It’s true that, this morning, two more spots appeared on my face. I studied them in the mirror for a long time, and wondered if Sonia would like me. So I asked her. And Sonia replied that she was more impressed by my genius than by the number of spots on my forehead...
There’s no point pretending: I’m unhappy. I’ve never been to the ‘country.’ And when spring sunlight streams through the open windows of my attic, I dream of orchards and blossom-laden branches, springs, luxuriant bowers, young maidens and romantic idylls during the Easter holidays. Even though I’ve never been to the country.
On summer evenings I roam the streets, stroll under the acacia trees and dream of rustic love affairs, avowals in the moonlight, or passionate words that I’ll never utter. On summer evenings it’s pointless to try and finish a chapter of Felix le Dantec. My heart has undergone a change, and I blow out the lamp and begin to dream. Many, many times I’ve wondered what comes over me on summer evenings. But I’ve never found the answer.
And today I read Childhood Lane, and cried. I cried because I’ve never experienced the same emotions as the heroes in this book. I’ve only ever dreamt about them. I’ve never had a country estate and I’ve never had girlfriends who come there to convalesce. When I was small I used to go to sleep shivering with cold, and played with the bootmaker’s daughters from next door, who never owned a pair of stockings and wore calico dresses. I’ve only ever dreamt of young ladies, while still playing with the bootmaker’s daughters.
So I cried, and then I put the book back on the shelf and laughed. I laughed at myself, because I was still a sentimental dreamer. I said to myself: Childhood Lane is a praline for faint-hearted mummy’s boys like Robert and Dinu. It’s a book full of expensive dolls, with posed pictures and idyllic romance. It’s a book for boyars’ sons, who ride horses, smoke, and kiss the apricot blossom.
I’ve never kissed apricot blossom. But I’ve bitten my lip because I don’t know who I am. I’ve asked myself a thousand questions and tortured myself to find the answers, and I’ve wasted away because I was unable to find them.
I’ve felt my flesh quiver, and whipped myself because we were poor and couldn’t do what other people did.
Have I forgotten all of this? Have I forgotten my novel? Have I forgotten my soul, which suffers unbeknown to anyone, my mind that struggles on, yearning for things that the idiots around me have never even heard of?
Did I cry because a rich, handsome adolescent with chestnut hair fell in love with a boyar’s daughter who enjoys smoking and plays Scheherezade on the piano? Did I see my own generation reflected in the happy young people at Medeleni? Did I waste my holidays thinking about Sonia’s eyes, or did I spend my summer in rooms full of old papers, my myopic eyes watering, my body tormented by the sap of adolescence, my soul feverish from waiting for a truth I had been seeking day and night?
Where was my decision to show myself to the world as I really am, conscious of my superiority and the foolishness of my contemporaries? Where was the brute desire to find and possess myself entirely, if I cry because Stefānel lived out ‘the very last fairytale?’
Had I forgotten that I was clenching my teeth in envious rage, that I had sworn an oath to myself that I would soon become someone? And that then I’d savagely force apart the thighs of the most beautiful women, simply because I, I, had endured years and years of the torments of the flesh, because I had never had any money, or a beautiful body, or beautiful eyes, or a beautiful face?
Had I forgotten that I cried on the pages of a book from the National Collection of Culture? That I finished Childhood Lane before I read Dantec’s Lute universelle?*
Aren’t I ashamed of myself? Aren’t I ashamed of my name and my yearnings, my desires?...
All in vain. I’m still just as unhappy and just as much in love with Sonia.
Forgive me, Ionel Teodoreanu; but if Sonia really exists, then tell her that an ugly boy who doesn’t know what he wants is sad because of her eyes.
Tell her to come and give me the gift of three consoling words.
Tell her that I ask nothing more of her than she comfort me, and that she won’t be horrified at the sight of me.
But if Sonia doesn’t want to leave where she is, leave her Moldova, tell her to send me her address, and then I’ll sell all my Felix Le Dantec books and come and find her, so that Sonia can comfort me...
Monday 8am – 9am: German Class
In my first year I had to retake French, German, and Romanian. I spent my afternoons on a piece of waste ground, barefoot, sweating and myopic, playing oinā5. I was renowned for the speed with which I caught the ball and hurled it at the knees of the players in the square zone. There was even talk of me being selected for the school team. Two things were against me, however. The first was that I was one of the laziest, most careless and badly behaved members of the class. And then I was short-sighted. Even if I could see the opponents’ knees very clearly, I would never be able to see the ball in time when I was in the square. I only got away with it because of the lack of skill of the person throwing the ball.
Three retakes almost certainly meant I would have to repeat a year. When I heard the news I thought seriously about suicide for a quarter of an hour. It’s true that the idea of torture and death terrifies me. But because I could only save face by performing a courageous act, I wracked my brains to try to create a scenario where my friends would find me at the very last moment, when I was about to swallow the pill. I wasn’t sure how to get a hold of such a pill, the kind that people who are depressed use to kill themselves, but this didn’t interfere with my plans. I imagined myself at the height of despair, the pill between my teeth, fighting off my friends who were trying to save my life. I could almost hear my cries as I struggled with them: ‘No, no... let me die!...’
