by Norman Manea
The tale seemed Parisian, but not without a touch of Balkan flavor. The renowned Communist critic and man of letters had become an invalid as a consequence of his interrogation by Antonescu’s henchman and was now obese and sedentary, unable to walk even a few steps. He traveled from the center of the city, where he lived, to the love nest he shared in a suburb with his weekend mistress, in old Khachaturian’s car. The retired driver had also been a Communist in the war years, and they had known each other since those times, but instead of giving him a reduced price for that reason, Khachaturian charged him three times more, as a kind of immorality tax.
It was not possible for him to jump straight out of bed on the third floor and into the waiting taxi. Only the elevator could carry this disabled Golem to the ground floor, where Comrade Sarchiz Khachaturian’s car stood at the ready. His clay feet could no longer cope with the short walk to the elevator and Donna Alba had to support him, see him into the elevator, and, with the aid of the driver, help him into the car. Then she returned to the apartment and called her rival to let her know that the transfer had been accomplished and that the roving husband would reach his destination, as usual, in about forty minutes, when the mistress would be waiting outside her apartment house in the suburb of Drumul Taberei, to extract her beloved from the car, help him to the elevator, get him to the eighth floor, and, finally, into the love nest. All this took place on Friday at lunchtime. On the following Monday morning, with the cooperation of the same Khachaturian, he was returned home, where his wife was waiting in front of no. 24 Sfîntul Pavel Street to help him into the elevator and see him safely back into the conjugal domicile. Both women obviously adored their charismatic invalid.
At the next soirée, I found myself face-to-face with the amorous commuter himself. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, Mr. Nordman, that I’m a Stalinist monster, I suppose. In fact, I sided with Trotsky, I guess that makes me a Trotskyist monster, as well. You, as a liberal in the British tradition, would say it’s the same thing. Well, it isn’t; take it from me. It isn’t.”
He must have guessed my thoughts, the nickname “Nordman” being the evidence.
“I shall be remembered for my nicknames and puns,” he rasped, “not for my stock editorials of the ‘obsessive decade,’ as you anti-Communists call the time of class struggle. And not for my so-called multivalency during the time of liberalization, as you pacifists call that trap laid by Khrushchev, the so-called peaceful coexistence. It is quite possible that my novels of this new National Socialist period will not survive. But the nicknames and plays on words that I have launched will be remembered.”
Although he was not aware of it, he had a nickname himself — the “Flying Elephant”—which his doctor, himself nicknamed “the Bulgar,” had given him. Such masks and amusements were all that was left to liven that carnival-like country without real carnivals. The young, slim, ardent youth from the years of the Communist underground, maimed, as it was believed, by Antonescu’s interrogators, had become, after four decades of socialism, an enormous mass of diseased flesh, the disabled elephant, immobilized, hardly able to move between table, bed, and toilet. For all that, his mind was still boiling with ideas. The elephant could still lift up his trunk and let out a roar. “So, what’s Paradise like, General?”
I had dozed off again, or maybe I had just been diving into the mists of the past. I could hear that old voice, tipsy and insinuating, but I could not see him, and it was better like that. Sixteen years had gone by since he had bestowed upon me, over the phone, the title to which I did not aspire.
“I’ve read your interview, it’s the talk of the town. Your liberals are acclaiming your liberal courage, Tank Division General. There’s a tank division general inside you struggling to get out, you know. You won’t believe it, I read it, standing there, one clay foot in the air, the other on the ground. You must know what this means for an invalid like myself.”
“Nordman,” then “General”—who knows what other sobriquets he had attached to my name in his rounds of telephone gossip. The telephone had become his sole entertainment and only social life. In the months before my departure, I had acquired a new nickname, “Mynheer,” the name of the main character in the novel I had just published, not the name of the Dutch giant from The Magic Mountain.
“Well, Mynheer, what do you think about our sublime motherland, now that it is Communist-free? Green, bilious green, like the green uniforms of the Legionnaires. I warned you.”
