NORMAN MANEA
89
in whose hands we saw a loaf of bread, when we had forgotten what
bread looked like . And we say to you, let us not forget, let us not for–
give, let us punish those who ... "
"That's better. Once more now, let's hear it!"
As he grew more daring, the pitch of his voice rose too high, like a
squawk. The ruler leaped in the air and landed on the table , crack!
"No, no, no! How many times do I have to tell you? You're lost in
the clouds as usual. You 're rushing just to get it over with! You must
get the right intonation, do you understand? Enunciate, loudly .
Come on, try it again, starting with 'our brothers, in whose hands ...
'"
Again and again the ruler hit the table in time with the desperate
shouts of the little man, red with rage. The boy started again from the
beginning, exhausted, with even less success.
He had to hold out his hand. The ruler came crashing down, ten
times, like ice, on his fingers. The tears wouldn't come, just wouldn't,
they gurgled in the depths. He held them back in time out of pity for
himself His throat was as tight as if he were being suffocated by smoke.
He was splitting in two, he didn't care. Another self, detached from him,
would cope with these sessions.
No one had ever struck him before. Not even the time when he had
seen his father being led off at gunpoint and he had continued playing
with the other children in the yard: they had called him "selfish." He
didn't understand what the word meant, just felt its weight, the guilt, in
his hurry to join the others, who were looking for smooth, flat pebbles
to play ducks and drakes, stones that would hit the water with a smack
and leap to the opposite bank of the river. Even then no one had hit
him; he had never been hit until now.
The closer they got to the event, the more demanding became the
rehearsals. Only the day before - since there was little hope of getting it
right - his cousin had tried, with disarming stupidity, to revive their old
friendship . He was joking, to show him that he could be at once young
and old ...
Now the strange hand squeezed his absentmindedly. The teacher had
neither the ability nor the sensitivity to revise and correct his earlier im–
pressions of the boy. He would have been amazed were he aware of the
calm detachment with which he was being observed. The boy had long
since become skillful at shielding his feelings by retreating behind a pale
mask of sleepiness. But at this particular moment he let himself go, living
his
experiences intensely. The teacher's presence had lost all power over
him.
He let himself be swept along by the frenzy of the crowd that was
about to explode.
He watched the throngs in the park. Rebellious voices, festive voices.
