NORMAN MANEA
273
continued. "We've got this lovely country, this heavenly climate. But
you can't do anything with just nature, you bunch of good-for-noth–
ings! It's man who does everything, with those brains of his. That's why
we've got into this mess. Look at them , they've even forgotten the win–
ter. They've forgotten the horror of it. They don't even care - they're
off goggling at women. People forget quickly, sir, I'm telling you."
The man did not hear. Disappointed, the old woman stepped
sideways towards a wrinkled man who kept shaking his empty shopping
bag.
"Too true, too true!" muttered the aged hunchback. "My wife died
on me this winter. It was because they didn't give us any heating. They
kept us in the cold all winter. She had heart trouble, so the cold finished
her off. Yes sir, how people forget! They don't give a damn," the old
man erupted in the direction of the elegant gentleman leaning against
the post and absorbed in his reading. "Look at them! Minds like sieves.
You can do what you like to them and they'll forget it. Just give them
a little pleasure - a fine day, a pretzel - yes, they forget as soon as you
give them a pretzel and a bit of sun. That's what people are like."
The smart-looking man did not seem to feel that the stranger's fury
was aimed at him. Probably he did not even hear. He gathered together
the bundle of papers and tore himself away from the lamppost.
The compass of his legs opened wide. Beanstalk strides, but slowly,
because he was rather short of energy. A happy street, it was true .
Picturesque Bucharest, feminine and sprightly - just like the Petit Paris of
old. If only there were not this poverty and gasping all around, and this
clumsy, artificial happiness . Happy spring. Happy forgetful people. Happy
papers, too. Optimistic, pedagogic, ever holding forth about the future,
the radiant future, whoever might be around to see it.
The kitchen table. Bread, milk. The white starched tablecloth. He
had to get up at the break of day to find some bread and milk. Two
steaming cups. Coffee substitute with milk - a substitute because real
coffee was so hard to come by. Anyway, old age is itself a substitute.
And our entire country a nation of senior citizens. Slices of hard black
bread thinly smeared with plum jam. But the spoon, knife, and plates
sparkle like new. Everything is clean and fresh. Windows open to let in
the elixir, the venom, the illusion. Like spring.
Mrs. Gafton thumbed through her newspapers. She put her glasses
on, took a sip from her cup, glanced at the front pages, then gave up.
Anyway, she never had time to read except in the evening, after all the
chores were done. She pushed the pile toward her husband at the end of
the table.