It was not all Green, just as it had not been all Red, I would have answered, like the old-fashioned liberal that I was, had he been able to hear me. I could hear him all right and had recognized him — he was around there somewhere, although I could not see him, and I was quite wary of actually seeing him: the overflowing belly like a badly inflated balloon; the thick, massive nose like a trunk; the deep bags under his protruding, sad eyes; the big, yellowed teeth with gaps between them; and the small, nicotine-stained hands, with sausage-like fingers. He supported himself with both hands on the edge of the table to take the burden off his dead feet. After my departure he had grown a white, wild beard. He had not climbed out of bed in the last few years and his belly and beard had grown commensurately.
He was silent now, but the past was murmuring with yesterday’s voice. “So what’s all this crazy talk going on in the Atlantic democracy about the Stalinist monster? We are not in England here or in Atlantis. This is our own native patch, where it’s either the Reds or the Greens, there’s no alternative. Niente. You, for instance, with your fractured biography, should fear the Greens more than the Reds. Are you lured by free Atlantis, the Garden of Monetary Happiness? You may find that it’s going to be much harder for you there.”
He was absent at my July party in 1986, when I celebrated half a century of life in the motherland and also paid tribute to Leopold Bloom. He was also absent at my farewell last supper. But when he later learned that I had escaped, he was furious. After my departure, he was on the phone day and night. He called all our mutual acquaintances, spreading enough nicknames and terms of abuse to make sure that some would reach me. His affliction worsened and he did not live to see the downfall of the despised dictator, or the victory of capitalism, which he had never ceased hating.
Through the mists, I hear his raspy voice again.
“How do you like our dear little homeland, our dear little fellow citizens? I’m sure they are treating you with all due respect. And they’ve done so, haven’t they, ever since you were five years old. Do you remember, or do you refuse to remember? I’ve already told you, General, this is no place for democratic confusions and wishy-washiness. It’s Red or Green, that’s all that’s available. You had Green, then Red, then Red-and-Green, and then you made your escape. Are you better off in Paradise? Do you have a rainbow now with all the colors of the spectrum? I have traveled, too, and am now in postmortem Atlantis. We all get there. Only my poor consort is late arriving. Have you seen Donna? Have you seen what the incomparable Donna looks like today?”
No, I had not seen her yet, I would be seeing her Saturday; today was only Tuesday.
Suddenly I remembered I had an appointment. I was still half-asleep, but I knew I had an appointment somewhere, though I wasn’t quite sure where and when. I had been seduced by the siesta, the Oriental rest that socialism had made standard daily practice and that the novels of the former Communist critic had tried to spice up. The siesta depleted ardor, but stimulated decisive, tough action. Was this the revenge of the mind against the impotence of the body and the futility of the soul? Was the siesta the pyre of redemption, the fire of revolution, intended to shatter mediocrity, torpor, decency, sloth? “Alles Große steht in Sturm” Martin Heidegger never tired of repeating, his arm raised in the Nazi salute to honor the platonic citation — everything great is to be found in tumult. The Flying Elephant himself used to repeat, with his fist in the air, “Unlimitedness! Apocalypse and rejuvenation! Sturm, Sturm und Drang!”
By
now I am fully awake. I look at my watch. Only eight minutes had elapsed, my reunion with the Elephant lasted eight minutes. I still have some time to spare. Maybe I could stop by the bookstore, after all, and buy a map of old Bucharest, so that my friend Saul S., like me, a Romanian in New York, can assuage his anti-Wallachian anger by reading aloud, syllable by syllable, all those enchanting names: Strada Concordiei, Strada Zîmbetului, Strada Gentilă, Strada Rinocerului.
I find I cannot move, so I lie back in bed, carefully watching the hands of time ticking away. I close my eyes and I am again at the American Embassy, the same buffet table, the same cutlery, undisturbed, the same familiar faces that time has not changed. There is the poet Mutu and the poet Mugur, my old friends. They are smiling. They see me, but remain frozen, silent, like mummies.
“What do you think, Mynheer, of these dead? Mutulache and Bunny were once your friends, were they not?” the Golem is whispering again.
Mutulache and Bunny, yes, nicknames worthy of the Lord of Sobriquets.
