It was this that astounded me. I walked on stage with a serious expression, convinced that I was going to speak for a quarter of an hour, and that I would say everything I had to say about the Indian prophet. However, things went differently. A lot of girls had come. One of the members, Lia, had told the pupils in the Fifth Form that I would be speaking. As strange as it may seem, it was me who had attracted an enormous number of girls that particular Saturday. Lia had publicized me most enthusiastically as: ‘An ugly and badly brought-up boy who doesn’t speak French, doesn’t understand English, doesn’t kiss girls’ hands and doesn’t know how to drink tea, who reads a lot of philosophy, speaks quickly, waves his hands about and addresses girls with the familiar form of ‘you’, on top of which he blushes every five seconds and is extremely shy’.
According to her, I was a phenomenon. And Lia’s classmates had fallen over themselves to come. What was all the more remarkable was that she had said that it was a talk about something they had never heard of.
Lia thought that I was going to speak on stage, just like I had spoken to her – a week earlier – and sitting on a chair. She thought I would bend over to tie my shoelaces, that I would forget why I had bent over and would play with them instead. She had thought I would turn this way then that, gesticulating wildly, and pound my fists against the mirror...
I came onto the stage quite calmly. Once I got to the small table with a glass of water standing on it, I began: ‘Gentlemen and ladies.’
Someone at the back corrected me: ‘Wrong way round...’
I blushed. The girls – who were sitting in the first few rows – burst out laughing. They were all convinced that my talk was going to be hilarious.
‘Gentlemen,’ I repeated, ‘Rama was the first Indian prophet. But this is of no importance.’
‘Why’s that?’ enquired one of my many listeners, who was standing with his back against a wardrobe.
The girls thought this interruption was highly amusing, and that it was their duty to laugh. So laugh they did. It was a task that they performed easily and with great skill.
Not knowing quite how to react, since my audience were clearly filled with mirth, I picked up the glass of water and began to drink, although with little enthusiasm. For a moment or two the whole room appear to be moved that I should actually drink water from a glass. But it wasn’t long before they exploded into roars of laughter again.
‘Would you please not interrupt the speaker, I mumbled, putting the glass down.
The girls were quick to realize that this was a sign of great ‘wit.’ So they showed their appreciation by applauding.
At the back, meanwhile, the committee were getting agitated. There was a lack of seriousness. They hadn’t expected this kind of scene, particularly not from me. Nonetheless they resigned themselves to having to wait until the end of the talk.
My talk continued in much the same atmosphere until I heard a voice from the audience: ‘You have two minutes left.’
‘But I haven’t even finished the introduction.’
‘Too bad.’
‘It’s not my fault. If I’m interrupted, I can’t follow the train of what I’m saying. Why do you keep interrupting me?’
‘It’s not us who are interrupting you.’
‘Then who is it?’
‘Your girls...’
The word ‘your’ both disgusted and confused me. I searched for a ‘forceful’ response. Naturally, the girls started to laugh.
The committee asserted its authority: ‘Sshh! Sshh!... Ssh!
‘But it’s already lasted fifteen minutes,’ said one of the audience who were leaning against the wardrobe.
‘Well? So what if it has?’ snapped Lia, turning to look at him. ‘Let him finish his talk. We’re interested even if you’re not.’
I – since I had convinced myself that they were genuinely ‘interested’ in the life of the prophet Rama – waited quietly for the audience and the committee to come to a decision. There was no more water in the glass.
The girls attempted to bring my talk to an entertaining conclusion. Because I hadn’t yet finished speaking.
‘Can you bring it to a close in five minutes?’ said Noschuna, passing on the committee’s ultimatum.
‘The whole talk?’
‘Yes, the whole thing.’
I smiled indulgently: ‘It’ll take a quarter of an hour just to finish the introduction.’
The girls knew they were supposed to laugh. So they laughed.
‘Then we’ll postpone it until next Saturday.’
