Descending quickly, without making any headway. On the wall’s surface, the pale hand protruding from the tableau, from the frame of coffee-colored shadows. Standing in the outline of the door, as in a picture frame, Caba — still, fixed in place, bent to the left — followed his former colleague’s flight with a steady gaze, a stare projected like a terrifying optical illusion from the motionless tableau — motionless except for the gaze and the flinching hand stroking the doorframe: as though in a mirror, the other hand, the hand of the fugitive gleams on the cold banister under the dull gaze from the tableau, moving to the same rhythms, repeating the same movements of Caba’s hand in the doorframe. The steps kept sliding like a nightmarish escalator; dizzying and static, the seemingly impossible escape from the tableau ends in a sudden, cool rain. Awakening: tired, on a street among chilly, huddled pedestrians, hurried clerks, and a strange, narrow, suffocating room for losing oneself, estranging oneself in sleep or dispersion or nothing, something, anything.
The upholstered room had perished, along with the wide marble stairs, then the street had passed away, the pedestrians were no longer visible; next, the spiral of another crooked, twisted, narrow staircase, mounting toward a small, hunched room — a coop or cell or birdcage that refuses respite to the fugitive, a prisoner to himself and his own mystifications, a self-made trap full of imaginary hurdles, perfidious obstacles, and mute monologues. And then she: brought to a stalemate, to the transfer of powerlessness and negation, obliged to assume the complicity, fear, and fury of the one who invents her, made to carry sighs, far-fetched charades, mockingly jubilant in the cadence of vain, useless words — she will disown her own imposture, she will host the meeting of the wanderer with himself and his rebellious memory.
For here, eventually, the ever-delayed circles will start to rotate, the colors of the exiled couple buried in fog under a gloomy sky, and eventually you, the second person, the refused, recalled, awaited rejoinder will come back. The precursory mystification named Monica is weak, transparent, and false, and her slaves — the books, smells, special effects, pantomimes, and scores jumbled all over the place to confuse the stranger — will not wait for the endlessly delayed confrontation, the painful meetings, the delayed gratifications, the memories and expectations scattered in the sinuous spaces of sleep. Here in the loser’s cell, among her negligent belongings, in the hideaway for setups and farces, they will pointlessly recommence their lost youth — the amazed monologue of adolescence that speaks of expectations and desires and the quietly morbid monologue of maturity. Connecting them are the red threads of the pyre on which Captain Zubcu burned and the painful dialog with his daughter: it’s only one more step to reach you and nothing will ever be able to be stopped again, no power will ever be sufficient. An hour, a century, an instant, this lapse will no longer be capable of setting us orphans endlessly astray, separating us in the bleak corridors of a destiny without Sabbath: forgetfulness wil be broken. Our dear wounds will reopen.
• • •
A typed text among other typed texts.
Miss Smântănescu,
I try to console myself and hope that the things I’ve read are true and that this isn’t a. . into motion through the intermediation of another person. Why? I can’t tell you yet, so for the present I don’t have a lady friend, and those who have shown themselves, I haven’t liked. I should have faith in you, I should try to create the conditions for us to meet face-to-face, and as soon as possible. Without denying that the lines you wrote awakened warmth in my heart and something. . special, which I nourish even though we haven’t met. To be as clear as possible, I will seek, in broad strokes, to write my short biography and describe my physiognomy, which should be clarified by a little photograph enclosed in this envelope. I was born in 1933, in the third month, sixth day. I’m filling in the blanks now because, of course, you can’t put all this in the personals. So you’ll have to trust me. In 1948–49 I had a broken leg and I stayed in the hospital. In 1949 I took an admin. exam for the Bucharest School of Mech. Tec. Nr. 1, 127 Calea Dudeşti. I graduated from there in 1953. Later that year I took the mining electromec. exam, but there were few openings, and being poorly prepared in Romanian, Russian, and chemistry, I didn’t pass the orals. In physics and mathematics I scored well. So I presented myself at the plant and I worked there until 1958 as a tech. mechanic. In 1953 my sister went into economic studies and today is director of a school in the city of Bârlad.
In 1958 I took an exam for the Fac. of Mech., T.C.M. Section at the Politech. Inst. Braşov. I attended on a scholarship from the plant and graduated in 1963. Afterward, I returned to the plant. In August 1966, I finished my contract, and by this spring I hope to transfer, or if I don’t obtain a transfer, then I will still be able to leave this city as a result of my contract ending. Where? I’m not sure, however, I am sure I can find a job anywhere. I’m not married. I have chestnut-colored hair, green eyes. Height five feet six inches, and I am as I appear in the photo even though it was taken in 1964 at the park in Sinaia. I’m very sociable, modest, respectful. Whether or not you think I’m a nice guy remains for you to judge. In 1964 I stayed for four months in Bucharest at the Expo. of National Economy as a guide on behalf of the Factory.
I was recently in Bucharest on December 21, 1966. I got myself a round-trip ticket, and used my regular vacation from the ’66 calendar year, and in September ’66, I used the days left from 1964. I had 6 days left that I wanted to use in the course of events, however, my boss at the factory told me to use them all up.
So as it stands I must work till March 9, and then I can come to Bucharest, where I’ll stay five or six days in lodgings, even though I have relatives, friends, colleagues, but I don’t want to bother them, and I’ll see how I get along. On January 3, I found your birthday card, for which I thank you very much and wish you health and happiness in return.
With reference to the several questions you posed, I’ll answer now, sincerely and with great pleasure.
1. Age: so, I have reached my 33rd year.
2. Yes! And the idea that you explained is true. I also thought that I could know my comrade for life — this isn’t out of the question. To tell you the truth, 90 % depends on me in this case. So, as the Romanians say, you can choose from among. . to find someone who reciprocates your love and accommodates your needs perfectly from every angle. In conclusion, I can tell you that I have never sought beauty, but rather, the right person to choose to share this brief life with.
3. If I haven’t yet found the road that leads to the right kind of life, I will never become discouraged. Through the will and ambition I possess, I live with the thought that I will realize even this ideal successfully. You have to feel your way till then, though. . getting to know a lot of people, and when I’m finally sure that the person really loves me and is a homebody, as much as me, if I like her, I’ll take this step too, for sure, in a short time (one or two months, for example).
In case you come through this city, please look for me at home because I live alone and have no relatives here except for the married brother of my brother-in-law who lives on another street. If you’ll be so good, take the time to answer me in writing where you’re staying or with whom you live, if you are willing to go on maintaining and reciprocating my desire of not being alone on the road of life like a sad wayfarer. . Yes! However, I have my own preferences too, and for this reason I have not married, because after that I would never be able to leave here and life would be harder. I have often desired the person who’s easiest to get along with, however it has always turned out that I discovered something bad later or that something didn’t harmonize with my preferences. Sincerely, to tell you the truth, my hope is to reach Bucharest by the month of March or April, 1967, and I plan on accomplishing this. So it was perfect that we both read the personals in the newspaper and that you desired my acquaintance and that I am exactly the serious gentleman you have been looking for and have similar inclinations if I can convince myself that you have as serious a character as you write in your announcement.