Thorns

HE TOLD ME I WAS MAD!

Mad. Do you hear? Me—mad!

And tell me, darling, if I am mad… have you ever thought about how a madwoman sees you? Have you ever wondered what you look like through the eyes of madness? Go on—think! THINK!

Did you ever stop to consider that if I weren’t mad, you’d never have had the chance to touch my body? To strangle my breasts in your hands, to crush them like rags until they were red and soft.

Did you ever realize that if I hadn’t been mad, I never would have loved you exactly as you were? Because yes, I loved you. Truly. The way only a madwoman knows how to love—completely, fiercely, without a shred left over.

Mad… Me, mad…

No.

I feel myself slipping, and this isn’t the moment!

But I know what calms me. It always has.

I raise my hands and open them before my eyes. I look at them, one after the other, letting the sight settle in me. I smile. They are so dear to me. One good, the other bad.

The right—oh, she is flawless. Untouched. Nothing mars her perfection. That is me when I behave. A white palm, soft, unburdened by thoughts or schemes. Flesh beautiful, perfumed, desired.

And the other…

The left carries a scar—white, long, straight. The mark of a knife. That knife.

She is proof that when it mattered, I did not yield.

And I will not yield now.

To the very end, without a single sigh.

...

June 16, 1953, Bucharest

Octav

Octav drinks wine with greed—that is his sin.

The joke catches him mid-swallow, so when the laughter erupts, the wine bursts mostly through his nose and splatters across Barbu’s shirt—Barbu being so wrongly positioned in front of him. The shirt, once immaculate white, is now speckled and stained. The woman hanging from Barbu’s arm scowls at Octav. A wet thread of wine dribbles down his chin. Octav couldn’t care less.

His hysterical laughter drowns out the cramped apartment’s restlessness. Perched askew on a three-legged peasant chair, Octav babbles under the spell of wine, of joy, of laughter. He laughs as if he hasn’t in years. As if he never has at all. Fully, with body and soul. His eyes brim with tears, his lungs starved of air, and still he can’t keep up with his own laughter. The harder he tries to rein it in, the louder it bursts out.

“If you tried not to behave like an animal, you might actually succeed,” the woman says.

He glances at her. Neither beautiful nor ugly, with a strange name he had forgotten the moment she stepped inside. Knowing Barbu, she was a compromise for tonight, and by this time tomorrow Barbu himself won’t remember her name—assuming he ever knew it.

“And where’s the fun in that?” Octav finally replies, once it sinks in that she had spoken to him.

Barbu, his trusted man, his friend, his other half in mischief, laughs along—and so the opinion of the debauched woman does not matter.

“Another round,” Octav says to Barbu, leaning toward him with an empty glass in hand. “Full, full, don’t be stingy!”

Unfortunately, the movement is too much for his balance, already wrecked by alcohol, and Octav collapses like a sack of potatoes. Barbu—no more sober himself—reacts too late, but in time to spill the wine, which scatters in ruby droplets across Octav’s face.

Octav turns upward, mouth open, and the wine pours straight in, a steady stream. When the flow becomes too much and he can’t keep up, he rolls to the side—a giant of a man floundering in spilled wine. And he laughs, he laughs, he laughs.

Much later, when Barbu has retreated with the woman to the little bedroom,

Octav sits before the last glass of wine. The last, because the bottle is empty.

He checked and drained it to the final drop.

He stares at the glass—half full, half empty—and cannot decide which half matters more.

To drink, and leave less? Or to refrain, and preserve balance? A difficult question for this uncertain hour between night and day…

Especially when the line of thought is broken now and again by the moans from the next room.

The tiny apartment, in a poor district on the edge of Bucharest, is Barbu’s playground of madness. Not that he couldn’t afford something better! Only, he believes that anything which works perfectly as it is should not be changed.

More moans.

Octav tries to wrench his mind from the present and turns back to the past—a past that had, in truth, been generous to him.

Pride. Hypocrisy. Money…

In the last week—the week of debauchery—Octav tasted everything.

