Once upon a time, long ago, for had it not been, I wouldn't be sitting here now to tell you.
The snow was sifting down, and I think the big flakes stayed up there somewhere, while only the little ones fell to the ground. It took many days for enough snow to settle on the lane for us to be able to play properly. What can you do? Snow angels, sledding, snowball fights, and plenty of frozen noses, because we weren't all that well kitted out; we were on the poorer side, let's say, though not poor as in having nothing to eat, just poor as in having no money to spend on thick clothes like that. But we hardly felt the cold anyway, only once we got back indoors and put our feet on the stove, we couldn't feel how hot the stove was because of our frostbitten feet. Sometimes we'd fall asleep with our feet pressed against the tiled stove, and when we woke they would burn so badly you'd think we'd dipped them in mother's cauldron of milk and polenta, because, as I told you, we weren't poor; there was so much food we could have poured it over our heads, since we even had a cow. We were always making little pots of something, always. I can still hear my mother: „I'll make a little pot of polenta.” Such joy, for our mother loved us and never gave us our bit of polenta plain; she'd always tuck in some milk, as I said, or a potato baked in the stove, or an egg. At Easter she would even slaughter the rooster.
Anyway, we children were all out there, outside, and we set about making a snowman, since our faces weren't yet frozen stiff by the frost. We rolled the snow, and rolled it, and we fetched a carrot from a neighbour, because our mother wouldn't let us take one, and coal from another boy, Calu's lad, if you know him, which we used for buttons; and on top, since I was ashamed that I'd brought nothing myself, I put Vasilică's bowl. Vasilică was a little dog, poor thing, ever so scrawny; we kept him tied on a lead, and many folk don't even know what that is.
To get back to the story, once we'd finished him, we each went home. Night had fallen good and proper. Happy that we'd managed to make our Snowman so handsome, I kept looking out the window at him, for the little window in my parents' pantry looked right onto that lane. And what do you think I saw? He was walking! The snowman walked just like all the walkers walk! So I thought I was going mad, I went outside, I called out, I hollered for everyone, but I think they were already asleep, because nobody came out. Had there been telephones back then, well, wouldn't I have filmed it and been believed? But in a way it was better there weren't any, because the moment I reached him, he looked at me, I looked at him, he looked at me, he had eyes! So I swear it! Two big blue eyes. I couldn't believe it, and I asked him:
May I touch you?
Yes, in fact it would be good if you'd give me a bit of a shake, I'm frozen!
And I shook him, and what do I see, it was my brother, Ionică. We had forgotten that the snow wouldn't stick at all, that it was too soft, and so, to get the shape right, we'd had him stand in as a model, we covered him up and covered him up so very well that there he stayed.
My word, this mother of ours, though. Hadn't she noticed that he didn't come to the table? But, poor thing, she had a saying: „Where one eats, two can eat,” so what was she likely to have thought? That it works pretty well the other way round too.
And so, to this very day I tell poor Ionică: „Youuu were lucky to have me, or I'd only have found you again come springtime,” because the truth is that back then winter was winter, not like nowadays.
The next day was Christmas; I no longer remember exactly what Santa brought us, but it was definitely Christmas, because the house smelled of oranges when I came in and set Ionică down beside the stove. The two of us gazed longingly at the oranges peeking out of the tiny little bag beneath the tree, which was laden with fondants.