Norman Manea - The Hooligan's Return

Postmortem tourism should never be underestimated. I am aware of the privilege I have been afforded and recognize the instant benefits of its sadism. Having reached the intersection with the boulevard, we turn right toward University Square, where we are assailed by a slogan smeared on one of the walls in big black capitals: MONARHIA SALVEAZĂ ROMÂNIA (Monarchy Saves Romania). We go through the underground crossing, now full of small shops, then emerge on the opposite side, on Magheru Boulevard, just in front of the hotel.

At one o’clock I meet Leon again, at the Atheneum. The rehearsal is in full swing, Joanna is her usual helpful self. I find it difficult to superimpose the image of the poet of a decade ago, electrifying her audience with her rendition of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” onto her current reincarnation as a cultural functionary. The car of the American Embassy is waiting for us in front of the Atheneum to take us to the lunch in our honor given by John Katzka, the consul in charge of public relations.

We — the American star and the Romanian exile, an incomparable team — go up the stairs of the imposing building. The White Clown, tall, relaxed, elegant, accompanied by Augustus the Fool, tense and oblique, are welcomed by the cultural attaché, an inexpressive woman, and by Mr. Katzka, tall, blond, voluble, who expresses an immediate interest in Bard College, in the MacArthur Prize that I had been awarded in 1992, and in our schedule. Soon, the Romanian guests start to appear, “academics” is how they are described on the invitation. I introduce Andrei Plesu to Leon, having been informed by George Soros that he is likely to be the preferred candidate to head the Central European University in Budapest. Pleşu regrets the fact that I didn’t let people know in advance of my visit; he could have arranged a meeting with an “interesting group” from the New Europe College, of which he is presently head. I have no chance to be self-deprecating about my talent for missing happy opportunities, as I find myself in the arms of Laurenţiu Ulici, the Writers Union’s current president, older than I remember him. He, too, is full of reproaches that I gave no advance notice of my visit. He insists that I drop by the union, where he would like to “organize something” to celebrate my return, a meeting, a festivity, a colloquium. Was that “something” supposed to be an occasion for my former colleagues finally to express the indignation they had failed to express seven years before, and since, when public lies about their fellow writer were bruited? He monopolizes my attention, eager to tell me about the union’s organizational and financial achievements in these “difficult times”—for instance, from the money produced by renting out buildings to foreign agencies, they were funding pensions, sick-leave support, and literary awards; an international writers’ association had been founded, with holiday homes and residential accommodations for translation projects; the Rome-based Biblioteca di Romania would be the venue for major international writers’ conferences; the union has also established publishing collaborative ventures with Paris. I nod my approval, relieved that he is not questioning me about my own affairs. At lunch, we are all under the spell of Leon’s animated recitation of musical anecdotes. The consul is a good host, the food plentiful, the wine acceptable.

It is getting warmer outside and sunnier. Perhaps I should go out, maybe take another look at the Dalles bookstore. I allow myself a moment of relaxation instead. I take off my jacket and shoes and lie down on the hotel bed. My tiredness increases, becomes heavy; it feels as though I am being enveloped in clouds of mist as I sink into oblivion.

“Greetings, Mynheer.” The voice is slightly hoarse, slightly tipsy, guttural. “Are you back in the beloved motherland?”

I recognize the voice, but cannot see the speaker. I know who used to call me “Mynheer” and why.

“Back in the beloved motherland, Mr. Nordman?”

Should he repeat the question a third time, he will surely address me as “Tank Division General.” “You’re shy, but also violent, Mr. Nordman,” he had told me after reading a text that triggered the Manea scandal in 1982, in the socialist press. “I have clay feet, like the Golem, as you know, but here I am, standing on one leg, reading your text. I could not set my foot down, I was so excited. Mes hommages, Général! You are a tank division general, mon cher Nordman,” he repeated, in his panting voice, on the telephone.

“Are you back from the capitalist paradise? What are things like over there, in the Garden of Eden, General?”

I was now fully awake, and was looking at the curtains, at the dead man who had been my friend, the Communist, the lord of nicknames and gossip. When we first met, he had promptly changed my name to Nordman. I had instantly become the man from the north, not only from northern Bukovina, but also from the North Atlantic. I met him in the mid-seventies, probably. One evening, I received a call from an unknown woman. She had read a piece of mine in a literary weekly and was inviting me to a soirée of friends at no. 24 Sfîntul Pavel Street, apartment 12. My caller had a pleasant voice and seemed to be a discerning reader. She gave her name, and it turned out she was the wife of a well-known critic and writer. It was a familiar name, even to someone earning a living outside the literary field. I had heard much about this eminence grise of socialist culture in the years of Stalinist dogmatism, about his legendary double life, this sophisticated lover of books and conspiracies.

On the evening of my debut in Donna Alba’s circle, I was soon won over by the classical, old-fashioned elegance of my beautiful hostess. The fragile brunette pulsated with a supple, blade-like intelligence. Her famous husband was not there. The rebel used to spend his weekends with his mistress, in another, symmetrical literary salon, presided over by himself and by his younger muse.

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.