The Invention of Ana

by Mikkel Rosengaard

  It wasn’t until many hours later, after Simion and Stefan had come home and dinner was ready on the table, that her father came walking out of the woods. His eyes were red, his pants black with dirt.

  Aha, said Simion. The big-game hunter returns.

  Ana’s father sat down heavily in a chair and rubbed his eyes. Simion poured him a palinká, and her father shook his head pensively.

  I know they’re out there, those goddamn ant lions.

  Simion laughed loudly and clapped him on the shoulder.

  You never give up, eh?

  Ana’s father clinked glasses with Simion.

  No, I don’t give up, he said, smiling. It’s like I always say. They can force a scientist out of his laboratory, but the lab coat in your mind—that you never lose.

  Early the next morning, Ana’s father got up and brewed coffee before disappearing back into the forest. But, for once, Ana’s mother didn’t sit out on the terrace with her cigarettes. From first light she was in the kitchen with Ana’s grandma, gutting fish and slicing vegetables.

  What’s going on? asked Ana.

  Ana, I’ve told you a thousand times. We’ve got visitors coming from Paris. Can’t you make yourself useful and run down to the farm for some cream?

  Ana could. On the long way there she threw stones at the birds and lashed at the nettles, and when she got back to the cabin there was a car in the driveway. Ana had never seen a car like it before. It was big and shiny, its shapes rounded and soft, and through the kitchen she could hear her mother laughing shrilly. Ana went inside the house and out the French doors, where she found her mother and grandmother on the terrace, clinking glasses with a strange couple. Ana hardly recognized her mother dressed to the nines. She’d put on a long gown, her hair was piled seductively high, and her lips gleamed with a lipstick she never used.

  Putting down the cream, Ana shook hands with the strangers, two tall people in loose shirts, and her mother poured more wine.

  You just sit down, she said, and I’ll bring out the meal.

  Ana asked whether she should go and find her father, but her mother shook her head. He’ll be here soon, she said. We’re going to eat now.

  Three courses and wine—she’d killed the fatted calf that night—but by the time the last blob of dessert had been eaten and the tall couple began to glance at their watches, her father’s chair was still empty, his plate touched only by the flies.

  Well, said the woman, I think it’s getting time to make a move.

  But Ana’s mother must not have heard, because she got up and said: Goodness, I forgot all about the bottle we salvaged from the shed.

  She laughed a peculiar laugh, which sounded to Ana like one of the girls from her class, and then her mother went into the kitchen and brought out another bottle of red.

  I’m sure you can stay for one more glass, can’t you?

  Ana’s mother stood in the doorframe and looked at her guests. The tall couple exchanged glances, and the woman smiled and said: Alright then, just one more.

  But one glass became two and then three, because Ana’s mother had some preserves they absolutely had to taste, and then they had to see the clippings about a mutual friend, who’d appeared on the front page of the weekly paper because she’d given birth with her arms in plaster casts. But at last the tall couple really couldn’t put it off any longer, and they got up and asked Ana to help them find the way back onto the main road. They were in a rush, they had no time to get lost among the cabins, and Ana nodded and sat in the passenger seat beside the man, who ground his teeth and kneaded the gearshift. On the main road he stopped the car and said thank you. Ana nodded. And then the blonde woman leaned forward and put a hand on her shoulder.

  You’ll see, she said. It’ll all work out.

  She gave her a little squeeze, and Ana nodded again. Then she opened the door and got out of the car, standing and watching the taillights until they vanished among the trees.

  The cabin was completely silent when she got back. Opening the front door, she paused and listened. It was a strange, humming silence. Maybe it was the flies hovering around the dirty pots and pans in kitchen, or maybe it was the breeze drifting in from the beach at this time of night. Through the French doors Ana could see her mother sitting on the terrace, a lit cigarette in hand. She was elegant as she sat there. It was as though she’d suddenly shrunk a size or two, the cigarette hanging loosely between her fingers. Ana took a step into the house, but stopped short. There was something in her mother’s stoop, some eeriness about it. Like a sight recognized but never experienced, remembered from a dream or from the kind of mediocre film that’s soon forgotten. Ana backed noiselessly out of the house and closed the front door behind her, continuing down the path toward the beach, and maybe she imagined it, because the sea fog made the foliage rustle and there were walls and doors between them, but the whole way down to the dunes she thought she heard her mother cry.

