Norman Manea - Captives

For a while now, the afternoons had been boring. Got rid of the flautist, gave up the blonde too, and no longer smiled at the woman who worked in the same office as me. Closed myself up in solitude for several months. . several months or more, it’s not clear to me. Meanwhile, Donca had become a university student, and she seemed to need more money. Quite cheerfully, she asked me for small sums each week. Surprised by my sedentary and lethargic moods, she became worried and suggested spending New Year’s Eve with a group of her classmates from the Spanish Department. There were a lot of nice-looking but very young girls chirping around her. Didn’t think it would be possible to win their confidence. In the end, agreed to attend a “preview” with my sister, a kind of pre-party meant to help those who didn’t already know each other.

Donca stopped by to pick me up. She was wearing a big black beret that looked like a wig. The way it contrasted with her blond complexion and blue-green eyes suited her perfectly. She caught me staring at her, and ripped off her hat and started flouncing her long black hair, which stopped me, dumbfounded, as if seeing her for the first time. Then she rushed to calm me down.

— Don’t be scared. It’s my real hair. You can pull it. See! I dyed it, and everyone says it looks great. Finally, a veritable Dolores Ibárruri, to go with our department.

Silencing faint echoes, the name struck me. Donca had a carefree way of referring to the illness that had secluded her — or so our parents maintained. Still, I saw no sign of those past crises, either because of her ability to hide them or my lack of subtlety.

Naturally, I had to ask, “Where’s Fred?” Donca shrugged her shoulders in a way that suggested, “He’ll be there too.” She already seemed disinterested in her fiancé, for whom she’d confronted our confused parents. To me, her fiancé had seemed attractive enough and a decent guy. On the awkward side, it’s true, but really taken with the charms of the girl who found him “extraordinarily profound,” “extraordinarily cultured,” and “extraordinarily sensitive” — which said more about her than him.

In any event, found myself in an elegant house, with many rooms that were connected by sliding doors. The carpets were rolled up, the lights turned low, and people broke off into groups or couples. Animated by the atmosphere, Donca kept inciting everyone to dance. Her own body vacillated unexpectedly, as if she felt herself in danger. Eventually she withdrew into a corner — near an unknown man, while her fiancé was occupied with the tape recorder. Naturally, the middle-aged guy who was courting her kept pouring her fresh drinks — and she emptied them while he told crude jokes in a very loud voice. He was trying to cancel their difference in age, and he was succeeding marvelously with the girls around, who found his tough libertine type très jeun , just what they liked. The other girls envied Donca, the favorite of the moment. The two of them got up again to dance. They entered each other’s arms impatiently; he took advantage of their closeness and the dark with both hands. He was a slimly built man, a bit over forty, with a lightly pockmarked face, thick hair over a strongly lined brow, narrow shoulders, big hands, and a youthful laugh. He moved lightly, bending his partner’s body.

— Are you really her brother?

Two sticky hands grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around, and pulled me into a slow dance. My partner was trying to steer me toward the other room. Let myself be directed by her and wound up near the tape recorder. Raising her arms and bust, my partner danced on tiptoe. She had slipped off her shoes, like Donca and the other girls. Even Donca’s gentleman was sliding around in socks. We stopped near the door. The melody had ended. The girl leaned against me. She had twined her arms around my neck, pulled me down near her ear: “That man’s a forestry engineer. He has a lot of success with the ladies. Married, of course. Has a very chic stupidity. Women love it. As a matter of fact, you older guys have an advantage over these boys who are just too young and inexperienced.”

And indeed, as the engineer dexterously palpated his prey, it was impossible not to notice several rings on his long, bony fingers. On the other hand, his charm had it’s uses as it seemed to have rubbed off on me and attracted this young girl, though you couldn’t call me young anymore. Only laziness kept me from taking advantage of this disadvantage. My dance partner exhibited a dry, direct humor; she was easily approachable and playfully, provocatively elastic. She kept brushing her breasts against me, and I was ready to make a pass when Donca’s fiancé showed up beside us, hair on end, bottle in hand, and eyes red with fury.

Unbraiding her black hair, Donca had stretched herself out on the floor and her low voice made itelf heard: “I can no longer, bathed in your languors, O waves. . De vos langueurs, ô lames. . en vuestro languidez . . Nor cross the pride of pennants and of flags, Nor swim past prison hulks’ hateful eyes. . Je ne puis plus . . Drunk with love’s acrid torpors. . I can no longer. . Ya no puedo . . sail. .” She was spouting her favorite verses and rocking unsteadily like a boat about to face the storm. She’d let herself go too far. Scandal would soon erupt.

The girl’s arms pulled me again. Then, she took off her stockings and showed them to me, holding one in each hand like trophies. Her bare, white feet twitched to the music, which blasted so loudly the room seemed to shake — a feeling like screws being twisted into the back of my neck. My head was heavy. Clenched my hands, my nails, so as not to fall. Slipped near the wall. No one saw me. They were all overcome by fervid, nervous expectation. Made it to the hall. Tugged at the sleeves of my overcoat. At that moment, the girl grabbed me by the buttons.

— You’re unfair to yourself. You’re not getting any younger. Why don’t you want? Why don’t. .?

She had nestled, full of warmth, under my coat. She was uncovering herself like an enchanting, helpless child with sad hot eyes. Stroked her cheeks, then her lashes, and promised to come back in an hour.

— If you run away, you’ll get old. It’s stupid to grow old.

She scratched the wall with her nails. With warm eyes fatigued by longing, she remained behind the door. She had offered me an invitation to a night of healing: the girl would have shattered the courage it took to confront a new bout of insomnia. Climbed down the steps, wanting all the while to return. Came back to myself in the freezing air outside. Sank into the snow. Thought about Donca and wondered why we’d never managed to talk together for more than ten minutes at a stretch: she was always confused, distracted, exalted. Hadn’t done my duty to her, either. Recalled the evening when she had celebrated her graduation from high school, and remembered myself too — myself back at that age — preoccupied exclusively with my own flounderings.

• • •

My parents were living in a new apartment, and through the open windows, evening could be heard far away, beyond the hills. The young people were dancing. Their embraces seemed daring for the time. They were kidding around in a familiar way. Hands joined. Their lips sometimes seemed to meet by chance. Didn’t notice any trace of Donca’s previous illness; on the contrary, she seemed perfectly integrated with people her age. She talked loudly and a lot; she moved lightly. She had a provocative way of twining her arms around each new partner. Mama took care to quiet the perplexities I didn’t have:

— You have to understand her. She exaggerates. She has complexes from the things that happened. Anyhow, for a girl. .