At the meeting in March, the chairman announced that the donation was in danger because of the prefect, who was hell bent on having his house be purchased for the student centre. The old man was worried. The chairman was tired, sick of it all, depressed. He had been ill for several months now. The former deputy chairman had been bedridden with consumption since autumn. He was waiting for Easter, so that he could go up into the mountains. The deputy chairman of the original committee was the only one who could be of assistance in the mater of the donation.
A few days later, we read in the newspaper: the deputy chairman had died.
A warm afternoon, achingly warm. The lilacs around the yard had come into leaf. The black banners cast their pall. We gathered around the chairman, who was pale, agitated, and suppressed his trembling with difficulty. All of us wore sad smiles and were tempted to look up at the sky. The sky was near, blue, streaked with nostalgic little clouds. From the lilac bushes came a hive-like drone. The street was long, cobbled, the pavements scorching. Somewhere out of sight I could detect acacias in bloom and gardens with flowerbeds and freshly turned furrows of black earth. The hum of the city, with its parks, factories and boulevards reached the yard of our dead comrade. And a gentle breeze carried the scent of a desolate spring.
I saw him borne on shoulders, amid weeping. I saw too the wreath from the club, with a white ribbon, with a sad inscription like a summons. My friend held my right arm, Nişka my left. Both trembled.
On the way there, my friend had told me about his parting with his lady. He had tears in his eyes and a broken heart. He cried in the street, clutching a white handkerchief.
‘Only God can save me. Only God can save me.’
How could I console him? I kept silent.
In the courtyard, with sad friends, I caught sight of Nişka’s frightened eyes. I gave a start. Nişka came up to me and for the whole time thereafter held her arm tightly in mine. How could I have soothed Nişka’s pain, when I felt it myself?
My friend took my arm again. Again he mumbled, holding his handkerchief to his mouth: ‘Only God can save me. Only God can save me.’
Nişka was worried.
‘Why is he crying?’
‘He’s thinking about his sister, his little sister.’
‘Is she dead?’
The streets narrowed. The procession walked single file. In the front yards of the houses, poplars towered. At the windows I imagined curious eyes, saddened by the young age of our deceased friend.
‘Is it true you’re leaving for Italy?’
‘Yes, Nişka; in four days.’
‘For how long?’
‘Till the middle of May.’
‘Take me with you!’
Why did Nişka’s plea cause me to shudder? Our fellow mourners looked at us in surprise. My friend was now listening.
‘It’s not possible, Nişka’, I whispered. ‘I’m not going on my own.’
She remained silent until we reached the cemetery. Nişka’s silences were never reflective, but bouts of mute desperation. She never tried to rise above them. I spoke to her.
‘Nişka, you swore to me you would never let yourself be vanquished. But in the face of an insurmountable obstacle you declare yourself crushed.’
She made no reply.
My friend had let go of my arm.
‘I’m going away too.’
‘Why are you telling me? Just do it!’
‘Won’t you be sad at our parting?’
‘No. Even here, we are apart. And your monologue, the only thing that really interests me, you can share with me more warmly and at greater length in writing.’
‘I’m going to suffer so much far away. You know very well what I will lack once I go away.’
I was tempted to think about the first choir meeting in my attic, about the deputy chairman, now dead: the memories did not make me sad; they weighed down on me, they exhausted me physically. I drove them away. A new spring, departures, work, sadness, a clear sky … I have no reason to be sad. I am warmed by the sun, the mountains await me, the railroad tracks are fresh and without end. Why should I be sad? I’m twenty years old, I have a fierce will, my neck is unbowed, I have a steely body, I have desires, and I have chains for my desires. A friend and companion of mine has died. Henceforth he is alien to us; maybe he is happy or maybe he is not. I do not know. My dead friend will live on within my soul. So why should I be sad now, in front of everyone? My sadness will take hold of me once I am alone, as is fitting for a soul that treasures death. But then again, death intrudes upon me now, when I cannot fight. I will meditate on death when I am alone; understand it, worship it. But here, at Nişka’s side, should I seem sad? Should I be like all the others, I who have endured and gritted my teeth when despair overwhelmed my spirit and wracked my flesh?
I thought about it, and drove away my sadness. To my right, my friend was weeping over a woman. My left arm carried the weight of Nişka’s disturbance.
‘Nişka, you’re shaking.’
‘No.’
‘Did you come on your own?’
‘Bibi is ill.’
‘What about Viorica?’
Nişka’s face darkened, in disgust.
‘I don’t know. She’s not my friend anymore. We haven’t spoken since winter.’
I refused to believe it. Naturally, Nişka had offended her.
‘You don’t know how bad Viorica is.’
‘It’s stupid to be angry at a friend, Nişka.’
We walked on, a procession of the deceased’s classmates and friends. The streets widened; chestnut trees began to cast shade; the sky shook off its clouds.
‘Let’s not talk until the cemetery.’
‘You cannot lack anything in your memories. But why should you preserve the memories?’
‘Because I love her!’
Nişka gave a start. She leaned toward me.
‘Why did you lie to me?’
I looked straight ahead, above the others’ heads, at the wreaths that accompanied our dead friend on his journey.
Twilight in the cemetery, a summons for spring. The chairman could not stand and had to be supported. Before the black outline of the grave, his fever took hold and overpowered him. The ropes lowered his friend into the ground, amid tears and cast clods. In the sunset, a handful of clouds were still fringed blood red. Along the central path, the trees grew restless in the evening wind. The gravediggers waited for their pay. Candles flickered on other graves. I glimpsed large, expensive bouquets of flowers. Winter had left a bench with two crooked legs. The gardener picked up his coat from the plinth of a tombstone of red marble.
‘Do you remember the cemetery in Jassy?’
It was Nişka who spoke. But she had changed. She was nostalgic and tranquil now. She walked with her eyes on the cypresses, on the sky, waiting for the stars.
I asked her then about her friend from Jassy, with whom she had returned from the congress, with whom she had spent so many winter afternoons.
‘Everyone says we’re in love with each other.’ She smiled at me. I masked my joy by asking, ‘How so?’
On the night of my departure I heard bits of gravel hitting the attic window. In the street, Nişka peered upward with her head thrown back.
‘I saw the light on. And I came to bid you farewell!’
‘Thank you, Nişka.’
‘You won’t forget me, will you? And you’ll write to me, won’t you? And you’ll write to me often and …’
‘Say it, Nişka.’
‘Say what? If you still want me and … good night.’