  That night Ana lay awake. She listened to the noises of the cabin: the timbers that creaked and the floors that groaned, the arguments that floated from her parents’ bedroom and down the many halls, that died away and started up again. When Ana was certain they’d fallen asleep, she got up and put on her clothes. She pulled on a long-sleeved sweater and tucked her pants into her socks. In the shed she found a spade and a flashlight. For a while she stood by the edge of the trees, trying to remember the right path, because it’s not easy finding a clearing in a darkened wood. But she must have been lucky, because it didn’t take her long to reach the anthill. It stood on a patch of higher ground, majestic in the flashlight’s beam. Coming nearer, Ana switched off the light and tried to get used to the dark. Then she picked up the spade with both hands and swung it as hard as she could. Four or five sturdy blows, a final deep twist, and then she ran. She ran back down the path, branches whipping at her face, away from the ants that crawled up her leg.

  Next morning she was awoken by her father yanking back the covers, grabbing her arm, and jerking her upright in bed.

  Clothes on, he said.

  Ana had made up her mind to be stoic. She’d planned to sit on the edge of the bed and stare, as indifferent to him as he was to her and her mother. But somehow it didn’t quite work. He was already standing on the terrace, spade in hand.

  Come on, he shouted, his voice ringing through the rooms.

  They followed the tracks through the woods, and Ana didn’t stop until they were standing on top of the dry pine needles. The anthill was half gone—she was surprised how much she’d destroyed. She could hear her father’s steps continuing through the undergrowth, and when he was a little farther down the path, he yelled: Come on, Ana, move along.

  For a moment she hesitated in the clearing. Then, curious, she followed him through the woods and down to the beach, where he thrust the spade into the sand and pointed at the dunes.

  You see that dune?

  Which one?

  That dune.

  That one there, you mean? The one with grass on the top?

  Yes, that one. You’re going to move it six feet to the left. You understand?

  He tugged the spade out of the sand and held it out to Ana. She eyed him quizzically.

  You’re moving the dune six feet to the left, he said. Is that so hard to understand?

  Then he turned and went back toward the woods.

  I’ll come back at lunchtime and see how you’re getting on, he said over his shoulder. By then you might understand what you’ve destroyed.

  For the first hour Ana threw stones at the gulls. She didn’t feel like listening to her idiotic father and his idiotic lectures. But she knew he wouldn’t give up until she’d moved the stupid dune. So, at last, she got to her feet, picked up the spade, and started to dig.

  It was noon when her father came along with sandwiches.

  You’re making progress, he said, putting down the tray. Then he left again.

  For the next three days, Ana worked from morning till night. She
got blisters on her hands, and swimmers stopped on their way down to the water to ask whether she realized this was a protected beach, while their kids stared sheepishly at her. Ana didn’t reply. She just dug and dug, and it was no worse than slashing nettles or throwing stones at gulls. Better, maybe. Because the dune really did move. It was hard to tell if you were a passing beachgoer, or the one ranger who drove by in his jeep, but Ana moved the dune. And on the fourth day, when her father picked her up for dinner, they stood together and inspected her work.

  Well, look at that. I think you’ve done it, he said.

  She nodded, and her father drained his beer. It’s turned into a proper first-rate beach, he said. A good old-fashioned dune beach.

  He laid his hand on the back of Ana’s neck and shook her gently. Then he nodded in contentment.

  At the beginning of September, when the family got back to Bucharest—returning, as though from a trip made at the speed of light, to find the neighbors aged years and the stray dogs shrunk to skin and bone—her father got word from Cluj. It was a gray morning with dusty light, and Ana was kneeling in the living room watching her father: the way he changed his shirt and tie; the way he paced up and down the hall, making the candles flicker each time he spun on his heel. It was half past seven in the morning. Her mother was having a bath, and Ana’d been up most of the night with her ear pressed against the wall, listening to them fight. First they’d fought about the bearskin rug her father’s mathematician friend, Paul Pintea, wanted to give them. He’d inherited it from his parents but couldn’t be bothered to lug it all the way home to Cluj, and it was kind of him, thought Ana’s father, but Ana’s mother wouldn’t hear of it. It brought bad luck, having dead animals on the floor.

