There are so many things to be done …

My first thought is to stand up, run down to the Duntons’ villa and ask Marjorie. Ridiculous. When it comes to women, Marin Dronţu never lies.

But I should inquire further, get him to tell me everything, right down to the details. I should stand up and pace about the cabin, I should rush over to young Dogany, I should tell Dronţu what a pig he is.

I raised my head.

‘Bravo, Marin. And is that all you’ve been fretting about for an entire day? You slept with her, so good for you.’

‘You mean, you’re not angry?’

‘Why should I be? What’s it to me? Is she family? My wife? Lover? It’s between the two of you. Come on, let’s eat now.’

I drank a bottle of wine and Marin sang a few sentimental songs.

‘What the hell, they’re all the same, the lot of them. Women.’

That’s my consolation.

*

The work goes on. The master’s visit has put things in order. But his interview with Rice went worse than I expected.

I’d counted on a five-minute argument. It lasted an hour. The master left the director’s office, slamming the door, and went straight to the oilfield, where he remained with us until evening, running from one corner to the other, scrutinizing everything. I could feel his bad humour, and everybody worked in silence, with their heads down. It was like a tacit act of solidarity with him. I think he understood that.

Old Ralph turned up, too, around four o’clock with a long-faced look of consternation. He hovered around Vieru, not knowing how to begin speaking again, but Vieru was determined not to lighten his penance. In the end, the old fellow had to bite the bullet: he took it all back, apologized in a roundabout way and vowed not to meddle any more.

That night the master slept here with us, in the cabin. We stayed up late talking, drinking wine and smoking, all three of us. You could hear brief rumblings from afar, which then echoed down the whole valley, as if every sound were broken into thousands of tiny splinters. It’s a well that’s been gushing for about two days at Romanian Star. Like the breathing of a caged animal, somewhere in the night.

*

Pierre Dogany came by the cabin yesterday evening to see me. I was surprised, as he’d never done this before.

Poor boy! He senses something has happened but doesn’t know exactly what, and doesn’t have the courage to imagine.

If I could be sure his suffering contained enough freedom of spirit, I’d tell him and, with a little intelligence, he would be consoled.

We went together to the Star well to see how it was working. There were a lot of flares, like some strange torchlight procession. Human shadows grew immense around us, into the distance, upon the hillsides.

He spoke of his approaching departure, and tried to seem indifferent.

‘Why are you really going? Do you think the university in Budapest is better than the one in Bucharest?’

‘I don’t know if it’s better. But it’s my university.’

‘I thought you were a Jew.’

‘I’m Hungarian. A Jew, of course, but also a Hungarian. My father opted for Romania. His business. He was born in Satu Mare, he wants to die in Satu Mare. He votes, pays his dues, reads the Bucharest newspapers. None of that interests me. It’s not part of me, I don’t understand it.