It began on Monday, when he won a trial he had fought over for months. Pride ran through him, deep into the marrow of his young bones.

On Tuesday he scored between the thighs of a good woman. It was a memorable day and a memorable woman. She drained every last drop of strength from him, so much so that on Wednesday he was almost absent from work. That evening he slept like a child and recovered his forces.

Thursday brought good news, and Friday he lied, boasted, and played the hypocrite—all condensed into the three minutes he spoke with the lawyer he had defeated months before.

On Saturday he received money, a bribe from the client for whom he had won.

Now, Sunday—a night from which he will likely remember nothing come morning—he sits before a glass half full, half empty, and risks losing his fight with joy.

With each passing moment, he grows more aware. Of himself, of his life, of his path.

He draws in a deep breath.

It doesn’t work. He cannot fool himself.

The air is too little, or his lungs lack space alongside the liters of wine he has swallowed. He cannot say exactly which. He only feels he cannot breathe deeply, that he needs more. It almost makes him want to cry.

The glass—half empty, half full—calls to him. Calls him by his very name and promises to wash away every sin of the week just past.

He seizes it with all his strength and drains it in a single gulp.

And now?

Nothing.

What had once seemed like salvation now felt more like torment.

Pointless questions swarmed his mind.

What is life?

Always running, always chasing something you do not yet have. But what? What was it he lacked? He couldn’t say. If he had known, he would have hunted it down and rid himself of this endless search. All he knew was that something was missing. And so he had to run, to search, to fight for more. Always more. Never enough.

He fumbled for his cigarettes—and couldn’t find them.

Like a child crawling on all fours, he dragged himself through empty bottles, overturned chairs, and puddles of spilled wine. He hunted for tobacco. At last, by some miracle, he found a lone cigarette and lit it with a match that had also survived the wreckage.

He inhaled deeply, greedily. Smoke filled his lungs, and still the air felt suffocating, as if his chest had shrunk smaller than before.

From the other room, the moans had reached their climax. Long, heavy, and dying into a rasp.

Octav leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, cigarette dangling from his hand, and began to laugh again. That same laugh as before—mad, unhinged, a laugh that belonged to the state he now lived in.

Somewhere, buried among the tall blocks of flats, a rooster crowed, dull and lifeless. Stupid rooster—unaware that the steamroller of civilization had flattened its purpose, that roosters were no longer needed in this world of pride, hypocrisy, and money.

When Barbu finally stumbled out of the bedroom, the woman draped across his shoulder, Octav was still there, sprawled across the rug.

From the floor, he told Barbu that if he expected him at work tomorrow, he would be waiting in vain. Then Octav stood, gathered himself, and left.

He had slept the whole day, and then, come evening, he slipped out of the lovely dream in which reality had no place, and began his work like a good, obedient boy.

By two in the morning he stopped drinking coffee, and by three he had finished studying the file of his latest client. He crawled into bed so tired he felt drunk, yet still happy with the connections he had made. His client would be happy too.

By five he was still dozing. A noisy owl perched on his window, and he hated it with every fiber of his being.

At last, he fell asleep…

By half past six he was awake again, dragged out of slumber by his biological clock. It was set to wake him at this obscene hour no matter what. His brain rebelled. He stretched, got up sluggishly, and padded to the bathroom naked, the way his mother had made him. He slammed the door behind him, full of fury and foam.

Half an hour later—already a different man—he walked out of his apartment door in a hurry, yet smiling, ready for work. A cold shower and a mug of coffee the size of eternity can work miracles on any psyche. The second mug he carried with him.

Outside, his baby was waiting: a 1945 Buick, nicknamed “the Dollar Grin,” the only love that had never disappointed him. He stroked her hood affectionately and gave her a wink. The black car gleamed, and he felt better. No other machine could have suited him better.

He slid in behind the wheel and drove off. At every intersection, he took another sip of coffee. Only in this way could he metamorphose from caveman to functional contemporary.

At the third intersection, it struck him—today was the day he had to take Miruna out for cake. Again.

