He wants to be seen to be mocking ‘frills and fripperies’ – an expression that definitively dismisses all that can’t be put plainly and in three words. Sometimes he wears me out with his insistence on recommending himself with: ‘I’m a peasant’. This kind of exaggeration is another form of affectation. For Dronţu, speaking correctly is a sign of pretentiousness. Bad grammar and using a certain vocabulary is almost a duty with him, a way of stressing that he still has his hand on the plough and is laughing at all our sensitivities. ‘The apples ain’t bad, the girls ain’t ugly, the wine ain’t neither.’ When he catches himself speaking correctly, by accident, he immediately reverts to form. Rudeness is his personal form of elegance, lightly illustrated with a smile to tell you that he could behave differently if he wanted, but he’d rather not.

To all this, you can add his extraordinary bad taste, his unparalleled sartorial eccentricity. If one evening he wears a black coat, he’s sure to put on yellow boots. If his tie is blue, his handkerchief will certainly be red. If he wears a raincoat, he’s sure to choose a melon-coloured hat. It’s an inventive and vigorous bad taste. I think it’s a sign of health and self-assurance. Marin Dronţu doesn’t have doubts, doesn’t question himself, doesn’t look for secrets. In Bucharest he has numerous ‘lovers’, one or two in every neighbourhood, he takes them to the cinema, buys them peanuts and gives them red carnations and Flora cream on their birthdays. Here, he sleeps with girls and women from Uioara. If he happens to suffer disappointment in love, he sings one of his songs from Gorj, and it passes.

He went to church on Sunday, in the village, and sang hymns. He has a warm voice, like that of a big child. He sings seriously, with all his heart, imbuing the song with solemnity. Leaving, I clasped his hand and told him how beautifully he had sung. He blushed and, for the first time, I saw him embarrassed in the face of praise.

*

In Câmpina, at the railway station, awaiting the courier which the master had announced by telephone from Braşov, I caught sight of Marga and her husband through the train window. She’s still beautiful, which makes me happy about the past – but looks set to put on weight, which makes me happy about the future.

The way she responded to my greeting, with the same attentive tilt of the head which I knew from before, reminded me suddenly that I had loved this girl and it struck me as unusually comic that now we were such strangers, separated by the glass of a train window, like a barrier between two worlds.

The courier arrived on the following train. I swore terribly at him. He had found it necessary to talk politics with the stationmaster for two hours.

*

Marjorie Dunton came by the oilfield in the morning. I was covered with dust, my hands dirty, my hair messed up, and I didn’t want to go down. She greeted me from below.

‘I was waiting for you last night with new records. You’re a deserter.’

‘Sorry, I had work to do. If you’ll have me, I’ll come this evening.’

‘Can’t this evening. We’re going to the Nicholsons’. Phill has promised a game of bridge. Come along yourself.’

She was dressed in white.