Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent

by Mircea Eliade

  Poprişan picked up the metal shoe-scraper from outside the door, dragged it across the courtyard and threw it over the fence.

  ‘...Bloody upstarts! That’ll teach you to turn the lights out!’

  And then he shouted, loud enough to be heard inside the house: ‘What do you think, you tight-arsed sods! That we’re starving to death and came to beg? Never heard of tradition? Merry Christmas to you too!’

  Fănică would have stopped him, but he was laughing up his sleeve and couldn’t control himself. We quickly slunk back out into the street, where our courage returned. Some people were offended by Poprişan’s vernacular, while others enjoyed it.

  We wandered along several other streets. Every now and then, when we got to a crossroads, we heard male voices, and would stop to listen. We agreed that none of the other choirs were a patch on ours.

  When we got to Radu’s house, we hung our coats in the cloakroom and crowded into the dining room, where we were served tea. In crystal fruit bowls on the table were mandarins and shiny apples. With tea there was rich fruit cake, and those of us who hadn’t had supper were delighted. We felt constantly obliged to be witty. The target of all our jokes was Robert, along with a few of the others. But Radu was spared.

  We sang.

  ‘Let us drink our whole life through as I drink wine today with you!’

  Some people put in: ‘Just a drop!’

  While others responded, lowering their voices: ‘Drink up! Drink up!’

  This always managed to raise our spirits. As we sang we smiled, our faces shining.

  We left Radu’s as soon as his mother had given us a hundred lei, and gathered up all the apples and oranges that were left on the table. The cake had been finished long ago.

  At about eleven o’clock we were invited into a very grand house. We sang as beautifully as we could. And had another success with Oarsmen, the night is falling. Our audience seemed very pleased as they nibbled biscuits in front of us. When we’d finished they asked if that was all we could sing, and when we assured them that it was, they gave us forty lei.

  So as we left, we took the steel cannon balls from outside the front door and carried them down the street. This took some of the sting out of the insult, and calmed us down somewhat.

  At midnight, seeing that there were now very few houses with lights on, we decided to stop. We headed back to my place, where a feast was waiting for us, including bottles of wine. On the way we called in at Fănică’s, where we picked up five bottles of wine as well as some money. Robert had also given us some wine, but we had drunk it all as we went round. Fănică’s warnings had been in vain. No one was afraid of being fined anymore.

  ‘We’re freezing, boss!’

  ‘If we could just warm up a bit, we’d sing better, Fănică.’

  ‘If not we’ll get hoarse...’

  ‘And then there’ll be no tenors.’

  When we arrived, Mama had laid the table in the attic.

  The boys were more than a little pleased with the turkey, the wine, and the atmosphere. Some of them, who were tired, went into the next room to smoke. Baba and Poprişan opened the bottles and tried to get Brătăşanu drunk. He had brought a bottle of liqueur that he had distilled himself, and a bag full of little glasses. He poured some for us and said the liqueur was excellent. But no one was able to finish their glass, because it was far too sweet. Brătăşanu suddenly became very talkative, and started waving his arms about. The boys couldn’t resist the temptation to get him drunk. They poured him one glass after another, and said: ‘Here’s to you, boss.’

  ‘The boss’ downed it triumphantly and gave a sigh: ‘No more.’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby, boss.’

  ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Nonsense! Only three glasses.’

  ‘I think you’re scared...’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Then drink this.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’re not serious, boss?’

  ‘Drink it before it gets warm.’

  ‘I can’t drink another drop.’

  ‘What a baby!’

  ‘Do it for me...’

  ‘Tut-tut!’

  ‘Leave him alone, he’s scared...’

  ‘Are you scared of getting drunk?’

  ‘But who’s going to see you?’

  They put the glass to his lips, and the boss suddenly found his resolve. He took the glass and downed it in one. Then he turned an even brighter shade of red and just managed to say: ‘I can’t drink anymore.’