He grimaced. He had no desire to endure her or her endless complaints. Why on earth had his mother picked her and kept trying to shove her down his throat? She was pretty, no denying that, but all her charm evaporated the moment she opened her mouth. Like a gossiping crone.

With the thought that he still had hours to spare before that ordeal, he pressed harder on the gas and spared his brain any further useless torment.

He arrived at the office—the same anthill where he always felt at home. The greater the chaos, the more in his element he was. He drew a deep breath, the smell of overheated minds filling his lungs, and once again—just as he did every working day—he felt lucky to be able to do what he loved in life.

The mug was still in his hand.

“Thanks for the coffee,” said Mirela, the secretary of his office partner, as she darted past and snatched what was left in his cup.

“Always a pleasure,” Octav replied, smiling ironically after her. Mirela stuck her tongue out at him. When, he wondered, would people like her ever grow up? Hopefully never. It was far too sweet to be young and to do what you love.

But the closer he drew to his own office, the more aware he became of the unusual commotion. Normally a law office was noisy, yes—but this was something else.

He spotted Alin Barbu, the man who owned the other half of the office, and moved toward him. Barbu was the reason he could still practice law in an age when being an intellectual was truly dangerous. Only luck had made Barbu a Communist Party member right after the war. He was well regarded, a man of the people, with “healthy” origins.

They had met during the war. Octav’s parents, people of means, had sacrificed everything to keep him as far from the trenches as possible. But in the end, when the hunger for cannon fodder outgrew the system’s resources, he wound up there too.

They had fought side by side and escaped with nothing more than battered pride—thankfully! While Octav had kept his head down, Barbu had made politics against Antonescu, and that had lifted him in the eyes of the Party’s higher-ups. Even now, when he thought it would serve him, you could hear him declare:

“The Legionnaires? Bandits against nation and fatherland!”

If you asked Octav, he thought the current lot were darker than the Legionnaires ever were. But those were things he wouldn’t dare admit—even to his own conscience.

Octav accepted Barbu as he was. A good man, one who had stood by him when a kind word had meant the difference between life and death.

“Good thing you came—I was just about to call you to hurry in,” Barbu greeted him. “Come on, quickly, we’ve got work! Two cases on the docket today, and the hearing date got moved up for the hanged man’s trial. If we’re still alive tomorrow, we’ll be kings. Ah, damn, I almost forgot!”

Alin Barbu turned toward Octav, struggling to say something. He stumbled, unable to find the words. Clearly bad news—Barbu never lost his composure! Not even when his wife had caught him—caught him red-handed!—with his mistress. He had smoothed it over, twisted it, and somehow his wife had walked away feeling guilty. A man like that was rare. And yet now he was tongue-tied.

“Barbu, don’t roast me on a slow fire. Spit it out so we can get on with it,” Octav said, half-smiling.

“Judge Oli Alecu was just reported dead. They found him in a pool of blood an hour ago.”

“Good God!”

“Exactly—Good God. Nothing certain yet. But Ilie, from the militia, said he’ll keep us updated.”

Octav froze where he stood—stunned, sickened, revolted. He knew the judge. He had known him since childhood. True, he hadn’t seen him in years, but he could still remember the giant mugs of lemonade the man used to make for him when he was a boy. Mister Oli—big-bellied like a bear, gentle as a lamb—was gone. Nausea rose in Octav’s throat, and he reached for the wall to steady himself.

“Judge Oli Alecu… from Bucharest?” he asked, flat-voiced, though a shred of hope still clung to his words—that maybe it wasn’t that Oli. But of course it was, his tangled thoughts screamed. How many other Judge Alec-us did he know? And who else would Ilie from the militia have bothered to call about?

“Yes, him,” Barbu replied. God, what an idiot I am, he thought, and placed a hand on Octav’s shoulder.

Octav was a very tall man, so Barbu had to step close for his palm to rest properly on that broad shoulder.

