I see myself lying wounded—he has gone away.

Father said, “If Mircea can make some time, then you and he can start cataloguing the books anew.” There are so many books in Father’s library. Several thousand—who knows how many—perhaps seven or eight thousand. There is a large square wooden box, divided into compartments, and cards have been prepared—we work together for four or five hours every day. Then, in the evening, we all go out for a drive together. Altogether, we spend seven or eight hours together each day. Yet, in the afternoons, when I go upstairs for a little while, I feel restless, longing to be near him. As if someone is binding me to him with an invisible rope. Can this bond ever be broken? If it is, I will not survive! But I have not breathed a word of this to anyone. Not even to Milu. She would not understand. She would think ill of me. But I know I am not bad—never!

I have not told Mircea either about the state of my heart; he is full of suspicion. It seems he has no faith in me at all.

Whenever we are together—whether talking about a story from a book or about poetry: “Have you read the book ‘Hunger’? I didn’t like it.” There was a particular reason I didn’t like it. That I cannot tell him. There is a scene described there, and my mixed curiosity and discomfort about it is the reason for my dislike. Besides, “Hunger”—a man suffering day after day without food—how can I understand such pain? I have never known the pangs of hunger. Not for a single day have I gone without food. Mother is always coaxing me to eat delicious things; even the hunger of the body is mentioned there—but I have never suffered from it. That world is foreign to me. I do not know the hunger of the mind either—for beauty, for taste, for color, for fragrance, arrangements are always made to fulfill them. I told him, “I cannot understand the book ‘Hunger.’”

He said, “Let me see?” As I handed him the book, he put his arm around my waist and drew me close, and perhaps, driven by the conventions of ages, with my left hand still holding him, I slapped his fair cheek with my right hand—oh, the shame still burns in me to think of it—a real slap, and quite hard. His cheek turned red. He stared at me in astonishment. Gripping my right wrist tightly, he said softly, “You hit me!”

“What could I do?”

“Do you know, in our country, if a girl does something like this, it is an impossible insult? It’s called jilting.”

“But this is not your country.”

“Fine, I’ll leave tomorrow, and never come back—”

My very soul shriveled in fear—what will happen if he really leaves?

“Forgive me, Mircea, forgive me. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Not on purpose?” he was surprised.

“I swear to you,