Toia—a beautiful name, isn’t it? An eighteen-year-old boy, dark-skinned, with green eyes, always wearing a flamboyant hat. Though it was nothing more than a simple straw weave, it was ennobled by a strip of cloth that still preserved something of its former fire: no longer red, but a faded pink, over which a thin layer of dust had settled. Onto this ornament—like a wreath rising toward the crown—were sewn all kinds of things: tiny buttons, coins and beads, little tin figurines, apple seeds, painted bone fragments, and other objects that, over time, had lost both shape and identity.
In any case, Toia stood out. Everyone on the estate knew him, for he was a kind of jack-of-all-trades. He lived on the property of the boyar Dumitrache Racoviță—roughly where the Capital Police stands today—in a large house with an upper floor, numerous wings, outbuildings, and a vast garden, just as shown on a Poitevin-Skeletti map you can still find online.
Living in the very heart of the town and in such a large household, he became known throughout the neighborhood as well. The people of Bucharest recognized him by his hat, while the locals called him by name.
Racoviță himself had noticed him, and sometimes, in the evenings, asked him to sing at the table. Toia plucked the cobza and had a melodious voice; whatever he sang brought a fine mist to the eyes, making onlookers see him as gentler, kinder.
Few, however, knew what he was truly capable of.
For in his real world there were small chicks growing—dreams and whims. In short, one day, when he was sent to buy coffee pots at the Outer Market, Toia realized just how vast Bucharest was. He wandered the streets, stared wide-eyed through the neighborhoods, and by evening reached Pantelimon, where another face of life was about to begin.
Near a gate he caught sight of Tranca—Dumitrana in the official records—a tall girl whose gaze struck him straight in the groin. Or rather, even lower.
Toia never returned to his master. But there was a problem: the man with the baroque hat and a thousand dreams was a slave, part of the property of the boyar Racoviță—a princely lineage that reclaimed every loss, even from a serpent’s mouth.
And so the search began.
Toia had to be brought home at any cost, and usually this was quite simple, for a slave was not only dark-skinned but often marked as well—branded with his master’s initial, tattooed, or even artistically nicked on an ear. Still, let us not forget: his green eyes made him easier to hide in a neighborhood of similarly dark complexions. Moreover, Toia had meanwhile become Tranca’s husband—a free woman with a good reputation in the district. They had proper papers, so one could say he was a former slave, integrated.
But let us think of Racoviță too, poor man—a determined fellow, still young, with great expectations of life. He could not reconcile himself to the thought that a slave had run away. He felt robbed, and even responsible. He paid people, offered rewards, persisted—and after five years, Toia was captured.
By then he had four children, all legally property of the great Racoviță, who opened a lawsuit through which I myself learned Toia’s story.
Here Alecu Moruzi enters the scene again, at that time the ruler of the country.
It is May 1794. Among the petitions received at the chancery is one signed by Tranca. She does not complain about losing Toia, but about losing a child. She writes out her story in detail; we learn how happy those five years had been for her. One boy and three girls were the living proof of that time spent with Toia. And now Racoviță—a great boyar with titles and money—had decided to intrude into her life.
Still, the boyar was gallant. He did not want all the offspring of his slave. He renounced the girls; they could remain with their mother. But Mavrodin, about five years old, seemed to him rightly destined for his household. He already imagined the boy keeping the drone for his father during pleasant evenings at the manor.
As for Toia, there was no question. He was to be returned “home” and punished as an example.
Prince Moruzi read the case and then requested further information on the trial. Witnesses were brought. Mavrodin passed from one side to the other. But Tranca was strong. She had arguments and a mouth that would not fall silent. Above all, she was free—and she had the neighborhood on her side.
People who sang in the evenings at Saint Pantelimon and believed in him, calling him the doctor without silver, came forward and swore on the cross that Mavrodin was not Toia’s child.
The Metropolitan was stunned. Moruzi smiled.
“Then whose is he?” the Metropolitan protested.
“The Muscovites,” replied the chorus of locals—the Russian troops who had once flooded the city.
Silence fell. Past times returned to the boyars’ minds—the Muscovite days, when war had turned Bucharest into a chain of endless parties, when wigs and soldiers filled the streets and every moral restraint had quietly dissolved. In those days, Tranca too had danced through the city. Heated scenes crossed several minds at once; in some ears the sound of the clavier still echoed.
Racoviță accepted the explanation. Yes, he knew it well—he too had once overstepped the moral line during the Muscovite days, he admitted.
The boyars sighed. Moruzi continued to smile. And Tranca was finally relieved of her worries.
Mavrodin returned home with his mother. Things quickly settled back into normality.
And somewhere, in a courtyard off Lipscani Street, Toia dreamed of those five years—the only freedom he would ever have.