By the time I reached this point I was in a highly emotional state. Driven by some obscure desire, I let my thoughts run on. I imagined myself dead. I saw my astonished friends, the classmates who were secretly delighted at this unexpected event, heard my mother sobbing. As I pictured all this I wept, because I felt I was being victimized by Faradopol, our German master, a portly man who was a major in the Army Reserve. At my graveside, the other boys cried out: ‘He’s a criminal, a criminal!...’
And I regretted that, since I was dead, I couldn’t smile to show them my gratification.
After a quarter of an hour, however, I suddenly calmed down. I sat on a bench and watched the crowds of happy people who were thronging the boulevard.
‘They don’t have to retake German’, I said to myself, becoming wretched again.
German filled me with horror. At first I had considered it my patriotic duty to not study the language of my enemies. But then I began to be afraid of the master. He hadn’t got the job of Headmaster. He had returned from the front as an officer, and a mere glance from him could immediately make us forget our ‘lesson’.
‘Was haben sie heute?’
For six whole years, this opening remark had terrified me. As I sit in the front row, I’m almost always the first to have to answer.
‘Das Haus!’
‘Jackass! What sort of answer is that?’
‘?...’
‘You must reply using a proper sentence. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘Was haben sie heute?’
‘Haben sie heute: das Haus!’
‘How must you reply?’
‘...using a proper sentence’, I mumbled.
What with all these sentences, plus the looks and the corpulence of the German master, I forgot everything.
‘Let’s move on. Where’s your exercise book?’
In my exercise book – in ‘German’ letters – I had copied out several dozen words that we were meant to learn.
‘Road?’
‘Weg!’
‘Article?’
‘D
er Weg?’
‘Das!... Jackass!’
‘Ornament?’
‘Sch...raf?’
‘What do you mean, Schraf? Ornament!’
‘I know that it starts with ‘Sch’, I said, trying to placate him.
So he gave me a clue: ‘Sch... Schm... Schm...’
‘Schumf?’ I said, hesitantly.
‘Der Schmuk! Jackass!’
‘To know?’
‘Wissen.’
‘Conjugate it.’
‘Wissen, wust, gewusten.’
‘And how do we get the passive subjunctive, third person plural?’
‘?’
‘Go and sit down. You get three...’
*
I got up from my desk and made my way home.
My mother already knew. Five of her friends had told her the news, assuring her that I’d move up a class in the autumn. The storm wasn’t easily weathered. I defended myself by saying that I was being ‘persecuted.’
‘But why is it only you who gets persecuted?’
‘I don’t know... that’s just how it is. They want to persecute me.’
We agreed between us that I would divide my summer holidays in two: up till August I would be free, after that I would work with a tutor.
The tutor was the son of a Jewish tailor, and was called Sami. He was only sixteen, still played marbles and read Nick Winter, but he studied at the evangelical school and was having violin lessons at the Conservatoire.
‘How’s it going, young man?’
‘Listen, Sami: we’re not going to work today. Mama is going to see my grandmother. Let’s have an ice cream instead.’
‘Have you got any money?’
‘Tell Mama that I need an exercise book.’
‘That still only leaves me with twenty bani6...’
‘Never mind, I’ll give you some stamps.’
‘How much should I tell your mother an exercise book costs?’
‘Fifty bani.’
‘And if she won’t give it to me?’
Sami was as mistrustful as he was shrewd. He took all my marbles, and made me promise to go through all the clothes that belonged to the German who was billeted with us and take any unused stamps. When our sessions began, since Mama sat in, Sami would pretend to be strict: ‘Now, young man, Cherman is difficult. I have already told your mother this...’
By September I still hadn’t learned a thing. But by then all the Germans had left, and the Minister of Education no longer required pupils to learn German in the first year at the lycée. I had escaped.
But ever since then, German has haunted me.
*
The German master is now the Headmaster. His face is even more severe than ever, his voice rings out forbiddingly every morning, and when he gets angry he hits the pupils.
‘Why are you late?’
Satchel on his back, the boy stood in the doorway, petrified.
‘I was just...’
‘Get a move on, lummox!’
I am the only ‘jackass’ in the class, and he has only hit me the once. I had left my umbrella in the classroom, and went back to get it. But as all the doors were locked, I climbed in through the window. Then I heard the Headmaster’s threatening footsteps approaching. I hid behind the door
‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘...umbrella...’
‘The final bell has rung. Why haven’t you left?’
‘I did leave. But I came back.’
The Headmaster’s eyes flashed.
‘And... how did you get in?’
The question echoed in my ears like a trumpet blast. I wasn’t brave or strong enough to reply. I forgot who I was and what I was doing in this classroom with a Headmaster and an umbrella.
Suddenly I felt my head being shaken three times to the right then three times to the left. My cheeks flushed bright red from shame and the stinging pain. My eyes filled with tears. I was trembling, just like my umbrella.
