NORMAN MANEA
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assured him terrible renown as the prince of sorcerers in league with the
devil. Do you remember, my little cauliflower? Do you remember the
phrases he used in his letters? Cunningly embroidered yet full of love.
Full of love, my little frog.
'Dulcissime frater, amantissime.'
Do you re–
member?
Dulcissime, amantissime
...
!!
And Tolea again adjusted the collar of his black shirt, the crease of
his black corduroys, bent forward and ... evaporated, just like that. Yes,
all of a sudden he left his place of work and sighs. He did sometimes
vanish suddenly, for one or two hours more or less, to tramp the streets,
doze on some park bench, or get up to who knows what tricks.
He had disappeared, then. At some point he may have returned to
the side of cherry blossom Gina, in the hall of the Hotel Tranzit. What
is certain is that he spent the evening at Dr. Marga's, where he seems to
have got drunk after some time; he could no longer remember whether
he had slept there or eventually found his way home - which is to say,
to the apartment of his friend Gafton, where he had his own little transit
cell.
Anyway, he had slept badly, disturbed by dreams of huge metallic
birds desperately tossing about in a completely empty space, colorless and
noiseless and without end.
He had started in fear at daybreak, to stop the ringing of the alarm
clock or telephone. But it had been nothing, after all - just a dream, a
nightmare. He did not go back to sleep: the street hubbub was already
pouring in, and the windows shook from the noise of buses and trams.
He pulled his dressing gown from the back of the door and went up to
the window. Right in front of the house, a huge prehistoric truck had
broken down and was blocking the traffic. The hooting and braking of
cars as they drove around the monster added further to the din. Mere
trifles! Nothing could lessen the joy of having once more emerged into
the realm of day. For Tolea nights were stupid and tormenting snares
best unremembered; he would have liked not to think of them, however
many enigmas they might contain. No, they did not exist, they immedi–
ately scattered to the winds. Oh, if the new day could be the only reality
of his life! Spring, winter, autumn, or summer - it mattered not. If only
the night could be a forgotten parenthesis, an aphasiac disorder!
The morning light had dutifully fallen on the sofa's white bedspread.
On the sofa, Tolea stirred the instant coffee at the bottom of the cup.
Slowly, slowly . .. Soon, then, once again at the place of atonement.
"Hasn't the professor arrived yet?" woodpecker Gina would ask, this
morning, too, if Tolea was late. Yes, let him be late: he did not feel at
all like hurrying, so he slowly, very slowly, stirred the dark powder at
