NORMAN MANEA
Pressing Love
In the rooms
I
passed through, a narrow border divided the parquetry
from another flooring of thin glass. Lately, it often seemed
I
was walking
a fine line, having already suffered everything from enthusiasm to hope–
lessness, rebelliousness to indifference.
Reborn,
I
waited in a state of tense inner panic -a delayed reaction -
afraid of taking a false step. Such a step, caused perhaps by my very ap–
prehension, would slip me imperceptibly onto the much-too-thin glass
floor. There, fear would suddenly and quite naturally tum into complete
paralysis, and my heart would stop beating.
Another patient, at another time, but still, now, always,
I
don't know
any more - all false trophies, brief, deceptive victories over reality.
Between white walls
I
woke exhausted by useless, encouraging detours.
Suddenly it seemed the walls themselves had expelled me and
I
slid on
patches of fragile glass. Still
I
believed
I
had been spared, then forgot, but
this too was only an apparent victory.
The glass had grown even thinner.
I
was so obsessed with the need to
feel secure that
I
believed even my breath could shatter it, and
I
would
fall bleeding into the abyss from which it could not protect me.
The glass floor seemed to stretch through all the rooms surrounding
those
I
used most often, that is, the rooms in which
I
worked, met
friends, ate, or rested. Glass in the entryway, in the elevator, up the
staircase, for example, and on the balcony.
I
felt that no matter how
careful
I
was, how hard
I
tried not to stumble, my precautions were use–
less. For even if
I
did misstep, however much caution and fear restrained
my movements, the consequences would not have been as disastrous as if,
inevitably, some passerby bumped into me in his haste or carelessness, and
unintentionally and unavoidably shoved me onto the fragile sheet of glass.
The glass floor in the nearly empty post office shone coolly, sheltered
from the oppressive summer heat.
Watching me intently, her large green eyes drew near.
I
did not
know what
I
could say, much less what
I
should do.
I
needed friendly
silence, not the exhaustion of arguing, the feeling of suffocation, of
having swallowed too much water. Actually, it was just uncontrolled
feelings.
I
had to close my eyes.
I
could not help succumbing, just to
