The walls didn’t answer. The small streets were slippery in the damp autumn morning. I was eager to speak to him. A lump in my throat seemed to keep me from breathing. I was afraid of the enslavement that befalls overly correct people — starting from the night when I understood that you were listening to Mother without protesting, while she fed you examples of people who found time to arrange housing for themselves, and goods and benefits. I listened, afraid of everything that might happen, waiting for the aftermath of silence — the beginning of hesitation. My terror was no longer forceful; I wasn’t invulnerable anymore. If we’d been able to get close to each other back then, maybe we could have helped each other, and I wouldn’t have gone astray trying to return and reverse what seemed to be my destiny.
Hung onto the metal grillwork by my nails. A sense of suffocation. . a longing to have my revenge on the father who’d forgotten to love me at the right time and on the Party idol I’d been ready to choose as a surrogate father, but who, like Father, had been overly occupied with all the principles, words, and conversions of the day. Like Father, he’d shut himself up till late at night in the peculiar municipal building. The gate of the Austrian town hall was just a few steps away. Wrote a furious, insulting note. Hurried to a newsstand. Bought an envelope and glued it shut. Then it was a matter of writing the name of the one from whom I was separating with a blunt penciclass="underline" His Excellency, Comrade Mehedinţi, from whom I was separating, and there was nothing to do then but hand it to the porter as if handing over an ultimatum. Didn’t give him time to ask me questions. It was windy. Stomped through puddles, chilled me to the bone. Detoured around the stadium through the park full of bare, black trees. Sat down. Leaned against a wet, green backrest. A soft hand caught me around the waist.
— When did you come? Why didn’t you stop by our place?
Ileana Mehedinţi was pale. She was wrinkled now, with tired eyes. My astonishment was impossible to articulate. There was nothing to do but offer silent reassurance: I hadn’t forgotten her beautiful hands, or her voice that taught us to laugh again, or the way her Madonna’s face pursued us through the lairs of the war. There was no way to manage the fleeting images of the past that overwhelmed words and thoughts. There was nothing to do but let myself be led by her warm, aging hand. Hadn’t answered her. She remained silent. Neither of us speaking a word, I walked her to the front of the balconied house where she lived.
— Tell me, Ileana, would you still be able to do it today? — and out of pure friendship, out of the goodness of your heart? And you were so young, so. .
— I’ve thought of that myself, many times. I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to anymore, maybe I wouldn’t have the same strength or as much trust in others. I have no right to answer. Only the events could tell — if they repeated themselves. It’s unknowable, and there’s no longer any need for me to know.
Of course, she might have imagined that the question touched on the present as well, that it had been put intentionally, that I wanted to force her hand to help us now, too. But her eyes were wet, and she didn’t suspect me of leading questions.
— I looked for your husband. I wanted to talk to him, and left him a note.
— Didn’t you know, he’s not there anymore? He was sent back to his old work from before the war — low-level work, as they say nowadays, at a carpentry workshop. It’s better, in a way. He’s been very sick for a long time. It’s his heart. He wasn’t getting any rest, day or night. If he wouldn’t distress himself so much. . it makes him sick.
I found the strength to cover her mouth, to stroke her white hair. I was an imbecile who writes idiotic notes to people with heart disease and leaves them at the wrong address. I would have returned to the official building to pick up the note, but gave it up. It had gotten late. Mother was certainly waiting with lunch. There was no point in my adding tension there.
Presented myself to the porter toward evening. He recognized me, even though we’d only seen each other for an instant. He had the experience that goes with being an official watchman.
— This morning I left you an envelope for Comrade Virgil Mehedinţi.
— Yes, you gave it to me.
— I’d like it back. I’ve learned he doesn’t work here anymore.
— Well, I was telling you that earlier, but you ran off, so I put the envelope on view here, at the information window.
— Yeah, I was in a rush.
— Well, that’s clear. Rushing around like that do you any good? He smiled roguishly. Anyhow, here’s the envelope. Take it.
He bustled off to the window, came back and held out the envelope, which I was about to tear in half.
— What’s up with that? First you write, then you rip? That’s not very thoughtful. Better if you don’t tear it up.
Written in crooked sprawl with a badly sharpened pencil, the name Virgil Mehedinţi had been crossed out with a diagonal line in ink.
— Anyhow, the comrade just passed by here. He comes from time to time. He read the note. Left you an answer. . He thought you might come back to get it.
If, therefore, I should find myself at the best hotel in city B, it would be possible to allow myself the joke of asking if any letters had arrived for me. The receptionist would hand me a letter with my own name, addressed to Room 307, the room I’d just been assigned to. Then it wouldn’t be possible that the preceding resident coincidentally had the same name as me, but it would seem that the previous tenant and I had common acquaintances, since the note left for him would have been signed by a good friend of my father’s. .
I didn’t have any other choice, so I opened the envelope: “You’ve gone rather overboard. Stop by my place in six months. V.M.”
Without wanting to, I’d rolled six twice, in two different throws of the dice. Should we find these coincidences interesting? Perhaps yes, if the appearance of the event truly concerns or interests us. The fact that Father’s arrest coincided with Mehedinţi’s dismissal was a matter of interest to me, and I was glad to have my deadlines, occupations, and responsibilities.
Now I knew that someone would be waiting for me in six months time. I could let myself leave, again, at the mercy of any night train.
• • •
It was probably April when the train took me again. Left at night, arrived at dawn in a dirty, deserted station. There were three hours before being able to proceed. It was cold. Went into the waiting room. Huddled near their luggage, a few passengers slept on wooden benches. Numb from traveling, propped my feet on a bench like the others. The dull light stung my eyes. Saw the remains of a book down at the other end of the bench, by my shoes. Pulled it toward me. Pages were missing. Someone had probably forgotten it. The fragment began on page 58 and ended at 91. The hero, it seems, wanted to get to a secluded place where he would meet an important character. Proper nouns were not mentioned: perhaps they had been mentioned at the beginning, but were no longer being used. It was necessary to cross a body of water. The hero had found a boat. The night before the crossing, he came down with a curious illness the locals called “fog sickness.” The young man was shivering and trembling; he had fever and talked about himself in the third person, as if narrating someone else’s story. The meeting could only take place at specific times, over great intervals. Anyone who missed one meeting couldn’t count on living long enough to see another. It seems that the hero had a meeting with his own self, and that a kind of retribution or resolution would take place at this distant spot. The fragment ended on page 91, just when it was starting to get interesting.