“Forgive me, I’m an ass! I forgot how well you knew him. Well—not forgot exactly, I did mention Ilie, didn’t I?” he added awkwardly. “But I should have broken it to you more gently. I’m sorry, honestly! I can’t even imagine the circus this is going to turn into. The widow’s barricaded herself inside, hounded by the papers, with malice hanging over her head. For now they say she’s not guilty—but you know, the wife is always the first suspect in cases like this. She was the one who found him. Either way, it’s going to be a big case!”

Octav still hadn’t recovered from the shock. The hand Barbu kept on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him upright—without it, he might have collapsed to his knees. The man—towering over six foot three—wavered precariously, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, held up only by the hand of his shorter partner.

“The widow?” he asks, lifting his head. “I didn’t even know he’d gotten married. She’s a suspect?”

“Well, isn’t that the procedure? Octav, are you feeling all right?”

Barbu stares at him, worried, then slaps his own forehead.

“God, I’m an idiot today! I forget not everyone is as shameless as I am,” he mutters, pacing down the corridor toward his office. Octav follows, dragging his feet.

Then, all at once, Octav halts. It’s the last thing he should ever say aloud, but his thoughts outrun his reason, spilling out before he can stop them:

“Is it political?”

Barbu stumbles mid-step, whipping around with his eyebrows nearly climbing into his hairline.

“There’s not the slightest hint of suspicion in that direction,” he declares, loud and firm. “Come on—let’s get a coffee before you lose your head completely. You’re not thinking straight.” He grabs Octav by the arm and pulls him along with no room for protest.

Octav follows without even realizing where his feet are taking him. Oli Alecu is gone. The thought makes his stomach churn. Oli Alecu is gone!

When they finally reach Barbu’s office, the man slams the door shut and seizes Octav by the lapels.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you out of your mind? Do you hear yourself? Political? Do you want us all to get screwed?”

Octav blinks, horror dawning as his own words catch up with him. His voice trembles.

“God… I truly wasn’t thinking!”

“I know that! But those people on the other side—we don’t know whose men they are, do we? Think, man!” Barbu snaps, tapping his left temple with his index finger.

Octav inhales deeply, trying to steady himself.

“I’m going over there. Don’t count on me today.”

Barbu starts to protest but reins himself in, tact softening his tone.

“If that’s what makes you feel better… Anyway, with that face of yours today, I doubt you’d be much help around here. Go. I’ll keep you posted if any news comes in from the militia. Though I’m sure you’ll run into Ilie over there. As for the other cases, don’t worry—I’ll handle them. And then you’ll owe me, which is something I never miss the chance to collect,” he adds with a grin, patting Octav’s shoulder.

Octav gives him a faint, dry smile and nods in thanks.

“Still, sit down a moment. You really look terrible, and I’d feel guilty letting you drive off like this. Let’s have a cigarette outside, clear our heads a little. I’ll tell you how my wife almost caught me again last night.”

“You never stop, do you?” Octav says, smiling for the first time with genuine amusement.

“There’s too much fire in my veins for me to settle down,” Barbu replies.

…

Half an hour later, Octav—partially recovered from the shock—drives toward the neighborhood of his childhood. Yet the closer he gets, the more that same suffocating despair creeps back in. Streets, houses, memories assail him, pressing down until he feels crushed.

Octav is not the sort of man known for weakness. On the contrary—many would call him cold-blooded, even soulless. At twenty-nine, he’s a shark in his trade, always hunting. But now, there’s no escaping it: Oli Alecu, the man he’s known practically all his life, is gone.

What a shock for one day!

Why do all the terrible things come in the morning— just so they have a whole day to gnaw at the soul of the grieving?

He reaches Cișmigiu. Schitu Măgureanu Street, the street of his childhood, lined with old, dusty houses, now looks bleak despite the blazing summer sun.

He knocks softly, almost symbolically, before stepping inside. It is his parents’ house—people of means, once part of the old privileged class. Thanks to them, Octav had known a childhood without want, filled with confidence and the freedom to think and understand. But now, under the new regime, their fortunes have withered; they live in constant fear. For this, Octav feels his heart brim with hatred.

He finds them in the kitchen.