‘Fine. Next Saturday it is then.’
‘What about the critical debate?’ said Leiber, standing up, suddenly remembering that he was the Society’s representative for the critical sciences.
‘That will be next Saturday as well.’
Leiber thought for a moment, and then sat down again.
And yet this Saturday was our most successful meeting so far. Because the following week I didn’t continue my talk. Petrişor’s failed to arouse any enthusiasm from female members of the audience, and there was no ‘performance’ afterwards.
That evening, Mişu Tolihroniade suggested that we stage a few famous trials.
‘What do you mean by famous trials?’ asked a girl.
‘In front of a jury chosen from among our members, we’ll prosecute and defend some well-know personalities, such as Raskolnikov, for example.
The girls were very pleased at the idea of a trial involving Raskolnikov.
‘But it will mean that between now and next Saturday, all members – male and female – will have to read Crime and Punishment.’
‘Crime and Punishment?’
‘Yes, the novel by Dostoyevsky.’
‘But we haven’t got it,’ protested the girls.
‘Then either buy a copy or we’ll lend you one.’ The girls’ enthusiasm evaporated. Then Lia’s face suddenly lit up.
‘Crime and Punishment? Isn’t it a thick, square book printed on poor-quality paper and with a yellow cover?’
‘I don’t know’, said Mişu, apologetically. ‘I read it in French.’
At this point I broke in, being an expert on the Romanian library.
‘Yes, that’s the one. It’s published by Steinberg, with an introduction by Avramov.’
‘Oh yes, Avramov... It costs forty lei...’
‘No, thirty...’
‘That’s how much I paid... but that doesn’t matter.’
We all waited impatiently to hear what Lia would say.
‘It’s a stupid, moronic book, it got on my nerves. That’s what I think, and I’ve read it.’
‘Did you read it to the end?’
‘Do you think I’m an idiot or something? I read about fifteen pages and then threw it behind the bookshelf, from the sofa where I was sitting.’
‘If you’d finished it you’d have a different opinion...’
‘No, no, listen: it’s stupid. Let’s choose another trial.’
Mişu was against that idea. This was because a similar trial had been staged by a cultural society in Brāila, and he had been fortunate enough to hear to an outstanding summing up for the prosecution given by a student. Mişu had his heart set on putting Raskolnikov on trial so he could repeat the speech he had heard in Brăila.
But the committee postponed the decision for two weeks. They gave three members the task of choosing and presenting six characters from world literature that we could try.
We actors were the first to arrive. We found the owner of the
house, Noschuna, stretched out on a sofa in the hall. He had violent stomach pains.
Despite being a doctor’s son, he wasn’t spared. His skin had turned a yellowish colour, and whenever he moved he walked doubled up. He asked us to forgive him, and to get on with the prepar
ations and not worry about him. If we needed something we could ring the bell.
Faced with such kindness and self-sacrifice, we felt obliged to offer him some advice.
‘Why haven’t you taken smelling salts, old chap?’ someone suggested.
‘I can’t take smelling salts.’
‘Oh, but you should. You’ll see how quickly you get better. In a trice.’
‘I know... but I can’t take... aah... ah... ah... agh!’
Then I said: ‘Do you want us to rub you?’
‘What do you mean, rub me?’
‘We could rub your stomach. I’ve heard that it does a lot of good.’
Noschuna gave me an angry look.
‘Give it a rest with this rubbing business, will you!’
‘Go to bed then’, we said, decisively. He didn’t have anything to worry about. We’d handle everything.
So we set to work. First we had to get the scenery ready, before the audience – particularly the female variety – arrived. Because in order to get to their seats in the drawing room, they had to walk through the set...
I had brought two shrivelled rubber plants. The stage directions said: ‘a garden in Don Juan’s palace.’ Two rubber plants didn’t make a garden; we obviously realized that. But it was a start.
