Filimon the tailor was born with a cricket in his ear — a tiny creature, extremely talkative. It spoke continuously, yet never became tiresome; its topics were always timely and useful. Though it lounged on Filimon’s eardrum, it remained closely connected to the affairs of the world: it saw through Filimon’s eyes, heard what he heard, felt caresses and the touch of rain, and held informed opinions on many matters, especially perfumes and flowers.
Filimon respected the cricket deeply and followed its advice, which is why he prospered. In general, he obtained what he wanted from life. When confronted with some irritable fellow, he listened attentively, so much so that it seemed he was agreeing. In reality, he was listening to the cricket’s commentary — brilliant across many fields. At the right moment, once the hothead had cooled down, Filimon’s warm voice would echo, repeating word for word what the cricket had said. The irritable man would be left speechless, and the rest — weary of his complaints — would side instantly with Filimon, who gradually became known as a wise man, then a respected voice, then an authority, and finally a representative of the elite: one of those few clever men who know exactly when to speak, whom to bet on, and whom to flatter.
Filimon made clothes, but above all one particular garment, prosaically called the polonaise: a velvet jacket with a high collar, richly braided, short, with embroidered sleeves, in the Bucharest fashion of the time — large flowers at the artistically slit cuffs, reaching up to the elbow. Worn by both men and women, the garment was in great demand. It was not only Filimon’s masterpiece but had become his passion. He would tailor a polonaise, sell it at a good price, then spend several weeks wandering through the Bucharest of pleasures, led by the cricket.
His cricket was especially skilled at choosing women, warning him whenever the chances were slim. “Look, Filimon,” it would say, “this woman is ready to love you,” or on the contrary, “stay away, old fellow — trouble awaits you there.” The cricket was always right, even in matters of love. Night after night, the tailor loosened lace and velvet, delighting in Maltese sheets. He knew which women were home alone, which doors he could knock on. He slipped at midday into chambers guarded by mercenaries, entered monasteries, palaces encircled by walls. When he spotted a woman at a carriage window, he would discreetly stroke his ear, and the cricket would fill him in on her entire life and habits.
Shopkeepers embraced in corners of their stores, girls walking dogs, sophisticated ladies waiting at windows night after night, adolescents eager to taste life’s mysteries, wives kept under lock, slender girls bent under complexes, arrogant women convinced they chose men themselves, mature women, desperate women — all who entered Filimon’s field of vision ended up loving him, sighing for him, or tearing their hair out.
When he opened his door, women stormed him, demanding love, believing in lifelong bonds. Their numbers multiplied alarmingly, until the tailor’s former tranquility became a fading memory.
One day, the cricket told him there was no point in going out anymore. Bucharest was finished for him. Even the cricket’s powers no longer worked. Filimon had gone too far; it was time to move to another city.
Depressed, Filimon worked absentmindedly on a polonaise for a man from Vâlcea, due to be delivered the next day. Alone in his house, thinking of his adventures, he realized the cricket was right. Still, leaving Bucharest felt unbearable. What harm could there be in staying just a few more days?
The cricket’s answers were evasive, but something serious was coming.
He finished the jacket, stuck the needle into a silk cushion, and stepped onto the porch. The city slept, and in his ear there was a black silence. From the direction of the Metropolitan Hill came a rustle, like approaching rain, and above the Dâmbovița the lights of morning already shimmered — or so he thought. Suddenly, invisible tongues of excess seized him. Kneaded like dough, a lump of ambition stretched in all directions, the tailor was lifted and carried over the city, fragments of what he once was falling at intersections — Romană Square, Lipscani, near Boteanu, on Metropolitan Hill. Even today, small glassy pebbles can be found there — remnants of the tailor’s avid being, and perhaps of a cricket’s abused soul from another world.
Many search for these pebbles, believing them to be talismans of success.
At noon, the man from Vâlcea came for his jacket. The house was empty, but the polonaise gleamed, perfectly tailored, displayed on a mannequin. He left the money, took the jacket — and later, at home, discovered a cricket in his pocket.
What followed is not worthy of my pen. Suffice it to say, it did not end well. About a year later, a hand — over which some eyes had wept — wrote in a book the ending of this story:
“April 15, 1750, when uncle — may the earth rest lightly upon him — bought his polonaise from Scaraoțchi.”
This inscription, deemed cryptic by many, encloses the biography of Filimon the tailor. If the anonymous uncle is remembered by his family, Filimon’s story — like many others — remained in the underground of memory.
P.S. If you find one of those pebbles in the places mentioned, keep it for a few days, just long enough to make a good impression — then throw it into the fire.