“Bunny was my friend, too. Half-Man-Riding, Half-One-Legged-Hare, remember? All the fears and the kowtowing and the little lies of our friend, remember? And the sweating, he was perpetually sweating, remember? He was always seeing dark omens, always fretting, chasing after that bit of glory, that speck of adulation. Otherwise, he was a good poet, that Bunny. Now, after his death, it is even more obvious. Here, in the Transcendent Realm, his name lives on. After all, poets don’t have to be brave, Mr. Nordman, we both know this. It’s a truth that’s well known in Atlantis, too.” Was the microphone beginning to crackle, jamming the long-distance transmission? The Golem’s voice remains distant and clear, just as I remembered it. The hoarseness belongs to the microphone.
“No, morals don’t count with the iambs and the trochees, we all know this. But there is a limit, and we all know that, too.”
The two poets at the table are still motionless, as if unable to hear anything of what is being said. I am motionless, too, standing on the threshold.
“The police, that’s the limit! The poet is an agent of the gods, not of the police. He is not allowed to become an agent of the police. Our little Bunny was only an agent of the muse Panic. He forced her to write poetry. His lines tremble, just as he used to tremble. They can still move one, I’m told. All that anguish made him a suspect, remember? But now we know, he was no policeman.”
The Golem awards himself another break, then speaks again.
“The other one, your buddy Mutulache, yes, I know, was absent from your anniversary party honoring Leopold Bloom and from the farewell supper. I was also absent. All my internal organs were hurting, and my head, too, not just my legs, which seemed to be made of clay. Maybe Mutulache thought he was protecting you by his absence. What if — who knows — he was asked to write a memo by the Holy See about the Last Supper? They found him naked and dead, no investigation was allowed. The authorities have the rights of ownership even over death and its mysteries.”
Not even these last words can stir the seated mummies. Impassible, they record everything with great care, but remain frozen.
“Death, Mr. Nordman, is the genuine happy ending. The death penalty cannot be commuted. Now you know it, too. Exile ultimately justifies itself, as that liar Malraux said. Only death can turn life into destiny. Remember that, Mynheer? But have they told you how our friend Bunny died?”
I had heard that Mugur had died instantly, with a book in one hand and a piece of bread and salami in the other. What I did not know was whether the dead knew about my own postmortem misdemeanors.
“Misdemeanors, Mr. Nordman? Did you say misdemeanors? Oh, you want to explain to the two poets about the misunderstanding, is that it? You don’t have to justify yourself, Mynheer! You are a skeptic in a false situation. Oh, he doesn’t want to be suspected of naïveté, our Mynheer. For you, firmness and simplicity appear as one and the same thing. You are ashamed of firmness, of coherence, of naïveté, aren’t you? But you don’t have to justify yourself in front of these two gentlemen, or in front of other gentlemen, believe me.”
Those sitting at the table do not seem to hear what he says, they have nodded off into the nether world. I want to embrace them, at least I can do this. Just then the alarm goes off, and the phone begins to ring.
“Receptionist speaking. You are expected in the lobby. Mrs. Françoise Girard.”
I look at the clock. I am five minutes late for my appointment. I wash up hastily and take the elevator downstairs. I am tired, bewildered by my nonstop role-playing.
There is a young woman in the lobby, wearing a small backpack. She sees me, comes over, and extends her hand. “Françoise,” she says, the new director for Eastern Europe of the Soros Foundation. I saw her in passing, yesterday at the Atheneum, during the rehearsal, in a different outfit, a different hairdo, a different face. We find two seats and immediately get down to business. I tell her that I have no intention of participating in the work of the foundation in Romania, other than a Bard-sponsored project in Cluj. That out of the way, I listen politely to what she has to say about the foundation’s activities in Romania. She smiles and whispers something about “this Byzantine country.” She tells me she is from Canada, and we agree to discuss the Bard project when she is next in New York. A brisk American-style meeting, as fast-moving as these first days in Bucharest.
Again I am on Magheru Boulevard, making my way to the Atheneum. Once more, I have the feeling of being in disguise, a spy, passing myself off as a tourist. Unmasked, would I engage in casual, friendly conversation with those of my fellow citizens who may recognize me but no longer claim me as one of theirs? They would probably be uncertain whether this stranger deserves their friendship or their hostility, as he would be uncertain whether or not to hurry on, without stopping.