High up on the wall at the back of the stage there was a small window. We covered it with a tablecloth. We had also brought a blue abat-jour*13, which we put over the light bulb, because the scenes take place at night.
Next we started preparing the actors’ costumes. Robert, Don Juan, had had a black velvet waistcoat made. He had also found a peculiar pair of trousers, which, he claimed, gave him a ‘period’ appearance. He would also wear a blue beret, like those that were fashionable among young men during the Renaissance.
His was a school beret, however, like the girls wear, and only very slightly modified.
The costume worn by Dinu, who was playing Castagnete, Don Juan’s page, was delightful. This upset Robert, because he didn’t see why a servant’s costume should be more elegant and costly than that of his master, Don Juan. Dinu’s explanation was very simple: he didn’t have anything else, and didn’t want to wear anything else.
So he had brought it with him. It consisted of short, puffed trousers, long black stockings, and a phantaisie* style tunic made of yellow silk with black stripes. The collar and cuffs were white lace. He also had a black, curly wig, something else that Don Juan didn’t have. And so Don Juan was upset – most of all because he had a crew cut, like all the other boys at the Spiru Haret Lycée. All he could count on were his talent and good looks.
My costume was the simplest of all. I was playing the priest, Father Ieronim, Don Juan’s confessor. I had borrowed my father’s long black coat, which came down to my ankles. Instead of a clerical skull cap, I wore the end of a stocking on my head.
I also needed to whiten my hair. I went and asked our benefactor: ‘Noschuna, can you let me have some talcum powder?’
‘Of course, but what do you need it for?’
‘You know I’m playing Ieronim, and I have to have white hair.’
‘You’re right. But wouldn’t it be better if you used flour?’
‘Flour?’
‘Yes, because you’d need too much talcum powder. Shall I ring for some?’
‘Okay.’
The maid brought a yellow metal container, and said I could have as much flour as I wanted. Using a small spoon I poured flour onto my head, and then rubbed it so it went right down to the roots. I was worried that it might not come out a definite colour. It wasn’t exactly pleasant; flour got into my ears and went down my collar. Whenever I moved my head even slightly, it sprinkled over my eyes and eyebrows and turned them white. So I had to keep my neck still.
By now, Don Juan and Castagnete had started putting on their make-up. The page was quite an expert. He had fixed on his wig, powdered his face, rouged his lips and cheeks, and darkened his eyelids with a black crayon. From a short distance he looked like an Adonis. Don Juan, however, had no idea how to use make-up. He had powdered his hair at the temples, but not properly. He had tried to trace two lines across his forehead, but they were so wide that he had to wipe them off with a wet handkerchief. Around his eyes he had drawn dark rings that looked frightful. Then he just put some rouge on his lips.
‘Don Juan is pale,’ he assured us.
By now we had moved into the actors’ dressing room, because the audience had started to arrive. The dressing room was in complete uproar. Water had been spilt on the tables, and an unbound copy of Don Juan was disintegrating beside a glass pitcher. In the corners there were piles of shoes and stockings, trousers hanging on nails, the make-up case, a bottle of eau de cologne, a cloak and two rapiers. Our benefactor was totally unaware of all this. He was in the hall, looking after the female members of the audience. Nearly everyone from our Society was there, along with a few guests from St Sava Lycée. Through the wall we could hear Petrişor’s laugh as he flirted with Lia. No doubt he was sitting near her and telling her that she had delightful calves.
Ten to four. We were due to start at four. The only people missing were Miss Tanief-Alexandrescu and Leiber. Come what may, we had to wait for our president.
We actors were impatient and emotional. We paced up and down, rehearsing our lines in our heads, glancing through our parts and looking in the mirror. Robert insisted that he wasn’t nervous; that he was used to being on stage; and that he enjoyed performing in front of crowds and winning them over.
