Norman Manea - The Hooligan's Return

“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 between 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.