NORMAN MANEA
95
Who could tell whose idea it had been? Its promoters proved to be
right; it didn't matter whose idea it had been. The young speaker lived
up to expectations .. .. Sometimes his speech was scheduled for the
conclusion of a party, sometimes it was overlooked altogether. The hero
would sneak away to the musicians' corner. He felt at ease in their
company.
A new morning dawned, his legs moved unsteadily, cool air soothed
his eyelids. It was as if his other se lf wanted to split away again, like
when Uncle came to borrow money to forestall them from doing the
same, or when he guiltily stretched out his hand and his cousin, the
teacher, gave him a blow that felt as though it would cut off all his
fingers. At parties he had always looked for his cousin, hoping to see
him, at least once, mellowed by food and drink. But he never showed
up. They said that the teacher was "off his rocker," he disappeared from
home for days, even weeks, at a time, roaming the countryside with
bands of rebels, unafraid of hunger or hardship. He had grown gaunt,
emaciated, and each time he returned, they said, he could hardly wait to
get going again.
The boy relived that extraordinary morning, the banners and flags,
the men's lively glances, the streets dipped in gold, the festive riot in the
park. He had fallen right into the bubbling, scalding applause, his skin red
and swollen ... no, no, that was another time, when they cured him
with blue vitriol, held him fast so he couldn't escape. He remembered
how he had drawn away from his cousin, bit by bit, when his friendship
turned out to be a trap. From then on he was always on his guard.
Evening had come again. Candles and light bulbs illuminated the
ballroom; the pale bride stood smiling at her father-in-Iaw's side. His
friends the musicians gave the signal: a mighty beat on the big drum, two
blows with the flat of the hand on the cymbals, and the hall fell silent.
"And now, a surprise: our own young ... "
A chair was set up in place, the audience regrouped. The soloist was
lifted and placed on the pedestal.
"We, who haven't known the meaning of childhood ... "
Afterwards - a slice of wedding cake, a small glass of wine, the hor–
rors of the past. The nights, dragged out until dawn, flowed slowly; it
took a long time for their dregs, and the thick, murky voices around
him, to settle down. Then morning came. A spring day again, soft
breezes blowing on tender eyes, and the boy offered the crowd his feel–
ings, his old, choking fears. The muddy night grew thin and was washed
away. Again, a delicate dawn flutters over the thick black crust of the
night before. Eyes grow luminous; daylight rises, bearing life.
The sky sparkled like a new knife. Only at dawn did he feel the
smoke choking him again. He reeled, dizzy with weariness and sadness.