It was now dark in the hall; on stage, we lit the lamp with the blue abat-jour. Bricterian, who prompted from behind a large trunk, slowly opened the door. My heart was pounding as if it would burst. I hardly dared steal a glance into the hall. As if through a mist I could make out all the pairs of eyes, feasting on the light, the rubber plants and the cast.
I began with a great outburst. I was a Father Confessor, my name was Ieronim and I wanted to take all of Don Juan’s possessions for my monastery. I gave an enthusiastic performance, and kept my gestures to a minimum. Although I’d kept my glasses on, I was still afraid that I’d get flour in my eyes. I acted in a way that I knew was ‘good.’ At the last rehearsal I had been told that I was ‘unrivalled’ when it came to playing Ieronim.
What was more, Bricterian prompted with great skill from behind the trunk – although occasionally he whispered too loudly and could be heard in the hall. So while Don Juan was making his first reply, I took the opportunity to gesture to him that he was too loud.
After a few minutes, my fears evaporated. I walked calmly on stage and confronted Don Juan. Leaning against the dressing room door, which was out of sight of the audience, Dinu looked on and encouraged us.
Whenever Don Juan had to say more than half a dozen lines, I studied the audience and tried to gauge their reaction. They were very impressed.
As I had expected, I got muddled a few times, and Don Juan missed a few of his lines. But the audience didn’t notice at all.
Then Castagnete came on. Dinu had never claimed that he had any dramatic talent. Yet he was wearing a divine costume, and the female members of the audience couldn’t take their eyes off his fake curls. Don Juan became more passionate. He pounded his fists, clenched his teeth and glowered. But the girls didn’t look at him.
Every scene was a triumph. When the play ended, the house lights went up. We were applauded and had to do two ‘curtain calls’. We were in seventh heaven. But then Don Juan and I felt terribly depressed. Because we now had to take off our costumes and go into the hall dressed like everyone else. Dinu, on the other hand, had actually come in his page costume. He strutted about, garnering the admiring looks of all the females. Each of them made a complimentary remark and smiled sweetly at him.
‘Oh, you were so good!... Wonderful’.
‘Do you think so, gracious lady?’
>
‘Very, very good indeed!’
Dinu gave a modest laugh: ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha!’
The two Dinescu girls were also there, short, plump, without a trace of powder on their cheeks and wearing dresses buttoned to the neck. The older one secretly pined for Dinu. Her younger sister ‘had a liking’ for Fănică. She sat next to him while we had tea, served him and laughed flatteringly at his jokes. Fănică is resigned about it. Miss Dinescu completely lacks charm. She barely says a word, because she’s shy. She doesn’t approve of ‘modern’ jokes and always walks in a very staid, upright manner.
As usual, Lia and Irina were sitting on the sofa next to the stove. They were wearing short dresses that came to the knee, and seemed pleased whenever they noticed someone’s gaze caressing their legs. Petrişor and Dinu were sitting beside them. In the second row, four other girls were chatting to Bricterian and Morariu. At the back, next to the bookcase, the committee were discussing Dinu’s behaviour. Robert was disgusted. He said it was ‘immoral’, that it was annoying members of the Society. Leiber accused Petrişor of being frivolous and ‘flirtatious.’ Mariana Tanief-Alexandrescu wasn’t happy with the ‘bevaviour and attitudes’ of Misses Lia and Irina. I listed to the discussion with interest. It was decided that they would be given a warning.
Tea. The usual tea party, where you have to smile, laugh at the host’s jokes and serve the people sitting next to you, who always say: ‘Merci, you’re too kind!’
Dinu got up and headed towards the dressing room. He said he had to change out of his costume. Miss Sasa – dark skinned, with wild hair like Salomé, full lips and large eyes – followed him. There was an awkward silence. We all sipped tea from our porcelain cups. A few people tried to make jokes, but they fell flat. Even Petrişor said nothing. The Misses Dinescu blushed, and Mariana was lost in thought. Questioning glances were directed at the door.
Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent Page 9
