“…
Octav was at
home, a little drunk, with the bottle and the iron next to him. He had singed
his corduroy pants and now he was crying with tears as big as cantaloupes.
Doru, quick of
apprehension, examined the breeches and, looking at me, he said:
’They’re fine,
really! They smell of sheep’s hair, but it doesn’t matter. Come on, pop Octav,
everybody’s waiting...’
’Dodoru, mmmy
ffeett are shacking... Because of all the emotion!’
’No, because of
all the wine!’
Asking me to help
him, Doru put Octav in his trousers, I arranged the tie at his neck and put his
frock coat on, after which we carried him to Doru’s car. On the way, coming out
of his alcoholic melancholy, Octav told us:
’I forgot my shoulder
straps. What if my pants will fall off?’
’You’ll be sure
to keep them up with one of your hands, and that’s it!’ Doru darted at him.
And Doru was
right. All the time that Octav had stood next to Onglița, during the time the
snuffly priest conducted the ceremony, Octav has kept his arm under the frock
coat, looking like Napoleon Bonaparte. Mamamoașa, beaming with joy, could not
make out why Octav looked so haughty.
Doru and I,
bestmen, were standing stiff with candles in our hands, as if we were squires
at the court of a great king. I was so focused on pop Octav, waiting for the
climax, when the trousers would fall down, that I didn’t notice that all the
wax was dripping on the low seam of the coat and on my trousers.
When it came to
the exchange of rings, Octav forgot about his pants. And, kissing my mother at
the firm comand issued by Mamamoașa, I think I was the first one to see,
knowing what would happen, the slow but certain falling down of the corduroy
pants. Not even pop Octav really realized what was going on, because when the
whole thing was over and directed himself towards aunt Mili, to adequately kiss
her hand, he tripped over his fallen pants and, remaining only in wollen johns,
that fortunately covered him up to his ankles, he fell at the witness’ feet,
rubbing the floor with his nose. Even though there was still some alcohol in
his cells, at the last moment he was spry enough to clench the low steam of the
dress that Mamamoașa wore. Who quickly found herself without the back part of
her luxurious dress, disentangling with noise. Hearing it, Mamamoașa realized
the disaster, and yelled at Moișeanu:
’Titi, get in the
rearguard!’
The withdrawal of
the witness was a solemn moment. Titi, walking very close to the back of Mamamoașa,
led her to the bedroom, where the changing of clothes took place. During the reverse
gear footsteps, taken at double command, she told me:
’You, child,
come. You must change your clothes since they are so full of wax!’
’ Mamamoașa, I
can promise you that I haven’t even touched the honeycombs in the store room’ I
ensured her, holding my hand on my hear and having it stuck to it due to the
wax.
’Fool, I was
referring to the wax from the candle!’
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