Norman Manea - Captives

From my small cell, every day I saw a small rectangle of blue, and there was no other solution. Therefore I helped them with my recovery. In the end, I would need to gather my strength, the will to work in a useful, therapeutic way. I had the will, indeed. It wasn’t too easy for me to follow all their advice, then or afterward.

But there was no other solution. I got healthy.

• • •

The crane driver and the workers from the concrete station are the first to arrive. They check the state of the aggregates, which should be in optimal proportion, without any impurities. They test the cables, the lifting hooks for the bucket, the control levers. And the drivers have to arrive at least half an hour before the others. When work begins the buckets must start, the concrete has to be prepared already, and the trucks need to be ready to start.

When the concrete pouring begins, we carefully prepare the surface, or in other words, treat the old concrete over which the fresh batch will be poured. It is washed. With several hoses at once, pressurized water removes any foreign substances. Then, the surface is scrubbed with wire brushes till it’s perfectly clean. A thin film of mortar is poured, a kind of “cement milk,” over which the concrete is poured. The preparation of the surface, which needs to be as rough as possible for maximum adherence, takes a while, so the other workers end up arriving an hour or two later, but they stay later, too.

The best days are those when we pour. The high-capacity buckets sway above us. Full of concrete, two come from one direction on one cable, and then two empties leave in the other direction on the second cable. Noisily, the concrete flows near us. A powerful mass descends suddenly, and you can tell right away if it’s well prepared: not too runny, not to thick. We drop in the concrete vibrators: the granules knock into each other, scattering and blending, and liquefaction occurs gradually, a continuously better mixture, until — perfect! We hurry to pour as much as possible. Some people don’t pay close enough attention to the concrete vibrators: they don’t adjust the RPMs. I’ve warned them about this many times. The pouring days are the most stressful, the fullest. The bustle peaks: everyone’s nervous; they run around and become negligent. They don’t always check that the screens — the soldered carcasses of the armature — have been mounted in the correct position and if they were brushed for rust and dirt. They’re glad when a lot of concrete is poured without interruption in an accelerated rhythm. They work without talking, and their gestures take on a kind of obstinacy. Only when there’s some problem at the station or the electricity cuts off — who knows why — and the buckets hang suspended in the air, do they finally start getting mad. But they also get mad if you ask them to straighten something, or to double-check something — in other words, if you hold them up in some way. When the concrete comes out too runny, it has to be communicated to the station right away: the ratio needs to be checked, the proportion of water to cement or gravel or sand has to be altered. It takes a while to make these changes. It happens too that the bucket doesn’t close perfectly. Cement milk pours out of it. The concrete becomes weak. The bucket needs to be repaired.

It’s hard to calm the workers down in such cases — even while they’re pouring cement. I’ve tried to explain to them that the vibrations only affect granules up to a certain dimension. But as the frequency rises, the smaller particles start to oscillate, too. At 3,000 vibrations per minute the granules up to 15 millimeters start oscillating. At 6,000, up to 4 millimeters, at 12,000 up to 1 millimeter. Bored, they give me annoyed looks. They say they’ve understood, and it even seems they do. It’s not too difficult: the frequency has to be adjusted according to the composition of the concrete. In the end they forget, they hurry, they’re heedless.

In summer, the pouring days are the most beautiful. Summertime. . summertime . The sun burns, the bucket rocks on its cable like a small flying ship. Two buckets come; two buckets go. We protect the concrete, for the elevated temperature increases contraction and causes cracking, particularly as the material starts to harden. I have explained this to them so many times. They hurry, though. I saw one of them glaring at me furiously as I repeated for the third or fourth time that the closing of the capillaries stops the evaporation and limits the contraction — meaning, let’s follow the rules. This is what we have to do. Otherwise. . otherwise, how. . this is the rule, the relation, which is to say that this specifically sustains us, stimulates us — it’s very important.

At one point the site management proposed that I should move over to the technical department, in an office. I’d be better suited to the work there, or so they claimed. I’m meticulous and methodical, as they mentioned, particularly when a bucket suddenly dropped, raining down cement from the clear blue sky.

They have a terrific way of rocking in the sun, these buckets — a bunch of dizzy boats. They shine. Two buckets come, two go. If you don’t pay attention, they unload — once, the concrete fell right on top me, and it seemed like the bucket opened on its own, without a command.

They asked me if I wasn’t looking elsewhere, somehow. They insist I was daydreaming, that I was preoccupied. I’m convinced that the bucket opened unexpectedly. The hitch must have sprung on its own. Luckily, I had a helmet on my head. We all wear protective helmets. During summer some workers leave them off. It’s too hot. If the cement happens to splash you, your hair gets grimy and immediately dries with a film of cement dust. I look at one guy: it’s as if he no longer has hair, you see a safety helmet, no, not a safety helmet, a gray cap, a mass of dust, a strange wig. Perukes of powder, powdered perukes, petulant and petrified. Of course I didn’t agree to move into an office. I like to feel the cold, the sun, the snowfall, the rain; I like to wait for the concrete, to see how it flows, how it hardens, how it becomes petrified and powerful. It’s something real and alive. The pouring days are the ones we enjoy the most, after all. Our movements bring us together, they communicate: we’re whole. You feel the sun and wind and rain on your cheeks: the body responds to commands.

The cranes, the compressors, the vehicles, concrete mixers, and cement vibrators rumble on all the time. Sometimes I can hardly wait for lunch. Tired but joking, we go to eat, together.

In the mess hall there’s a great deal of noise — lots of noise. You can hear the machines and the vehicles: you have a hard time talking with anyone. We wait for the food. We’re famished. We don’t put on airs. From time to time the food is too greasy, or it has too much sauce. Once, I went looking for the boss to tell him. I didn’t find him. He’d gone to get food somewhere else. I spoke with the woman who did the cooking, since the food ultimately depends on her. She had her back turned — bent over a steaming kettle. I approached and asked if I could speak to her. She was tasting the food, and she paused with the big, metal spoon in her hand. She wiped her hand on the corner of her apron, which was dirtied with all kinds of spots and stains, and offered me her hand to shake. She had an unexpectedly small hand, a chubby pincushion of a hand with short, thick, sausage-like fingers ending in long, blackened nails, which curved like animals’ — a hand that disturbed me.

I didn’t touch it. I got flustered. The cook smiled at me. She had small teeth — white, very white — a round, greasy cheek. She asked me what I wanted. She had a surprising voice — it was slender and slight. She herself was fat. I didn’t know what else to say. I stammered that I was looking for whoever was in charge. She answered something, but I had already retreated back to the kitchen door.