His mother is quietly weeping into a dishcloth, her eyes buried in its fabric, while his father smokes by the window, gaze lost in the distance. They haven’t even heard him come in.

“Bless you, Mother. Bless you, Father,” Octav says, and they startle. He goes to embrace his mother, and the woman bursts into sobs.

“I suppose you’ve heard,” his father murmurs.

“Yes. That’s why I came. To see how you are—and to look more closely into the case. I’ll stay here with you today, help you if you need anything. Barbu is covering for me.”

“Thank you. We’re managing,” says Mr. Popescu. “Sad, broken—but still alive. I’m glad you came.”

“There’s no way I couldn’t. I’ve known him since I was a child. And honestly, I wouldn’t have been much use at the office today in this state.”

“You’d have done better to go home and rest, since you’ve taken the day off,” his father replies. “I’m not sure it’s the best idea for you to dig into what happened. He was close to you, and I fear it might weigh on you more than it should.”

Octav smiles faintly, with sorrow.

“Thank you for the concern, Father. Don’t worry—I’m a man. I can handle it. I really do want to know what happened.”

“I know,” his mother says suddenly, still pressed against his side, her face buried beneath his arm. “It’s her fault!”

“Woman, hush! The walls have ears,” Mr. Popescu snaps quickly. “Don’t say things that don’t concern you!”

Madam Popescu only lets out a muffled grunt of displeasure and keeps weeping softly in her son’s arms. She is a small, round woman, a true lady who rarely allows herself such unrefined displays. Octav, on the other hand, takes after his father: tall—as though he forgot to stop growing—handsome bone structure, and sharp, intelligent eyes.

“Her?” he asks.

“Your mother’s had it in for Rose from the moment she laid eyes on her, so don’t take her ramblings too seriously.”

“Who’s Rose?” Octav asks.

“Oli’s wife. They were married—three years now. I didn’t realize you didn’t know. They had a small, quiet wedding. We weren’t even invited. Went off into the mountains, married in a little wooden chapel. Anyway, they seemed… happy. At least he did. She’s not much of a talker, so I can’t speak for her. But yes—I think they got along.”

“How could he not look happy, with a woman twenty years younger than him?” Madam Popescu mutters, lifting her head from her son’s chest. “A whore who—”

“Quiet, woman! Do you want the walls to hear?” Mr. Popescu cuts her off sharply. “Think before you open your mouth!”

Madam Popescu—who in thirty years of marriage had never been spoken to so harshly—feels deeply offended. Sniffling, she storms out of the room in a huff.

“Mother,” Octav calls after her.

“Let her be. That’s women—too sensitive,” his father says.

Octav swallows the words as consolation and leans back against the cupboard.

“How do you feel?” he asks now that his mother is gone.

“I’d known Oli for many years. Maybe we weren’t always the best of friends, but he was here, near us. I knew I could count on him—he never turned us away when we needed something. God Almighty, what an end…” his father murmurs, almost to himself.

“Did you see? Were you there?” Octav presses.

“No. But word travels fast—you know that. Madam Vasilica was there, and if she can’t tell a tragedy properly, I don’t know who can…”

“Yes, Madam Vasilica—the crazy hag. But the perfect spy,” Octav mutters bitterly.

The two remain silent for a few moments, each lost in their own memories of poor Mr. Oli.

“Why does Mother say his wife is to blame? What kind of woman is she?” Octav asks.

Mr. Popescu searches for his words.

“Young, beautiful, proper—in a word, a trophy wife. Though I must have seen her at least a dozen times, I don’t think we ever exchanged more than three words. Mostly greetings. The kind of beautiful woman who lowers her eyes when a man is in front of her. Your mother dislikes her because she got it into her head that Rose married Oli for money. And since we have more money than he did—well, had, I keep forgetting he’s gone—she thought Rose would eventually set her sights on me. Foolish woman! Rose never gave me the slightest hint of that, and I’m telling you honestly, man to man. Now, that she married Oli for money… that I do believe. She’s too beautiful, too young. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead,” he adds after a pause, clearing his throat heavy with emotion as the fact of Oli’s death sinks in once more, “but Oli was no Don Juan. Whereas she…”

“A fine play on words, Father! Femme fatale! Who knows?” Octav replies with a faint smile. “Anyway, you’ve made me curious. Is the old path still there, the one behind the houses?”

