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The Phanariot Manuscript
47
a kalimavkion of the same
fabric which he insisted on
havinguntil itwasdiscovered
and passed from hand to
hand from the clothes room,
through two hallways and,
finally, through the small
room where the old usher
lived out his days. It was a
light green kalimavkion, not
too tall, but its elegance was
in the brick-coloured edge,
slightly risen like a royal
crown.
Doicescu looked into the
mirror to watch as the
hairpiece
disappeared
under the small hat and
he checked his nape that
looked like a peeled potato.
A thin scarf placed around
his neck, white like the fluff
of a gander – and he was
ready.
Out the window one could
see the branches of the
apricot tree. A leaf of ice
entered his arteries. There
was but one sadness in
the life of Dan Braşoveanu
Doicescu at that point. And
it was quickly approaching
from the Şerban Vodă
mahala to halt alongside
the Colţea Church, at his
bedroom window.
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