Norman Manea - The Hooligan's Return

“But you said he never went to school.”

“No, what I meant was that he didn’t go to the Romanian-language school. How could he, on a Saturday? He was self-taught, that’s what he was. All the same, many people came to him for advice, like they would to a lawyer. He was the first in Burdujeni to order Dirnineafa . The neighbors all came to read the paper every day. After a while, he ordered five copies. That’s how he got started in his business. That’s how the trouble started, too. When Wechsler — that was his name — saw that my father had ordered Dimineafa , he ordered Minerva . But Wechsler had money, and for five bani he’d give you a copy of Minerva , and throw in a pint of beer and a cigarette as well. That’s competition for you, enough to ruin us.”

“When did all this happen? How old was Grandfather?”

“About seventeen at the time, when he started his first newspaper business, in Burdujeni. Eventually, he became the second biggest distributor of newspapers in the country. He was decorated by Stelian Popescu, the director of Universul.”

“Universul? Wasn’t that a right-wing paper?”

“Of course, and anti-Semitic, too. Still, they decorated him, a Jew. Constantin Mille gave him an award as well. I’ve told you all this before. Mille was the director of Adevãrul (The Truth) , the democratic paper, and he was very fond of my father. When my sister Rebecca got married, Father sent him an invitation, and Constantin Mille sent a gift in return, an embroidered velour bedspread, and a nice telegram.”

“What about Graur, Rebecca’s husband? What did he do for a living?”

“Grain.”

“So, one was in grain, the other in newspapers, and another in eggs. The International Conspiracy, with its headquarters in Burdujeni! Wasn’t it Noah, Grandfather’s brother, who used to sell eggs?”

“That’s right. Noah — you have his name — he used to sell eggs when he lived in Botos, ani. As you know, Jews were allowed into the country by the Romanian princes, just for this and nothing else — all we were permitted to do was engage in trade. So Noah exported Romanian eggs throughout Europe. He owes his death to all that dust, the dust from the packaging. All his life he had to inhale the dust from the hay. He got cancer of the throat and died at fifty. Auntie Bella, his widow, continued the business. She handled the correspondence in three languages, a first-class tradeswoman.”

“Better than yourself?”

“Maybe. Yes, even better. I used to be told that I could have been a very good lawyer. That’s what they said about Father, too. They all used to come to him for advice.”

“You would have made a good lawyer, I’m sure. Maybe that would have calmed you down. The lawsuits would have exhausted you and helped you to relax. You told me a few years ago how much you regretted not smoking or drinking, not having any of the vices that might calm you down. That’s what you told me, remember?”

“I haven’t had a quiet life, that’s true. I started working as a child. Father, God bless him, traveled a lot on business. I was left with all the chores. Sometimes he went beyond Suceava, into neighboring counties, to Botosani, Dorohoi. He did business with schools, 10 percent commission on the sale of textbooks. In return, the schools made sure that all their textbooks and stationery carried our stamp.”

“Librăria Noastră, Our Bookstore, wasn’t that its name? Quite a socialist name, no? So, it was you people who introduced socialism to the country. The anti-Semites must be right about the Jews. Don’t you remember, by the ‘50s and ‘60s all the bookstores were called Librăria Noastră? In the 1950s you used to work at a Librăria Noastră, in Suceava; all bookstores were state-owned and called Librăria Noastră. Before the war, you were all accused of being capitalist exploiters, sucking the people’s blood. Then you were accused of bringing in Communism, the gravedig-ger of capitalism.”

She is looking at us without seeing. The jokes don’t seem to animate her, politics never interested her, she just wants to be allowed to re-enter the legends of the past.

“We worked hard, we lived hard. Yes, Librăria Noastră, Our Bookstore, that was the name, and it was ours, not the state’s. A big difference.”

“Well, yes, an essential difference.”

“The schools bought only books and stationery with our stamp on them, that was the understanding. When the schools opened in September, there were endless lines, like those at the bakeries. In the evening I dropped with exhaustion. I worked hard from an early age. We all worked hard, Father and I and Şulim, my brother. After I got married, I still continued to help my parents. When they sent us to the labor camp, my parents took with them only 5,000 lei, that’s all they had, but the stock left behind in the bookstore was worth a million lei.”

“You carried everything, you said.”

“Of course. Books by Sadoveanu, Rebreanu, Eminescu, everybody, Fundoianu, Sebastian. And newspapers, too, all the papers. Father even went to press congresses.”

“And he used to carry the papers from the station himself? That’s what you would tell us, all by himself, at dawn, on that poplar-lined road. I know it, I walked there recently.”

There I was, manipulating nostalgia, the tricks of the past, from which my old mother could now retrieve only the odd verbal residue. Even this was going to vanish soon, I knew. Everything was going to disappear, the old tales, and this, the present moment of retelling, would soon become past. She was sliding, with her unseeing eyes, down the last bend of that toboggan run called biography. Ruti was about to return to Jerusalem, and as for me, no one knew where I would be by the autumn. All three of us were trying to ease the tension of that reunion, to sort out old conflicts. The year 1986 was a Hooligan Year, just like the ones before and after, socialist years, turned into National Socialist years. Was this the reason why I now paid attention to these tales to which I usually turned a deaf ear? Before, I was impatient with these tearful stories, just as I could not stand that exasperating refrain, departure, departure, departure . Was I finally acknowledging that she was right, or was I just trying to soften the blow of our imminent separation?

Mother didn’t hear my last words. Recently, she had begun to fade out.

“He used to carry the newspapers back from the station himself,” I repeated.

“The horse-drawn coach was only one leu. ‘Only one leu, Father, why don’t you take the coach?’ ‘I need the exercise,’ he said. He walked thirteen kilometers every day. In the morning, before he set off for the station, he would have grilled beefsteak with a glass of wine. If it weren’t for the deportation, he would have lived to a ripe old age; he was healthy, fit. My mornings started at seven, with black coffee, and nothing else until five or six in the afternoon.”

“Did he pay you?”

“Pay me, his own daughter? I was his favorite daughter. I had everything I needed, he wouldn’t have refused me anything. I worked hard, of course. I was always a fast worker.”

“And the baby, your son? Were you fast with that, too?”

“You arrived before the nine months. I was almost dead when I gave birth. The doctor kept vigil by my bed from Wednesday until the following Sunday morning. He didn’t know how to help, he thought I was lost. As for the baby … no hope. The baby will be stillborn, that’s what they were saying. And then, after you were born, nobody believed you would survive. You were so tiny, under the normal weight. They put you in an incubator. Only my father remained optimistic. He asked whether you had nails. If he has nails, he’ll live, that’s what he said.”