Ever since I had known him (and there are many, many years since then, almost four), Georgica is profoundly dissatisfied with the fact he doesn't have a moustache, like every man, and isn't allowed yet to manage by himself. Why, Georgica wonders, why do you have to be born a child and then stay a child for so long?! Other people have a moustache; have a tie; go to the cinema by themselves. They can afford it, because they are mature people. "Ghiutza, I know that you're into inventions," Georgica told me one day. "Wouldn't you like to like to prove your skills on me?!" So as not to ruin my reputation as an inventor, I naturally promised I would. Thus, for two days and two nights, I worked up my brains, hoping I would come up with a brilliant idea, but nothing of that sort came up. Cousin Tache, the robot, realized that I wasn't the one I used to be in the old days, with my head up in the clouds, and he started firing away his questions: "If you're troubled by a problem in particular, tell me so that I can help you." I can tell that from some time now, since I started taking him out of the closet more often, cousin Tache became naughty beyond expectations, claiming to be my closest confidant. No comment, he comes up with some ideas, now and then, and I don't think twice before using them. But I can't afford to spend my time chatting too much with cousin Tache either: after all, he is just a first generation robot. If I tell cousin Tache about my invention, he will ask me to take him as a co-author, and half of my fame will pass onto him. "Georgica barely turned nine and would like to be considered a grown-up man. Cousin Tache, what do you think? Is there any solution?!" I didn't tell him anything about the invention, trying to leave the impression that the problem didn't actually concern me, but others. "It's as simple as can be, cousin Tache assured me. Tell him to call on us one of these days and we'll fix it on the spot." It was, I remember, Sunday evening, around half past eight. I like to move on to the stage when I apply my inventions in the weekend, so that, the next morning, I should start off with the right foot in the new week, and should have everything going my way. I know this from my father: when you do a thing properly, it means you stepped with the right foot; when things don't go your way, or you don't strive enough, you put your foot in it. In less then three minutes, Georgica was at our place, my and cousin Tache's guest. "What age would you like to be?" I asked him. He remained pondering a little, a sign that he wasn't very determined. In fact, Georgica cared more about the moustache than about the age. I made available for him several samples of moustaches, so that he could speak his mind. From the very first moment, Georgica felt an attraction for a very thin one, like a mouse tail, and begged us to make it fit under his nose. "Such a moustache matches a striped tie!" cousin Tache decided. We made the knot at a striped tie for Georgica. "Now, will I be allowed to walk downtown by myself?" he enquired. "You are seventeen, cousin Tache explained to him, and at this age you may walk as long as you like and wherever you like." Yelling exultantly, just like uncle Tudorache, our neighbor, when something came to him by sheer luck, Georgica dashed through the door, thinking that he should let his folks know that that night he turned seventeen and he had a moustache, too, and some rights as well. "This is good, as good as can get," his grandfather told him. "If you're seventeen, this means that starting from tomorrow morning, you will do the shopping instead of me." Georgica's mother was glad, too: "A boy of seventeen eats everything you put in his plate; he does his own homework; on Saturday afternoon he cleans the carpets." To show his satisfaction, his father toasted a glass of wine: "I have a big boy! I wanted to have a big boy for so long! Well, Georgica, may you live long! Tomorrow, when you come back from school, you climb on the rooftop to fix the aerial, then you go down into the basement, and you fix the door of the store room, because it doesn't shut." Georgica was overcome with taking over the tasks from the other family members. It is well known: when you are seventeen, you give a hand to everyone, and you work hard. Unfortunately, after only a day, Georgica was in big trouble, having to give up the very thin moustache, like a mouse tail. Like someone who had turned seventeen overnight, he had to move from the third grade where he was listed in until then, directly in the tenth grade; and, it is well known, in the tenth grade you have to deal with logarithms. Georgica hadn't even heard of logarithms, so he got grade zero. With fours and fives he had got more or less used over the years. With a zero as big as himself, he was about to go crazy. "It is you, you destroyed me!" Georgica reproached me and cousin Tache. Why did you have to get me directly into logarithms? I don't want to hear about this age of seventeen!" burst out Georgica. "This is an age for school. I want you to get me past school age!" Cousin Tache chose a moustache, not too thin, not too thick either, one perfectly fit for a twenty-five year old Georgica. "With this moustache, you finished your studies, you have a diploma and you are an engineer in a big plant," cousin Tache told him. "In a month's time you will cash in your first salary. See what you will do with it, maybe you'll invite us to celebrate." Georgica promised us a truck full of sweets; cross his heart that he will buy all the candies in town only for me and cousin Tache. "Good luck, lots of good luck!" we wished him as to a real engineer, at the beginning of his career. But it wasn't meant to happen: the next morning, when he went to take over his post, Georgica found himself in a huge plant, with thousands of machines, of which he knew nothing, with tens of thousands of lights, twinkling frequently and in all colors. On the same control panel, some twinkled green, others pink and yellow, some red – and only two or three orange, Georgica's favorite color. "You got me directly into production!" Georgica reproached us, tearing away his engineer moustache. "It's too much work and I'm not all there anyway. You, Ghiutza and cousin Tache, if you knew how frightened I was among all those machines! They are big, you know, like buffaloes – and were coming, were coming towards me from all directions, bellowing. Can you imagine what could have happened if they hit me with their horns? I was lucky because I am a fast runner and I didn't stop until I got to the tram. Now, do something to get me past the production." Cousin Tache stuck under his nose a thin and grayish moustache, then he sprinkled flour through his curly hair. Immediately after, cousin Georgica started to cough. It was a bad cough, of an old man, that ended in stitches in the sides. Georgica had stitches in the back as well, and hence, he couldn't even bend, and also at the ankles, so that he could rather crawl than walk. "You need a walking stick!" cousin Tache noticed. We gave him a walking stick and glasses so Georgica, having jumped over production, was a very old pensioner and was always running into the walls. Leaning on his stick and panting, he headed home, step by step and halting from time to time, but the elevator was in overhaul and, up to the ninth floor, Georgica didn't have the strength to climb the stairs. "You will be the death of me!" he complained. "Tomorrow is the inter-street match and I am supposed to play centre-forward. How will I play if you gave me a stick? Ouch, my back hurts!" Cousin Tache tore away his thin grayish moustache and shook off the flour from his curly hair. Georgica was again able to run up the stairs, jump the fence and play centre-forward. "What is my age?" he enquired. Cousin Tache refused to answer (he was, in fact, bored enough with Georgica's fiddlesticks). "Is it worth making such an important investment," I wondered, "for someone who doesn't even know what he wants?" Then, Georgica's grandfather showed up, his back a little bent, his moustache thin and grayish and his glasses fallen to the tip of his nose: "Hey, kiddo, where are you loafing about? Do you think you're on your own? You haven't done your homework yet. What are you waiting for?" Thus, Georgica understood, at the end of so many moustache adventures, that he was again nine years old and a long, long time will have to pass till he could get rid of it.
from The Heat of Summer and the Heat of my Soul, Ion Creangă, 1976
by Nicolae Ţic (1929-1992)
