. The policeman
knew by instinct when there
was something untoward,
as surely as the doctor knew
when he had a stomach-
ache. By instinct, Nicu lied
to them both.
He unclenched his lips and
determinedly said: ‘No, sir,
I’m not! I’m right-handed.’
‘Sit down over here. Are you
hungry?’
‘No!’
‘Just as well. Tell me to the
last detail what you talked
about with the stranger you
met yesterday in front of
the Icoanei Church.’
Nicu sighed and unbuttoned
his tunic: so this was what
it was all about. Not the
accident with the icicles or
the wallet, which he would
not have like to come to
the attention of the Police,
because then he would not
have received the reward.
And nor could it be some
roguery on his mother’s
part. It was the first time
he had spoken to Costache
and at close quarters he
looked less frightening than