‘Get out of here, you jackass!’
But I didn’t have anywhere to go. I backed into the stove, almost in a trance.
‘You’ll scorch your clothes, you nincompoop!’
I thanked him for the advice, moist-eyed and humble.
But I still didn’t learn any German.
All this year I’ve infuriated the master.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I left my exercise book at home...’
‘One...’
I was glad that at least he hadn’t tormented me at the blackboard. When he did call my name, however, I would stiffen, turn pale and grasp my exercise book and textbook.
‘Was haben sie heute?’
Naturally, I had no choice but to answer. To give the impression that I had been studying hard, I gabbled the words.
‘Lebens Gote.’
‘Not Gote. Goethe...’
But I never knew the answer. And after a longer or shorter interval, I always ended up with an ‘Unsatisfactory’.
*
Every Monday morning, in a febrile state, I pace up and down between the rows of desks thinking about Ibsen’s Brand. He gives me courage. I frown and imagine that I’m Brand, braving the storm. Brand was misunderstood, in the same way that my German master doesn’t understand me. We’re similar. Perhaps we have the same soul. As I walk back and forth among the desks I am keenly aware of this.
But when there’s a lot of noise in the classroom, I’m unable to think about Brand. I press my fists against my forehead, but never manage to summon up his image. All I see is mountains covered in snow. Brand never appears. And then I start to tremble, my heart aches, and I become nervous and agitated, rather like Fănică does in Chemistry. No one realizes this, but when Brand doesn’t appear it’s extremely difficult for me. So at these moments I get on with learning German vocabulary.
All things considered, the Headmaster isn’t really a bad man. Towards the end of the year, he summons all those who are in danger of failing to the staff common room for a ‘reckoning’. It’s warm in the room, and he’s smoking a cigarette.
‘So: what do you know?’
‘Schiller.’
‘You know Schiller?’
We all smile, because everyone has to smile when the Headmaster tells a joke.
‘Really? You know about Schiller?’
We realize that our smiles haven’t had the desired effect. Someone laughs. Others fiddle with their handkerchiefs, and the Headmaster seems satisfied. Cautiously, I nudge the boys either side of me. The laughter has to stop, because the Headmaster is looking serious again. If we laugh too much, he’ll get in a bad mood.
‘Let’s do a little test...’
For once he doesn’t get angry. He listens as we read and translate from our abridged textbooks, but all the time his thoughts are on Prahova county.
An hour and fifteen cigarettes later, the Headmaster gives us all a ‘Satisfactory’.
‘Jackasses!... Off you go then!’
* * *
5oinā: a traditional Romanian sport, not dissimilar to baseball and the Russian game, lapta.
6bani: the smallest unit of Romanian currency. There are 100 bani in 1 lev.
The Retake
10 July
School has finished.
And I’m sure I’ll have to retake maths. I failed because I wanted to; or to be more precise, I didn’t pass because I didn’t want to.
I’m not ashamed. I’ve known for some time that I completely lack willpower. It’s probably only my naïve classmates who imagine that I’m determined because I read erudite books late into the night.
I just told them that I like reading; I don’t force myself to do it.
But they refused to listen.
Naturally,
everything went as expected. During our final lesson, Vanciu told us: ‘Those of you who wish to improve your marks can come into school in three days time, at two o’clock in the afternoon. It will be possible to improve my marks, because I’ll be asking questions on subjects covered in every term’
I had got an ‘Unsatisfactory’ every term. I stood on a desk and shouted: ‘Well lads, there’ll be no sleep tonight!’
And I told anyone who would listen: ‘I’m going to start revising at two o’clock this afternoon. I’ll work till ten. I’ll eat, then get some kip, and then get up at two in the morning. I’ll work through till tomorrow morning and then repeat the process twice more. Today I’ll finish Trigonometry, until lunchtime tomorrow I’ll revise algebra, Newton’s binomial and Pascal’s triangle. After lunch I’ll finish algebra. The day after tomorrow I’ll do the same. And the day after that I’ll walk away from the blackboard top of the class and astonish Vanciu. In these three days I’ll learn everything I’ve haven’t learnt during the year and then I’m free... After that I’ll go to bed and sleep for forty hours straight off, like Champollion when he had managed to decipher hieroglyphics...’
I was full of enthusiasm, and believed what I was saying. When the enthusiasm wore off, however, I began to have my doubts. But I forced myself to preserve this enthusiasm because I really needed it.
When I got home I told my family what I had decided to do: ‘Until tomorrow I’m going to revise trigonometry for all it’s worth.’
After supper I went up to the attic. It was hot, and I was sleepy. I thought: ‘I can’t start maths straight away. First I need to get my brain into training. For about an hour I’ll read a book that has nothing to do with Newton’s binomial or Pascal’s triangle.
‘Right then,’ I said out loud when I saw that it was three in the morning: ‘Paper, pencil, logarithm tables, trigonometry textbook.’
Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent Page 5
