At Manjoala’s Inn
By I. L. Caragiale
It took a quarter of an hour to reach Manjoala’s Inn. From there to Upper Popeshti was about nine miles; at an easy pace, that meant one hour and a half. A good hack—if they gave it oats at the inn, and three-quarters’ of an hour rest—could do it comfortably. That is to say, one quarter of an hour and three-quarters of an hour made one hour, on to Popeshti was one hour and a half, that made two and a half. It was past seven already; at ten o’clock at latest, I should be with Pocovnicu Iordache. I was rather late—I ought to have started earlier—but, after all, he expected me.
I was turning this over in my mind when I saw in the distance, a good gun-shot length away, a great deal of light coming from Manjoala’s Inn, for it still retained that name. It was now really Madame Manjoala’s inn—the husband died some five years ago. What a capable woman! How she had worked, how she had improved the place! They were on the point of selling the inn while her husband was alive. Since then she had paid off the debts, and had repaired the house; moreover, she had built a flight of stone steps, and every one said she had a good sum of money too. Some surmised that she had found a hidden treasure, others that she had dealings with the supernatural.
Once some robbers attempted an attack upon her. They tried to force the door. One of them, the strongest, a man like a bull, wielded the axe, but when he tried to strike he fell to the ground. They quickly raised him up—he was dead. His brother tried to speak, but could not—he was dumb. There were four of them. They hoisted the dead man on to his brother’s back, the other two took his feet that they might carry him off to bury him somewhere away.
As they left the courtyard of the inn, Madame Manjoala began to scream from the window, “Thieves!” and in front of her there suddenly appeared the sub-prefect with numerous men and four mounted soldiers. The official shouted:
“Who is there?”
Two of the robbers escaped. The dumb man remained behind with his dead brother on his back.
Now what happened at the trial? Every one knew the mute had been able to speak. How could anyone doubt but that the dumb man was shamming? They beat him till he was crazy to try and make his speech come back, but in vain. Since then the lads had lost all desire to attack the place.
While all this was passing through my mind I arrived at the inn. A number of carts were waiting in the yard of the inn. Some were carrying timber down the valley; others, maize up the hill.