Norman Manea - The Hooligan's Return

“It’s quite a surprise for me, too,” the applicant finally muttered, in French. “I wasn’t aware … I didn’t know that my book had made it to Paris.”

“Yes, I was also surprised. Imagine, seeing your name on the application …” The Frenchman looked at the form again.

“I see your name, the titles of your books … You should settle in France, not Germany.”

You should settle in France . Was that a piece of advice, a promise, the code for the deal that was being suggested? But no, the man’s affability was for real, he was treating the applicant with courtesy and respect. If these were tricks, they were tricks of a different sort than those reserved for the run-of-the-mill populace.

“You must surely know that France is the easiest place for a Romanian. You would make friends very quickly. You could write in French, like so many of your illustrious countrymen …”

Indeed, the examiner knew not only about his novel Captives , he also knew about the famous trio of Ionesco, Cioran, and Eliade, also about Princess Bibesco and Princess de Noailles and Princess Vacaresco, and la grande princesse and la petite princesse . He had even heard of Benjamin Fondane. Yes, he had done his homework.

The conversation continued in much the same vein. At the end, the examiner got up from his side of the desk and stood next to the examinee, offering further proofs of his cordiality — his business card, with both his Berlin and Paris addresses; an invitation to a soirée; assurances of support, “of any kind,” should there be a need, either here, in West Berlin or, even more so, in Paris. As he shook hands with the refugee, Monsieur le grand ami murmured, “It would be nice, meanwhile, to spend an evening together here in the place where destiny has so brought us together.”

He saw the applicant not only to the door but to the antechamber, where the lady in the dark tailored suit reigned. He announced that his friend Mr. So-and-so had completed his interview with the French authorities and could now be referred to the other two Allied powers governing West Berlin. The German secretary remained completely composed in the face of this Latin complicity. She waited impassively for the two Francophones to take their leave.

The Frenchman’s office door closed and the applicant was again left waiting. He looked at his watch, ten minutes to noon. When the secretary finally looked up, she said in her brisk German, “That’s all! You’re finished for today. Come back tomorrow morning at eight. Go to the front gate to have your name checked. Come back here at nine. Room 135.”

It was a cold, sunny day. He took a bus, then a tram. Around two o’clock, he finally got home.

A year had gone by since his arrival in Transit City. On this island of freedom, he had felt at ease from the very start. The colorful billboards, the glittering shop windows, the relaxed air with which people of the city went about their business — all this gradually became routine for the foreigner who, until very recently, had known only cold and darkness, informers and falsifiers. Freedom delighted and terrified him at the same time. He could not go back, but he did not seem ready for a rebirth either. There were still too many doubts. Back there, in that matchbox where he had lived with all the frustrations and illusions, he somehow felt important and unique. Was he about to lose the language that, at every stage in his life, had left its deep imprint? This was suicide, not much different from a return to the murderous motherland, or so it seemed to him.

The night before the morning he was to appear before the Special Commission had been more difficult than the long nights of indecision he had endured for the many months since he had alighted on the island of freedom. No matter the many joys the Afterlife was ready to bestow on him, he was afraid he would always remain a senile toddler, learning sign language in his second childhood and babbling incomprehensible sounds of gratitude.

Through the night’s white fog, he could make out the elegant outlines of Transit City’s buildings and boulevards. He could hear music drifting from afar. The citadel was peopled with artists and spies, all enjoying a pulsating night life. He thought he could make out the Great Wall, which protected the enclave of freedom from the outside world of the captives, while also providing a barrier against the virus of liberty for the prison beyond. And it was evening and it was morning, and on the day after, there were two more steps to be taken. January 21, 1988. On this fateful day, the fifty-year-old would be reborn into the Afterlife, renamed, from this day forward, the World Beyond.

Stretched out on his couch, he looked at the date on the daily calendar, circled in red. He got up and carefully wrote, in bold red letters, above the circled date: MARIANNE. He stood for a moment gazing at what he had done. No, not good enough! He crossed out what he had written; then, with the same red pen, wrote, on the bottom of the page — FRANCE. Then, smiling mischievously, like a child who has just played a prank on an old aunt, he squeezed another word into the space before the word he had already written: ANATOLE. ANATOLE FRANCE! He went back to his couch, where he remained for a long while, his right hand clutching the French official’s business card.

Should he take up the Frenchman’s invitation and spend an evening with him on the town? Would that cure him of the suspiciousness he had carried with him from socialist Jormania? That would take more than a single evening. Moreover, he hadn’t even had a real conversation with the Frenchman who claimed to have read his book. Was that story really true — and what if it was? He had not yet even attempted a conversation on literary topics with his devoted reader. He tore the Frenchman’s card into little pieces, unable to grasp yet the advantages of making deals even in the Free World.

…

The next day, January 21, 1988, the applicant retraced his steps from the previous day, boarding first a tram, then a bus, going from the city center along the Kurfürsterdamm to the suburban location of the sacred Tripartite Commission. He arrived at the gate, promptly at eight, as ordered, and by nine appeared at room 135. He sat down on the familiar bench and waited patiently. At a quarter past eleven, the lady wielding the controls pointed silently toward the door at the right — the American door.

The bald young man behind the desk invited him to sit down on the chair opposite.

“Do you speak English?” the American asked, in his American English.

“A little,” he replied evasively, in Esperanto.

“Okay, we can speak German, then,” the American continued in his American German. “Is that okay?”

The applicant nodded silently. He studied the man sitting before him, an even younger examiner than the one of the day before — a solidly built man squeezed into a brown suit with large lapels, dark, penetrating eyes, small hands, with a heavy ring on one finger, gold cufflinks on white shirt cuffs showing from the sleeves of his jacket.

“Passport, please.” Army voice, army manner.

The applicant dipped into his briefcase and produced a portfolio bulging with papers, from which he extracted a green passport. The examiner examined it closely, page by page.

“This is not your first trip to the West, I see.”

The applicant offered no comment. The representative of the Great Power gave him a long look, then broke the silence that had briefly hung in the room.

“You’ve traveled twice to Western Europe and once to Israel.”

The silence deepened.

“And where did you get the money for these trips?” the American asked, breaking the silence. “There’s no convertible currency in Eastern Europe. Only the authorities can make the transaction, and they’ll do so only if it’s in their interest.”