  Can’t we just sell it? Ana’s father had asked.

  But no, Ana’s mother wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole, and the argument flowed back and forth. He said: You know we need the money. And she said: What don’t you understand? I don’t want that bear, just get that through your head. And he yelled: You’re acting like some farmer’s wife, coming out with all this superstitious claptrap, just stop it. And she hissed: Go and sleep on the sofa, then, if you don’t want to be here.

  Early the next morning, things took another wrong turn.

  Ana’s father kicked things off: I don’t know if I can take a visit from that guy. I get so—I can hardly be in the same room. But Ana’s mother interrupted: Oh, just stop it. You’ve simply got to stop being such a sore loser. And he snarled: Sore loser, am I? And she said: Well you are, just listen to yourself. Such a bitter old man. When did you get so wretched? She paused for a moment, and then Ana heard the way she laughed. A little bit cold, a little bit nasty. God, she gasped between the laughter, you’ve become such a pathetic little man.

  Pathetic, he shouted. Don’t talk to me about being pathetic, you’re the one who dragged us through this nightmare.

  By now Ana was peering at her father through the crack in the door. She saw him jump when the doorbell rang, saw him fumble with the handle and embrace Paul, saw them shake each other and go into the kitchen and take out the bottle of pálinka.

  That evening they took a cab into the city to eat dinner. Ana came too, sitting squashed between the dark paneling and the heavy wooden furniture, eyeing the grown-ups. Ana’s father squirmed in his chair as he read the menu, and her mother also looked a little anxious.

  They’ve raised their prices, she said. God, we don’t have the money for that.

  But Paul shook his head, holding out a hand like some latter-day Caesar. Don’t you worry about that, he said, I’ll pay. And then he ordered six appetizers and four main courses, two plates of sausage, a basket of bread, two pitchers of beer, a glass of red wine for the lady and a whole cake for dessert. Ana couldn’t remember the last time she ate so well. There were meatballs and roast potatoes, stuffed peppers and creamed mushrooms, almost more food than she could comprehend. She shoveled down the courses while Paul told stories about the universities at Cluj. Something about a female research assistant, something about the students getting worse year after year. Ana’s father said nothing. He picked at his food, downing the occasional pint.

  You’re certainly knocking that back, said Ana’s mother, as he emptied another glass.

  Yes, drink up, said Paul. Go for it, we’re not here to shell shrimp. And then he lifted the pitcher and nodded to the bartender: Another one, old man!

  Paul! said Ana’s mother irritably. Half the city was starving, not a decent head of cabbage to be had, and there they were, filling their faces. It must cost a fortune, surely, and where was he getting the money from? Was it dirty money, eh? Had he robbed a bank? Was it an inheritance? What was going on?

  You hit the nail on the head, laughed Paul. Then there’s my salary to top it up—I was promoted last August. So don’t you worry about that. You just eat your fill.

  But now Ana’s father could contain himself no longer, and he leaned so far over the table that his elbow ended up in a puddle of gravy. But Paul, he said, you must know something about my thesis. You said it yourself, dammit, they’ve just promoted you.

  Paul shook his head. He shoveled a piece of pork chop into his mouth. It’s not my department, he said, smacking his lips. I don’t know anything about it.

  Come on, Paul, said her father. It’s been six months since I sent it in. Can’t you get anyone to take a look at it?

  Paul wriggled a little in his chair, ill at ease, washing down the pork chop with a mouthful of beer. Oh, you know how it is, you know the bureaucracy. It’s a damn—well, you know what it’s like.

  There was silence for a few seconds. Ana looked at her father, at the gravy stain on his shirtsleeve.

  But for Christ’s sake, he tried. There must be something we can do. Goddammit, you’re a lecturer, aren’t you, can’t you try and get them to read it? Come on, Paul, help me out here, for fuck’s sake.

  Ana’s mother was smiling nervously now, and she said, Darling, why don’t we—

  Maria, he said calmly. I’m just having a chat with my friend, okay? I’m having a nice little chat with my friend. With my best friend. Isn’t that right, Paul?

