My parents have, since the day I turned 18, been irregularly giving me antique (and beautiful) jewellery as presents, and motivating this endeavour through the fact that we have no family heirlooms, so they buy these baubles at art auctions in order for me to be the first in the family to start the "trend".
They could not have been more wrong. Because my father, due to his education and tastes, is something of an art snob (which is endearing), and my mother was kept well enough away from my father's side of the family not to know. Not to remember. The existence of something that came into my posession yesterday - and which is currently featuring at the top of my "most treasured treasures" list.
My grandmother shuffled her way over *hums "I'm not gonna think about it" in her head repeatedly*, searched thoroughly through her bag, pulled out a small clutch, and from /that/, pulled out my grandfather's pocket watch. The one that he received from my grandmother's own grandfather when they were married. The one that's been in the family for over 100 years.
I kept holding it and looking at it (moronically, probably) - I couldn't tear my gaze from it, because it is the single most beautiful thing I have ever had, and for two reasons, at that! Not only does it have a history (the history of my family, which is relatively strange, because our culture is not one that really emphasizes, or encourages, remembering family histories beyond two or three generations back. Also, the history of people dear to me - which is not the same as family in my book - and my realizing how much and, at the same time, how impardonably little I knew about them), but it is also gorgeous - large-ish, with no front cover, white-faced, with roman lettering and an added "face" for the seconds. The back cover opens and inside is engraved a serial number, and the name of the maker - Paul Garnier, Horologer (sp?) de la Marine, Paris.
I discussed it with mom, whether or not I should take it in to be repaired. But in the end I decided against it - I'm afraid they'll rip it for parts, since it's well enough kept, or that they'll break it somehow. Besides, I adore how, very elegantly, it's stopped at 9.30 (and 10 seconds). Seriously, it could have stopped at like 12 past 10, or something equally dull (I am saying that now, but I would have loved it anyway).
And it has brought back so many memories of its previous owner. I wonder when it stopped (while he was still alive, of course). He wore it on Sundays, when he went to church. He used to sing in the church choir, did you know that? Even after I appeared. He'd take us to church, and I'd wait in the garden (because it was summer, and stifling hot) with my grandmother (who was well indoctrinated by the communists, and therefore against spiritual manifestations). I have pictures from that time.
I was always slightly bothered when he took me to the park, instead of grandmother - because whereas grandma always made friends with other grannies, or did crossword puzzles, or knitted, he always sat on a bench and looked at me. We'd be there for 4 hours at a time, or more - and he never once was looking somewhere else, when I turned to check on him. I tried to persuade him to find himself something to do, I swear I did. But I never understood why he was so adamant to refuse.
He was the one who believed me when I told them that there was a pack of wolves in the corridor and a witch living in the pantry. He was the one who brought home fish (he loved to go fishing) and then fried all the fish, instead of putting some in the freezer for later, just so that I could eat more fried fish tails.
I remember his smell after he came home from fishing with his buddies. I remember the smell of the tuica he would drink every afternoon, after everyone woke up from their afternoon naps (same amount, in the same funny-shaped mini-pitcher, "toi", and the same dialogue that went on between the two of us, under my grandmother's disapproving gaze: Tataie, ce-ai acolo? Apa, tataie, apa. I would laugh, because I knew he was telling tales, and he would laugh because I was laughing.)
He would come every morning to our house, before dawn, and drink coffee with mom while dad got ready for work. We would both, then, get into his old car and go to their place. We almost always caught the sunrise on this trip, sometimes as the sun was coming out over the park, and he would always sing me the same song, a song to which he only knew the refrain: "Soleil, soleil". It was on one of those trips that I first correctly pronounced the letter "r", instead of "l". Because grandpa was worth the special effort.
He would buy me ice-cream, he would cook for me, he would protect me from my grandmother's rages, and he would occasionally make tuica in the kitchen, in a home-made installation that looked like some alchemical equipment, while we ate our lunch.
He always carried a fine-toothed comb with him, so that he could comb his hair over his bald-plate. I mimetically inherited the way I rub my eyes when I'm sleepy from him.
He was 10 years older than my grandmother, had married her through an arranged marriage when they were very young. She never loved him, looked down on him because she considered him a "simple" man. He could draw and sing better than almost anyone I've met. And apparently he was an accountant.
I made him cry just once, but in my defence I can't really tell, looking back, if he was crying from all the laughter, or from happiness. Because I had reached my 1-meter-tall mark at the measuring post (the frame of the door between the entrance hall and the living-room), and I called them to show off. I called them by name, for the first and only time in my life, not by their real names, but by the endearment terms that they used with each-other. How could two such different people, who had lived their lives together but very actively apart, call each-other like that? "Ionel! Lenuta!"
He always woke up very early, to get the butter out of the fridge so that it would have time to warm up enough to be put on bread in just the right amount, with salt and pepper. That and milk-and-cocoa will forever be my favourite breakfast. And even when that house will be empty, I will still see them, sitting across from each-other at the table - my grandmother on the left, my grandpa on the right, and me on the longer side, between the two of them.
I wasn't in Bucharest when he died. I wasn't told that he died - we rushed home from the mountains on a rainy evening because he was feeling very sick, I thought. Only when, some months later, I saw my grandmother dressed all in black, I understood. I had thought him in the hospital, all this time. Mom says that he died at home, and that he was alone.
And yesterday, as I was moving through the house, taking the pocket watch with me everywhere I went, I kept envisaging myself breaking it, for some reason. Vividly, repeatedly - dropping it, or smacking it against some corner of furniture. It was horrible, and my stomach clenched every time. How could I ever let that happen?
When I find a chain that is sturdy enough, I'm going to hang it around my neck as a pendant. And if I ever get married, I'm going to wear it, and when I have a son, I'll pass it on to him and tell him about the amazing person that was his great-grandfather. The one who bought me ice-cream, and helped my catch snails and bring them home, then fed them parsley, the one who sang to me and drew with me and failed to teach me how to ride a bike.
Labels: aventuri in lemmingland