I stop in front of the Scala pastry shop and gaze at the building across the street. On the ground floor, in the old days, there used to be a Unic store with lines of customers waiting for hours to buy chicken or cheese. I am thinking about entrance B and its row of mailboxes, particularly mailbox 84, which was set on fire, on a spring day, very much like this one, five years ago, in 1992, after my New Republic article on Mircea Eliade was reprinted in Romania. “Your essay was very badly received here,” Cella’s mother, Evelyne, living in apartment 84, entrance B, had written then. “Very badly,” my mother-in-law had repeated over the phone. “Here the media’s darlings are now the anti-Communist heroes— Eliade, Cioran, Nicu Steinhardt, Iorga, Nae Ionescu, even Antonescu, and even Codreanu, that old Iron Guard monster.”
I had certainly not written that review-article to ingratiate myself with the Romanian media, but I had not expected the shrapnel to ricochet and threaten the life of an old woman whom I had not even had time to warn. “The hostile reaction to your article has been unanimous,” she wrote. “For the last few months, our mailbox has been constantly broken into. Two padlocks were smashed, and there were signs of a fire. Now we have installed a Yale lock, which cost five hundred lei. If you want your letters to reach us, you should address them to our neighbor.” Does mailbox 84 still bear the marks of its attacks? Meantime, the tenant of apartment 84 has found a new home, in the Other World. I am not tempted to visit the apartment.
I reach the Atheneum. This time, the rehearsal has finished early and was a success. I walk on with Leon toward the Casa Romana, a restaurant at the end of Calea Victoriei, next to my last home in Bucharest. The headwaiter greets us in English. In love with Romanian stuffed cabbage, Leon decides to tempt fate again. As a tribute to the past, I order sole bonne femme. It turns out disappointing, like the mediocre wine. But Leon is delighted with his stuffed cabbage and pays little attention to my disappointed look.
At the next table, a sort of mafia scene is in progress. The boss of the group, short and stocky, looks as if he might be a building site foreman, but from what we overhear, he is running a business and certainly not in construction. His deputy is about the same age, and the younger man sitting betwee
n them seems like an apprentice in this adventure. The restaurant owner is hovering over them obsequiously. The boss makes a sign, and the burly deputy gives him a thick pile of banknotes. The three are dining heartily on a succession of dishes. Wearing jeans and leather jackets, they are the local version of what have come to be called “Americans,” not only because of their dress, but also because of their easy-handed way with money. Two young women, wearing heavy makeup and laughing raucously, are sitting at the table across from the trio. As we rise to go, the two tables join forces.
From the restaurant we visit a woman writer, a friend of Golden Brain’s. By now I am quite tired and the only thing that stays in my mind from the conversation is her monologue about her spouse: “My husband, an admirable man, admirable but stupid, so stupid that even now, when the Communist polenta has exploded, he still doesn’t want to leave the country. Can you imagine such idiocy?” We return to the hotel around midnight. We are both tired. Tomorrow morning Leon has his last rehearsal, and in the evening, his first concert. I will be attending the second. Midnight is the time for phone calls to New York. Cella reminds me of Philip’s request that I send him a daily fax to reassure him that everything is fine.
Nocturnal Language
Crino,” the darkness murmurs, then after a moment, “Hypocrite.” After another pause, the whisper returns, and I finally make out “Hypocrino, hypocrino,” repeated by the small, insidious voice of the night. I twist in sleep’s muddy waters, I raise my left hand, heavy, soft, and pull the covers above my cotton-filled head, then slip down again into the underground of slumber.
My eyelids blink. The curse has already insinuated itself, there is no escape. “Hypocrino,” I hear the voice once more, whispering into my ear. The covers cannot protect me, I cannot defend myself anymore; I shall be slowly, slowly, extracted from the black, sweet mud of oblivion, I know that only too well. It has happened to me before, more than once, to be invaded in my sleep by this murmuring in Esperanto, out of which, gradually, decipherable words separate, heralding the awakening. Tiredness no longer helps, nothing can return me to sleep’s depths. Lifted slowly, not for the first time, from the therapeutic mud to the surface, I attempt, nevertheless, to stay, as much as I can, in the blackout, with closed lids and heavy, empty mind, the body equally heavy, burdened, weighed down like lead into the heavy night. It lasts only a few long seconds; I have failed again, of course. The window’s opaqueness is now dispersed and has become purplish, translucent, as on previous occasions. The curtains are swaying to a tender, perfidious, easily recognizable whisper: “Hypocrino.”