  Paul nodded. He was mopping up gravy with the last piece of meat.

  For old times’ sake, Paul, come on. You know how many times I’ve saved your ass. Can’t you make them read it properly, just once?

  Paul looked up from his plate, and for a brief moment the two men’s eyes met. Then he put down his cutlery.

  Maestro, please. This thesis—yes, of course I’ve read it. Look, how long is it you’ve been out of the university? Coming on fifteen years? And your thesis, well, it’s—he sighed and took a pause. I’m really sorry about this. But it’s simply not good enough.

  The next day Paul took the train back to Cluj. Things changed rapidly. First, Ana’s father stopped spending all his time at home, and Ana’s geometry problems began to pile up on his desk. Days would go by before she saw him, and when she finally did—late in the evening, when he kissed her goodnight—he smelled so sharp it scorched her nose. When December came, Ana’s grandma arrived to celebrate Christmas, and Ana’s father started barricading himself in his office. He locked the door in the morning and reemerged late at night, and silence fell across the apartment, across the whole block, a cave-like stillness that wrung the parks empty, drove the children up to their apartments and the traders from the market. When Ana went to borrow a ruler from her father a few days before Christmas, the door to his office was locked. The light was out, no sound came from inside, and even the aroma of tobacco was gone; it was as though the person working behind it had vanished, as indeed he almost had. He emerged only to go to the toilet, or to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

  You’d best leave your father be, said her grandma from the living room.

  But I want to go in and get a ruler, said Ana, tugging at the handle.

  Oh, be quiet, snarled her mother. Go outside, if you have to be noisy.

&
nbsp; Yes, sweetheart, said her grandma. We’ll be listening to the speech in a minute.

  But where’s Dad? asked Ana. If he’s in there, I’ve got to use his ruler.

  Come here, said her grandma soothingly. Sit down next to me.

  No, I don’t want to, said Ana, and she went outside and slammed the door. She could hear the sound of televisions echoing in the stairwell, of residents waiting tensely in living rooms throughout the block. Nicolae Ceaușescu was going to give a speech, the Dear Winter Shoemaker would placate the demonstrators and bring the people to reason. Thousands had been summoned, bussed into the square from far and wide. Meanwhile Ana sat on the steps and moped, ignorant of politics. She imagined where her father might be: at the chess club or on the roof of the Institute, maybe in Piaţa Palatului with all the people on TV. He wasn’t there for dinner, and late that night Ana woke to explosions, volleying shots ringing between the buildings. Through the gap in the door she saw her grandma muttering a prayer on her knees, and she felt her mother’s warm hand on her forehead.

  You mustn’t be afraid, sweetheart, she whispered. They say they’ve caught them. You’ll see, everything will be much better now.

  And it was true: On Christmas Day the whole family gathered in front of the television to watch the Ceaușescus’ drumhead trial. Even her father materialized, coming out of his office and flinging himself onto the sofa to witness the presidential couple’s final minutes. The Scientific Elena cursed and screamed on screen, while her Hero Husband seemed bewildered as they bound his hands behind his back. They were led into a yard where the firing squad was waiting, and nobody covered Ana’s eyes as the gunsmoke rose into the air and the cameras zoomed in on the dead bodies.

  Ah yes, it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

  On the streets the demonstrators set half the city alight, but at home in her apartment Ana’s mother wept with happiness. She sashayed around with the phone under her arm, getting tangled up in the cord. She called friends and acquaintances, relatives near and far. Now the family would return to its former glory, the villa in Dorobanti, the tile factory, the confiscated forest. From time to time they heard a crash, the sound of a helicopter, but Ana never saw the soldiers or the tanks. She sat on the floor outside her father’s office, drawing. She put her ear to the door, but heard nothing besides the occasional cough and the chair creaking as he rose. Sometimes she tried a cautious knock, but he didn’t hear it, or pretended he didn’t hear it, and Ana wondered. Where was the shuffle of books being drawn off the shelf? Where was the flick of a pencil swept along a ruler? Once, when she knocked, he opened up and stared at her with tired, red eyes.