He was probably speaking to the tram driver.

“Hit the road, lad. Get back into your tram and hit the road.”

“Sure, let him hit the road and leave her there dead in the snow.”

Everyone gazed in her direction. In the heat of the argument she had been forgotten, but now she once again became the central character in the drama.

She felt ridiculous, sprawled out as she was – who knew how long she’d been there? – in the middle of the street amid a group of curious bystanders. She would have liked to get up, but she knew she couldn’t do it alone.

She glanced around in a circle, seeking a familiar figure among those grey faces, and stopped at the man whose lazy voice had caught her attention. She recognized him by his uncaring gaze, which bore a strong resemblance to his voice.

“Rather than having a fight, why don’t you help me get up?”

The man didn’t look at all surprised. Without haste, he took a step towards her, paused, kneeled, placed his hand beneath her right arm and lifted her firmly, if without great deftness.

She was unable to suppress a small cry of pain when, reaching a standing position, she was left with her full weight on her right leg.

“Does it hurt?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see later.”

What should she do now? The circle of curious bystanders tightened around her. Her hat slipped onto the nape of her neck, her right stocking had slid down her leg, her overcoat was covered with snow, her gloves were soaked ...

She felt that getting up had been a mistake: she had been more comfortable lying in the snow. For a moment she was tempted to tumble back down on the spot, a thought that made her smile and recover her calm. I’ve got to escape from this, she said to herself, confronting the group’s curiosity with courage.

She returned to the man at her side, who also seemed rather embarrassed by the spectacle.

“Would you like to take a few steps with me?” The suggestion seemed to bore him. She hastened to calm him. “Just a few, as far as the car.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. She took his arm and set out alongside him, treading with care in order not to reawaken the pain of a few moments earlier.

Neither a car nor a taxi could be seen. The young gentleman made no effort to conceal his boredom. He remained stubbornly silent, distracted.

She would have been happy to leave him and continue on her way alone, but she didn’t trust her right leg. Twice she tried to tread with her full weight, and the pain sliced into her ankle like a blade.

He’s been badly brought up, but I need him. She took his arm more firmly, as though she wished to show him that she wasn’t going to allow herself to be intimidated by his bad upbringing and that she wasn’t giving up.

She walked a little behind him, not daring to tell him to take shorter steps. She was able to scowl at him in profile without his noticing. A drab guy, with undefinable features, young-looking, although not of any precise age; his hair looked blond, although it wasn’t of any clearly defined colour. Maybe I’ve seen him before somewhere.

Was he tall? Short? She wouldn’t have known what to say. He looked tall in that loose, grey overcoat with large pockets into which he had thrust his hands with a self-assured air.

He remained silent, in the silence of a long journey, reserved, enduring, expressionless.

It’s as if he were alone. As if I weren’t here by his side. As if he had forgotten that I was by his side. What if he really has forgotten? What if he wakes up and finds us arm-in-arm and asks me what I’m doing here, hanging onto his arm?

She decided to break the silence.

“I don’t know how it happened. I slipped, you see, on the step of the tram. I was trying to get off.”

“While the tram was moving?”

Hearing his voice surprised her. She thought he hadn’t heard her, that he wasn’t going to respond. Her surprise made her animated.

“Yes, while the tram was moving. I always get off when the tram’s moving. Otherwise it doesn’t work. I live near here, on Bulevardul Dacia, and the number 16 tram only stops on Donici or on Vasile Lascăr.