NORMAN MANEA
93
slices of bread, but that wouldn't worry him. Form time to time, he
came to them, nevertheless, to borrow money. Not much, small sums,
for a few days. He never spent any of it, obviously, and he always re–
turned it on time. But when Mara got sick they put a stop to his little
game.
"What are you doing here? What are you thinking about?"
A heavy hand rested on the nape of his neck. Every now and then a
reveler would discover him behind the double bass, startling him out of
his trance. He would pick up the boy and hand him back to his family
or drag him to the head table, forcing the bride to grant him the first
dance of the evening, as a mark of respect. The groom would nod his
consent.
Attempts were made to silence the crowd, but the buzzing persisted.
Chairs were pushed to one side, the band blew a long fanfare. The bride
strode to the center of the floor to honor the famous guest. She led him
gently, bending over him from time to time with a smile. The music did
its part while he hurried and counted the steps, one to the left, two to
the right; sometimes he would trip over the long train or the buckle and
black shiny tongue of his shoe would get caught in the veil. The dance
with the bride was not so much the high point of the evening as an in–
terlude. He saw people chatting in groups, distracted, faces flushed from
too much food and drink.
Occasionally his oratorical zeal was rewarded by a talk with the
bride's father-in-law, who would make room next to himself at the head
of the table, trying to look wise as he marveled at the hero's precocity.
But, carried away by music and drink, they soon forgot him and he
returned to sit by the saxophone case. The musicians toiled conscien–
tiously, arousing desire and spreading gaiety. The hall heated up, a haze
of perspiration rose on clouds of dust.
The boy withdrew behind the percussionist; he rocked on the
legs
of
the narrow, rickety chair and leaned his back against the wall. Frenzy
mounted, they chatted and chatted, they recalled the dead and the
suffering. They cried, flung money at the orchestra, clamored for horas
and romantic tunes, fell into one another's arms.
Uncle had looked at Mara, ravaged by illness. He expressed sorrow
for their misfortune. And then he asked them, with a certain bashfulness,
to lend him some money, just for one day, just until tomorrow. Mother
did not answer him; she was seething. He was her brother but he had
reached bottom, she couldn't stand him any longer. She didn't answer
him, not the second or the third time around, and he asked again and
again in rising embarrassment. She simply looked into his eyes. Only after
a while, in a tired voice, she said to him, "Sit here for a bit." Uncle
stooped and, humiliated, did as he was told.
