Life Begins on Friday. Ioana Parvulescu

prayer almost by heart, and murmured it in a low voice, glancing at the little book she held only to check. “And since it is so, multiply, O Lord, my labours, my temptations and my pains,” said the woman, although at the same time she thought that this was not what she wished at all, “but also multiply and make abundant my patience, my strength, my contentment and my blessedness” – this was more like it – in all the trials that might befall me...” The door opened and an unknown man entered. Epiharia lowered her eyes to her little book: “in all the trials that might befall me.” The man walked forward, looking around him, at the saints on the walls, painted, as the young woman said to herself, with priceless grace. “For, I know that I am weak, unless Thou givest me strength; fearful, unless Thou makest me bold; blind, unless...” Now she could see him and instead of praying, she allowed herself to be drawn by the sly sins of this world and watched as he went up to the altar. Without making the sign of the cross! “Evil, unless Thou makest me good; lost, unless Thou seekest me.” The man too looked lost, his face was as handsome as an angel’s and he was dressed like... like a beggar at the church gate. Where could he have left his hat? He wasn’t holding it and nor had he hung it on the hooks above the chairs... “With Thy abundant and divine power, and with the gift of Thy Holy Cross, to which I bow and which I glorify, now and forever and ever, Amen.” She had fluffed a few of the words, but she was no longer able to concentrate on her prayers. She watched from the corner of her eye as the stranger stood next to the icon of the Mother of God, brought there long ago, in the reign of Constantine Brâncoveanu, as a blessing to all those who crossed the threshold of the church. People came to pray to the icon, some of them in misfortune, some of them for health, some for wealth or for children, and they knelt, their eyes lowered, their pious lips barely touching the saint’s silver casing. But see that man, standing up, looking her straight in the eye, and not for a moment or two, but for minutes on end. How can you look the Mother of God in the eye? What can he be thinking? No, it is not fitting to judge a man standing before the altar, maybe he is an unfortunate wretch, a man without means, God alone judges us, each and every one, wherever we might be. But it is as if some people, like this man, make you feel, I don’t know, they make you feel spiritually straitened. “Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us sinners, your servants” – and here Epiharia made a broad, emphatic sign of the cross, her hand coming to rest on her left shoulder – “Amen.” When her mind reached the word sinners, as if bidden, the man turned toward her. Taking fright, she averted her gaze and looked to the side, at the shield of St George, who for centuries had been slaying the same Dragon with the same spear.

      ‘Good evening... erm, madam.’

      ‘The Lord be with you!’

      Epiharia had a round childlike face, white skin, and a dimple, also round, beneath her lower lip. Only a single lock of her hair was visible, as her headscarf covered her ears, and was wound beneath her chin and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her expression was serious. The man looked weary. His voice (praise God!) was devoid of hidden thoughts, a downcast voice, and so the woman once more felt her soul at peace.

      ‘Where might a man without money or belongings spend the night? Might he do so here?’

      ‘Only if you wish to spend the night with a saint,’ said Epiharia, without thinking of anything bad, but then quickly made the sign of the cross because of the unseemly implication and begged God’s forgiveness aloud for being rash and foolish.

      Now the stranger was smiling. He was a different man!

      ‘No, but I would like to find somewhere. I am... I am unwell. I am ill.’

      For as long as he smiled he was as young as a cherub. Without the smile he was much older. You would have thought his voice was bleeding. He looked like a man who had fallen on hard times, as she had rightly divined, and so she had done well not to judge him.

      ‘Shall I take you to our deacon? He lives two houses further down the street, over there, past that light-brown carriage, or rather the cherry-red carriage. Can you see it? But he has many children; he too is needy. If you can’t find him, come back here to me – my name is Epiharia – and we’ll think of something else.’

      The stranger left, but no more than five minutes passed before he came back, making a gesture of helplessness. Nobody had answered his knock on the door. The woman had another solution: ‘We have the key to the house where the painters from the Stork’s Nest stay in summer. In June they started repainting the band of murals with the saints below the roof, but they broke off in November. I can ask the priest for the key, he has it because some of them came here to our church, to do some painting, and they worked now here, now there...’

      ‘That would be wonderful!’

      ‘But you ought to know that there is a problem...’

      Now the man looked older and a furrow formed between his eyebrows again.

      ‘It’s a summer-house and there is no stove, nor firewood, nor bedclothes. But you know that man is capable of great control. Simeon the Stylite lived for a great long time atop his pillar. And one day he invited St Theodosius to come see him. On top of the pillar, that is! I can give you a plaid rug, from the priest...’

      Off she went, chubby and full of kindness. An hour must have elapsed before she returned. She found the man sitting in the choir stall, his eyes closed. She had brought a large key and explained, with great indulgence for the stranger’s ignorance, how he should get to the house and what he should do to avoid freezing during the night. She placed in his arms a threadbare blanket and gave him a large chunk of bread from the priest, wrapped in a cloth. She also gave him an icon lamp, to shed light. She did not tell him that the priest had urged her in a low voice not to let herself be beguiled by all the city’s ne’er-do-wells; that was of no concern to the stranger. The man thanked her and smiled with teeth as white as fresh snow, although he seemed quite unclear about what she was telling him. But the woman was quite certain that the Good Lord would guide his steps to the right place, as certain as she was that in every path through life it is fated that we should lose our way: for, she herself had once gone astray.

      6.

      A soundless voice that I alone hear, stronger than my poor tortured body and my poor terrified brain. I talk to myself in order to grow accustomed to myself, in order not to be so afraid of my fear and in order to be sure I have not lost my mind. I am afraid of them, of myself, of Him who plays with us. I am surrounded by beings that seem to be the fruit of a diseased imagination. But why do they not disappear? Why can I hear them? Why am I unable to use my mind in order to understand how my mind works and whence comes this fear? It is as if I were inhabited by a stranger, who knows many things about me, and who shapes me as he wills. Why do you fight with me? I am beaten in advance; you, or Thou, will have the power. I am defeated in advance. What satisfaction can you gain if you show me that you are more powerful? I know it as well as you do! Yes, you have won.

      When something bad happens, you always await the next blow. I huddle up inside myself and wait.

      The three-pronged key swiftly did its duty and thus I entered. It was pitch black and I waited for my eyes to grow accustomed. Then, by groping around, I explored the place. There was a plank bed, like in a mountain cabin: a long platform on which, I think, ten people could have slept, squeezed together. I could have done with ten people. The room was cluttered with things, as in a store, and I kept bumping into them, without seeing them. In one corner I came across some empty buckets and even managed to knock them over. You’re not a chair; you’re not a table. But there was a small window with a broken pane. I placed the rolled-up blanket on the so-called bed and I would have lain down that very instant, had I not been so cold. My whole body ached, from my head to my wet feet. A hot bath, some hot soup, some mulled wine with cinnamon, or at least a cup of tea. I had eaten the bread during the first steps I took, all of it. The icon lamp had gone out. I had to light it; I had to kindle a flame in that icy room. Might the church be unlocked? There must be at least one candle burning there. I went back outside and dragged myself to the church door. It was locked. The windows were high up and there was no question of my reaching them. Shouldn’t the House of the Lord always be open, especially at night, and especially in winter? But no, it seems that we are not welcome all hours. When the Lord is not