  In the next-door room, the others wondered ‘how it was going.’

  Some people were certain that in a quarter of an hour he’d be ‘plastered’. They made suggestions.

  ‘You should replace the wine with...’

  ‘Pour a glass of rum into the bottle.’

  But then events took an unexpected turn. Brătăşanu tore himself away from Poprişan’s and Baba’s clutches, and swore that he wouldn’t touch another drop of wine all night. And then he promptly gathered up his glasses, asked if we had enjoyed the liqueur, and said: ‘I’m off.’

  The boys all gathered round him: ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Stay! We’re going to Madame Roza’s...’

  ‘Girls! You know!’

  But Brătăşanu put his glasses in the bag, shook a few hands and then staggered to the door. At which point the boys began to sing:

  When I drink another short,

  I don’t give poverty a thought.

  When I’m flat out on the floor

  My ailments are no more.

  Brătăşanu thanked them, but wouldn’t change his mind about going home.

  ‘But why are you going?’

  ‘Because I want to.’

  ‘Why do you want to?’

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘Never mind her, you can see her tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve.’

  ‘We’re all going to Madame Roza’s.’

  Then someone said, reprovingly: ‘Leave him alone boys, you’re making him blush.’

  Brătăşanu protested: ‘I’m not blushing, I know all about that.’

  ‘If you know, why don’t you want to come?’

  ‘Because.’

  So we let him go. Brătăşanu set off alone through the snow, trying to look impassive.

  The rest of us stayed in the attic for quite a while. We ate all the food and drank most of the wine. The room soon got so full of smoke that we had to open the windows.

  When we finally decided to leave, it was half-past four in the morning.

  We went outside and wandered down the street together for quite a while, laughing and joking. But after much deliberation, we decided that it was too late to go Madame Roza’s.

  So we all wished each other ‘Merry Christmas’, and promised to meet up again at Fănică’s house on the third day of Christmas, which was his birthday. Then we all went our separate ways. Dinu and I walked home together, singing:

  Ride a white horse, ride a white horse,

  With a green saddle cloth (repeat).

  O, keep me on her back, Lord, keep me on her back,

  Don’t let me tumble off (repeat).

  * * *

  20Bună Dimineața la Moş-Ajun: traditional song sung on Christmas Eve. ‘Good Morning, Eve of Christmas’.

  21‘Sărut-mâna’: ‘I kiss your hand’. A polite Romanian greeting from a man to a woman, still routinely used today, in much the same way as ‘Küss die Hand’ in Austria.

  Part III

  Saturday

  I have to write about this: we look forward to Saturday as a special day. Not because it is followed by Sunday, but because Saturday is the day of the body. Robert would call it the day of
love. And Poprişan, the day of hysterical women.

  Yet the truth is quite different. On Saturday nights we make our way to houses with red lanterns, where we find neither love nor hysterical women.

  At our age we regard it as a duty. Anyone who tries to wheedle out of it becomes the target of shameful accusations. Houses with red lights are gymnasiums where masculine prowess is revealed and nurtured. There are exams to pass here as well, bringing with them the same fits of nerves that torment the soul and cloud the mind. And they’re just as necessary as other exams.

  Since we lack the personal charm, time and money, we don’t try to ‘conquer’ the women. That rarely happens in any case. Using the little money we have, we just buy the quarter of an hour that the act of love requires. Which could be regarded as rather sad.

  Perhaps our adolescent imaginations had conjured up faces other than the ones we saw leering at us after midnight. Perhaps we would have liked to hold a body tightly in our arms, to sink our teeth into lips. Perhaps we dreamt of women with dark, smouldering eyes – the sort you find in books – who would enslave our souls and slip into our bedroom at night. But the years went by, and the women of our dreams had still to cross our path. They still hadn’t stared deep into our eyes and stirred our blood. They still hadn’t held themselves against us, ardent and spiteful. They hadn’t whispered words from books or dreams in our ears. They hadn’t kissed us long and hard, their lips crushed breathlessly against our own, their eyelids half-closed. All that was left to us were vague, unsettling hallucinations that we stored away deep down inside us, and which we could call upon to comfort us whenever we were sad or alone.

