by Mateiu Caragiale (1885-1936)
excerpt Had they just finished dinner, that Pirgu was dying to flee. The gentleman was thirsty. Thank God for the variety of wines at that time, abundant and not expensive; Bordeaux and Bourgogne wines for royal feasts. Still, Gorica was not very pleased with them, he was more of an indigenous, light, natural wine person and he would come up with a place in God knows what side of the town, forcing us into drinking some stale and muddy liquor. A true sea wolf, Pantazi laid his mouth on every drink, more heartily even than Paşadia who was not so much into drinking than into noisy, crowded places. We went on to try another wine; he remembered out of the blue of some reined wine, served on a high porch, or of some dark red wine which was so good you could kill for it. We had coffee between two pubs, at Proţăpeasca or at Pepi Şmaroţ, while chatting with the girls over a drink, when Pirgu arranged some meeting for the next day for Paşadia or some other friend of his. We sometimes visited the "club" where Paşadia would quickly have his way with some dame; this was not a habit of ours, though, since women and books are dedicated the hours before dinner. At the third stop, we really started to party hard. The lugubrious creatures of the nightlife were teaming around us. Gorică felt himself when he was with them, he really let himself go then. He slid from table to table, like quick silver, making everyone burst into roars of laughter, heating and steaming the crowd; he told the fiddlers what song to play, offered them something to drink, played along with them, only to curse them minutes later. It already became a custom to attend some fight in the morning. Away from the mad crowd, Pantazi and Paşadia went on with their day-dream as if they had been thousands of miles away from the agitation. They seemed to be disturbed only by the silence of their dreaming. When Pirgu happened not to attend our escapades either because he had to gather some money from somebody or to bargain with Mehtupciu, we always dozed away in front of our drinks, and nothing had the life and energy of the nights when Pirgu was with us, him, the very embodiment of Bucharest's foul soul. We followed him everywhere; we thrashed together the clay of the outskirts' lanes, without names or pavement, in sleet and rain, or the waste grounds covered in filth and corpses, we entered on all our fours the heat of the small rooms, with no wooden floor and violently painted; the gypsy women wearing red and yellow rags, bare feet, offering themselves to entrails sellers for a few sips of alcohol. And although we didn't take our business to families, we stooped even lower… we would stop to have our tripe at some restaurant until the break of day…Ah, the dawn…… Paşadia was irritated and shook his head as if he had had a bad dream. I looked away every time as I was scared to meet his troubled eyes, shattered by profound torments. The same torments that abuse the heart of the killer while he went back home in the morning. We separated, at last, carrying home our bodies; Paşadia and Pantazi went straight home, I took the way of the steam bath and Pirgu headed to a midwife to massage him with rose vinegar and perfume. His bawdy behaviour did not take anyone by surprise any longer, and even the Jarcalets, his parents' neighbours, were not amazed to see him coming back at dawn accompanied by two hurdy-gurdies, each playing a different tune, by the circus bear, or by the morris dancers, by the rainmakers, riding a water cart, a stretcher or a hearse. However, the sad life of night escapades we embraced so dearly had at least one happy consequence. In a short while, a noble friendship brought Paşadia and Pantazi together. I honestly believe that what had made them fond of each other were not the knowledge or the courtside, but rather their sadness. For one of them, this sadness was calm and blue like nostalgic nights, and for the other it was dark and in endless torment. Since Pantazi covered almost every expense, and in such a way that Paşadia could not oppose him, he decided to buy him dinner. Not in some restaurant, however, but at his own home. He took out for the first time the fine tablecloths, the refined plates and silverware, the Bohemia crystals. The dining room was filled with yellow roses that absorbed the golden light of the last beautiful autumn day of the year, resembling wax flowers. 1929
by Mateiu Caragiale (1885-1936)
by Mateiu Caragiale (1885-1936)