Uncle Rudolf. Paul Bailey
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woodman (it occurs to me now that Mircea’s face was definitely grizzled) was pressing me to him with such force that I found it hard to breathe. He bent down and kissed me and I felt his grey stubble pricking my skin.
—The train will soon be here, said my father. He took some notes from his pocket, but Mircea refused them with an offended snort. Do not wait with us, my friend. Return to your bed.
Mircea was reluctant to leave us, I remember. It was only the horse’s restlessness – he was neighing again, and stamping his hooves – that persuaded him to go. There was a final embrace, and then he climbed into the driver’s seat. The horse needed no encouragement to move.
We were left alone. We were alone together for an eternity. How often, in reveries and dreams, has our lonely vigil come back to me – the two of us, disheartened father and apprehensive son, cuddling each other closely, for warmth as much as reassurance, on the tiny station’s solitary bench, and waiting, waiting.
—We must be careful not to fall asleep, Andrei. The train will only stop if we wave it down.
—Yes, Tata.
—There’s been a snowstorm, I expect, further up the line.
It was almost dawn before the train arrived. Its distant chugging awakened startled crows and sparrows. We stood up and shook our limbs. My father put out his arm as the train drew slowly into the tiny station and then passed through it, only stopping to leave us a choice between the last three carriages. It was the middle one we settled for, because it was empty.
—You can sleep now, if you wish, Andrei. You can spread yourself out and sleep.
—Tell me some more about Uncle Rudolf, Tata. Will I like him?
—Oh, yes. Have no fear. Unless you are a very dull and stupid boy, which I know you are not, you will certainly like him. You could not be going to a better uncle.
From the window, for mile upon mile, we saw nothing but snow and dun-coloured sky. We passed a village, where the peasants’ huts had been transformed into igloos.
—Igloos, Tata, I said, pointing at the huts that no longer seemed to be made of wood. My father had taught me how Eskimos live, snug inside their ice-houses. He was pleased that I hadn’t forgotten the lesson. It was his ambition, as a lover of geography, to travel the world – all of it, hot and cold – and study the customs of other peoples. In the meantime, he joked, I have been everywhere in my head, tapping it to ensure that I understood what he was saying. He had read about the Eskimos, and the many tribes of Africa, and the Grand Canyon, and the Sahara Desert in the French edition of National Geographic, the magazine he had begun to collect. There were several copies of it on our bookshelf, next to my story books, the Bible, and Family Medicine, which my mother consulted when my father or I caught a cold or came down with a fever. Family Medicine had a simple cure for every ordinary illness. It was more reliable than the doctor she once called in to look at me, whose hands were shaky from drink.
The train stopped abruptly – at another tiny country station – and a man got into the carriage we had hoped would be ours alone. He had the look of a soldier, in his heavy greatcoat and shiny boots.
—It is bitter out there, he told us, slamming the door behind him and slapping his sides. Where are you heading for?
—The capital, my father answered.
—On business?
—Yes, that is right. On business.
—What business would that be?
—Legal business. I work for lawyers.
—Honest lawyers?
—I have no reason to believe they are dishonest.
—Watch them closely, nevertheless. They are not always to be trusted.
—I thank you for your advice. My father was being (I understand now) sarcastic.
—Is this handsome young fellow yours? The man smiled at me. I think I tried to smile back.
—He is, yes. His name is Andrei.
—He is the image of his father. He has something of your fine nose already. Good day to you, Andrei.
—Good day, sir.
The man gave his name, which was Constantin Florescu. It has lodged in my memory for sixty-three years.
My father introduced himself, accepting a cigarette from the gold case Constantin Florescu opened with a flick.
—And is Andrei destined for the law?
—It is too early to say. He is a bright child. Shut your ears, Andrei, while I pay you compliments. He has curiosity and imagination. Perhaps a little too much imagination.
—That will pass. Childhood is the time to be imaginative. After which, sense prevails. In some cases, he added with a sneer. You will learn, Andrei Petrescu, that some men are more sensible than others. As for women, they are divinely blessed. They have no need of sense. Do not make too much money when you grow up. Women will spend it for you.
—I trust my son will not involve himself with such women. I hope he will find a woman with his mother’s character.
—And where is that good lady? At home?
My father hesitated.
—At home. Of course.
—I shall marry one day, Constantin Florescu announced. He stroked his thick moustache. I shall pick my wife with care. If it is God’s wish, as it is mine, she will give me sons.
—Ah, yes, said my father. God’s wish. Andrei is going to England. For a month or so.
—England? Why not Germany?
—We have a relative in England.
—A Romanian relative?
—Naturally.
—The English are not good to us. The English are playing games with us. They were our allies a few years ago. But now they are suspicious of our plans to build a greater, stronger country, said Constantin Florescu, undoing the buttons on his overcoat, revealing a green shirt.
—You are a Guardist, my father remarked, calmly.
—Indeed I am.
—So you put your faith in the prophet Codreanu, with his vision of a pure Romania.
—I do. As do all true patriots.
The train was nearing Bucharest. There were no more igloos. I saw tall buildings and tramcars and men and women walking along the pavements. The town of my birth dwindled as I stared out at the bustling city.
We said goodbye to our companion when we reached the ticket barrier.
—I am fighting on your behalf, Andrei Petrescu. Remind your father of that. What a very small suitcase you are taking with you to England.
I am writing in one of the leather-bound ledgers in which – like Teddy Grubb before me – I used to enter my uncle’s earnings. I think I am writing to reclaim my own life – my sheltered protected life – as much as his, Uncle Rudolf’s, because the compulsion to bring the past into the present will not be stilled. I can barely sleep, so urgent is the task I have set myself. Healthy as I am, ridiculously young as I might appear, I am nevertheless conscious that death could forestall me.
The benevolent Saint Nicholas is above the desk, smiling a just-detectable half-smile. The wonder-worker is blessing me with his right hand.
—If anything bad ever happens to God, we have always got Saint Nicholas. My uncle was fond of the old Russian saying, and often quoted it whenever he stopped to look at his beloved icon.
—Nobody knows who painted him, Andrew. The artist was without worldly ambition. He had his gift and his faith, and the two came together when he picked up his brush. You will care for my precious icon when I am dead, won’t you?