  Instead we grew accustomed to gingerly caressing spent, exhausted bodies, kissing shoulders that smelt of cheap powder and eau de cologne. It wasn’t easy to get used to. On our first visit we walked nervously into the cobbled courtyard. We went over to the windows, doing our best to put on a brave smile. What confronted us was withered bodies, hollow cheeks, dull eyes, rouge-smeared lips. We were tempted by obscene, chopped meat. Legs were exposed for us, while through translucent blouses we glimpsed soft, wilted shapes. Mouths smiled at us, a service that was included in the price of the body. For us they spoke aphrodisiac words that were drowned out by the cracked laughter of a drunken virgin...

  I don’t know about the others. And I don’t want to know about them in the pages of this notebook, which must remain mine alone. All I remember is my night, my love; the body that gave itself to me at the price laid down by the local tariff.

  I too had to take this step. And I did so, forcing myself to appear calm and dignified. I walked into the courtyard with the other three, who were familiar with the house and its ‘girls.’ I laughed, even though I was trembling. I wasn’t trembling for fear of revealing my own body, but for fear of the strange women to whom I would have to speak, the banknotes I would have to leave on the table ‘afterwards’.

  Several men were standing staring in the window, their expressions either radiant or rapacious. And I stared too, along with the rest. Then I chose a body. A painfully short dress, without sleeves. Young cheeks. A low voice. I gestured to her, tapped on the window and smiled. She smiled back. The others congratulated me on my choice. They described the various delights that the ‘girl’ would offer me in exchange for two banknotes. Then they followed me to the door, full of boisterous humour and advice.

  For a moment or two I was alone in the room, and looked round at the pictures, which were in poor taste, a lamp covered in flimsy red paper, and the bed.

  The ‘girl’ came back. She locked the door and walked over to me with an affected, cat-like grace. I played my part and pretended to take her seriously. But then she told me that I was ‘good-looking’. This was discouraging: I know myself, and I’m not ‘good-looking’. I’m not ashamed of it, but I realized the ‘girl’ was lying, and hadn’t even bothered to look at me properly.

  She asked me what I was called. I don’t like it when strangers want to know my name. I don’t want to be recognized in public, or bask in the fame that comes with a handshake. Which is why I gave her a strange, foreign name. The ‘girl’ smiled at me.

  What followed was devoid of emotion on either side. Deep down inside, however, I was still very uneasy. I couldn’t wait for my companion to unlock the door and say ‘good night’. Nervously, I put the money on the table then hurried over to the mirror. I didn’t want to look her in the eye. She didn’t seem to appreciate my sensitivities. She just counted the money, pulled up her dress and stuffed the notes into the top of her stocking.

  Once I was outside, I came back down to earth. So this was love? The body? Women?

  I wanted to spit and weep, to smash my fists against the railings. I was disgusted and humiliated. It was possibly the only time that I haven’t dismissed suicide as contemptible. I wanted to run away, tear off the clothes that still smelt of cheap flesh, to forget the words I had spoken, our embraces on the bed.

  But the others seemed satisfied with my show of nerve. They showered me with praise, said I would go far in life. Then we went to a bar and ordered drinks. Since I was the man of the moment, it was my round. My friends kept laughing and joking about ‘the girl’, and my melancholy state. They told me I ought to be glad. And that I was no longer a child. But I had already realized that.

  I walked home alone, long after midnight. At one point I caught myself strutting like a peacock. I laughed under my breath. It meant that I was feeling more self-confident. And I was overjoyed.

  But in the depths of my soul I was still filled with the same despair that I had felt when I looked at the girl with the money tucked in her stocking.

