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Doina RuSti
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thick chain.
“The Alep satin shawl”,
barked the cellar woman
who just happened to be in
the area.
Then a few younger voices
cooed:
The Alep satin
shawl
. Finally, the order
had reached the woman in
charge of the laundry, with
her pursed lips like the beak
of a rooster and she blared
like a royal trumpet back
into the ear of the usher:
“The Alep satin shawl was
burned when ironing!”
All voices repeated the
story that sounded like a
catastrophe once it arrived
backinthesleepingquarters.
Doicescu grumbled, evoked
his manhood two or three
times then sent a new order
that reached the sharp-
nosed woman in charge of
the laundry:
“The Malta shawl!”
After the chambermaid
tied his shawl close to his
hip, Doicescu slipped in his
emerald-encrusted dagger
and the leather bag with
golden string. Through the
side slits, his calf could be
seenwrappedintheshalwars
from where his small feet
protruded. The woman’s
able hands rolled up the
stockings. They seemed
made of silk, although they
were only made of cotton, a
new cotton which had just
come out, silky and fluid like
a grub.
Although it was hot, he
couldn’t just go out in
his surplice. After several
attempts he took a short
silk mantle which seemed
elegant and, as he also had