“What? Surely you’re not planning to go there now? It’s crawling with militia!”

“Father, you always forget what my profession is—and that this isn’t the first tragedy of this kind I’ve seen. I haven’t been ten years old for a long time. It’s just another case. Unfortunately, this time the case is Mr. Oli. Besides, I’ve got a few contacts from the militia there. I might learn something useful.”

“You’re right, son. I keep forgetting. You grow, we grow old. And some of us die… My thoughts are always on keeping you safe.”

Octav steps closer and pats his father firmly on the back, like one man to another.

“Thank you, Father. You’re the best.”

Mr. Popescu’s eyes glisten, and he tactfully turns his head. Even between men, tears remain taboo.

Octav slips out through the back door into the garden. He walks among the old, knotted fruit trees, their shade still cool even though the thermometer outside pushes easily past thirty-five degrees. The old wooden gate is still in place—small, worn, barely more than decoration now. He forces it open with difficulty, the wood stiff from long disuse.

Now he stands on Mr. Oli’s land. The late Mr. Oli…

Though his yard was smaller than theirs, he too had trees in the back.

Octav leans against one and lights a cigarette. He knows he cannot get any closer. The militia’s investigation is still underway; the evidence-gathering is probably not even halfway finished. He will have to wait.

He bends his knees, sinking gently against the trunk. So many memories live here, in this small, hidden garden—like a jewel lost in the crown. And the crown itself was Cișmigiu. What a sweet childhood he had in this place, and how dear Mr. Oli had been to him!

For all his manhood, a knot tightens in his throat. He drags hard on the cigarette to unclog his chest, to explain away the tears that roll freely down his cheeks.

Inside the house, he can see people bustling about. Gentlemen in suits, militiamen in uniform, medical personnel—probably from the coroner’s office, he thinks bitterly.

All men.

Not a trace of a woman. And he is curious—achingly curious—to see what the “whore” looked like, as his mother had so pointedly named her.

He finishes his cigarette. Snuffs it out and slips the butt into his jacket pocket—he wouldn’t want the investigators to find it on the ground and follow the wrong lead. He lingers a moment, then lights another.

For an hour he sees nothing but a swarm of men, no sign of a single curl of a woman’s hair. Then, just as his patience is wearing thin, a figure appears at an upstairs window. A woman. Octav is struck dumb, mouth half open. Suddenly he understands his mother’s resentment, her bitter words. Of course—if you were a woman and saw her, you couldn’t help but hold something against her. She looks perfectly built to undo the minds of men.

Petite, compared to him—but then again, everything looks small beside him, and the distance may play its tricks. Blonde, curled, sensual—and tear-stained. What man could resist?

Rose. A foreign name. He hadn’t even realized it was beautiful until he saw it embodied in her.

She lingers at the window for a moment, sighs into a handkerchief, then someone calls from behind her. She turns, and disappears from his view.

Octav rises, brushes the dust from his trousers. He’ll leave now, but there’s no question he’ll return along this path, to exchange a word or two with Rose.

He slips out of the little garden and circles to the front of Oli Alecu’s house. He passes between the militia jeeps crammed along the narrow street, through the row of journalists angling for scraps of information, and makes to enter the house.

A militiaman presses a hand to his chest. “No entry! Back!”

Octav, dazed but far from foolish, retreats tactfully a few steps and lowers himself onto the curb.

He takes out another cigarette and tells himself he can wait a little longer.

Perhaps Ilie will show up, and he’ll glean a thing or two…

…

I need you!

I need you more than air itself!

I want you to hold me tight, to crush me in your arms. To love me the way only you can.

Where are you?

Do you still love me?

Do you still hate me?

Why are you silent?

Why is there so much silence?

Silence is cruel—it hates me, it claws at me, it lashes out at me…

I need you…

Why won’t you speak…

…