  *

  The months went by, and Saturday became gradually less exciting. The act was performed correctly, like an order that must be obeyed. Those of us who didn’t make ‘conquests’ submitted to it without the slightest regret. At certain times of night we would walk into certain hidden courtyards where we made our selection.

  Not a trace of sentimentality or sensuality. That only happens in books or to boyars’ sons. But we poor intellectual boys manhandled all this chosen flesh simply to calm our nerves and clear our minds. Why hide it? Our love is purely functional. We don’t engage in sexual perversions. We don’t seek the sensual delights that appear on the price list. What would be the point? It would entice us into a whole new world, one that we couldn’t and didn’t wish to be acquainted with.

  Some of my classmates fell in love during the school holidays. They loved and suffered for it. But it didn’t last long. They stand around on the sidelines of love, but consider themselves dupes if they don’t get French kisses and long embraces. So it comes down to functionality.

  At parties we dance. These dances aren’t artistic. Still less are they romantic. Bodies draw closer, take on a certain symmetry, and then they spin round and round in time with the music. This creates tensions on both sides. In other words, it’s functionality.

  Moralists might find all this annoying. But it exists. For a whole host of reasons we are unable to satisfy our sensual or romantic urges. Layer by layer they accumulate in our souls, where they sit and wait. Or mutate into strange, unexpected forms. Or become depraved and terrifying.

  Perhaps I should write about these things with more warmth. Perhaps I should try to shed some light on what lies beneath them. But in my eyes it seems natural, and that’s enough for me.

  *

  Having closely observed my friends and classmates for my ‘novel,’ I know for certain that none of them have ever made a single ‘conquest.’ Not Dinu, not Robert. Everything they say on the subject is a lie that the whole class accepts, although no one believes a word of it.

  So it’s simply functionality, with a price attached. Which is for the best. It’s one more step towards understanding reality. Frequenting houses with red lights helps us acquire the qualities required to become conscientious, discrim
inating citizens. Which can only be cause for rejoicing.

  Almost without realizing, those of us who are able to possess a body in exchange for two small blue banknotes, develop a quite different way of seeing women. These opinions may be far from the truth, but they are ours, not borrowed. They are imposed on us by life.

  We always evaluate the bodies of women we see in the street from a purely obscene and financial viewpoint. Our eyes inspect every limb, and then fix a price in blue banknotes. We compare how much each of us would be prepared to pay for instant possession. If we have the time, the discussion often lasts for hours.

  On Saturdays I always meet up with Marcu. We decide what we’re going to do according to the time and money we have available. We might go to the cinema, or buy some toffee and go for a stroll in the Cişmigiu Gardens, where we have a discussion.

  My discussions with Marcu are lively and impassioned, because he always contradicts me. I enjoy this, at least at the start. We discuss a book we’ve been reading, or Cocea’s latest article in Facla22, or our favourite subjects. He tells me about anarchistic texts, while I initiate him into Orientalism. Since we have completely opposite opinions we’re inseparable. He’s a sceptic, I’m dogmatic. He’s a materialist, I’m a victim of metaphysics. He’s calm and affects an air of cold indifference, while I’m an uncontrollable torrent.

  We walk side by side in the darkness, wracking our brains. And only our brains. Occasionally we discuss women, love, and bodies. But we do so in the light of intelligence, on which we pride ourselves. Deep down we’re incurable romantics. We both realize this. And – being aware of our vulnerability – we do our best to conceal it.

  Late at night we arrive at the houses, already knowing which faces we will see and which words we will hear. We go in. We notice unusual things. We observe the other visitors. We whisper our most valuable observations to each other. We double-check our impressions. We continue the discussion that we started an hour earlier, dissect it and struggle to find explanations and conclusions for these new situations. Everything around us is raw material to be collected, sifted and weighed. Neither of us is pedantic, nor do we feign exaggerated intellectualism, but these places and people are too tempting by far. Our brains, accustomed to asking questions, instinctively produce answers that demand justification.