Not even shyness. It’s a natural, simple and
unforced sense of being left to yourself. Sometimes I’d like to leave my own body and from
a corner of the room observe how I talk, how I get worked up, see what I’m like when
I’m cheerful or sad, knowing that none of those things is me. Playing at having a double?
No, that’s not it at all.
*
I ate at the canteen between a bad-smelling
loud-talking Russian and a thin girl with chapped hands and badly applied lipstick. A concrete
floor, the cold, a coat thrown over my shoulders, a plate shoved before me, a tin fork on the
ground.
I’m never going to be a social
revolutionary, I who in that moment somehow managed a cheerful smile.
There are eleven boys in the room, including me.
Sadigurski Liova, my neighbour to the right, shaves with the old razors given to him by Ionel
Bercovici, my neighbour to the left. I’m still guarded in my interactions here. I fear
greater familiarity.
Towards morning, whenever I happen to wake, I
like to listen to the chorus of breathing of the ten people around me, in this long, cold room:
the rasping breath of the polytechnic student by the door, his neighbour’s fluting
whistle, Liova’s sighing, the bumblebee buzz of someone towards the back, by the window
and, above them all, the loud, penetrating, animal snore of Ianchelevici Şapsă, the
giant.
*
I watch how they return in the evening from the
university, in dribs and drabs, or singly, worn out. And each one grimly enumerates the fights
he’s got into, like a billiard score, so that a competitor won’t steal their
points.
Marcel Winder is up to fifteen. The other day his
hat also got ripped, which puts him well ahead on the road to martyrdom. Loudly, in the middle
of the yard, he points out each of his wounds. This one and this one and this one …
*
Today they removed Ianchelevici
Şapsă’s mattress. He hasn’t paid his bill for three months and
they’re taking action. He watched calmly, leaning against the wall, without protest. In
the evening he laid down on his bed board and uttered a choice curse. I threw him one of my
pillows. He sent it sailing back, high through the air, nearly smashing the lamp, and turned
over to face the wall.
*
It was a tough day. It’s been decided that
we absolutely have to get into the civil law faculty, where they grade you for attendance. Up
until now we’ve only been going in scattered groups of three people at most. This avoids
major confrontations, but it achieves nothing as they usually identify us all and kick us
out.
So today we had to change our tactics. We entered
in a compact group and sat in the front rows, by the lectern. We don’t respond to minor
provocations, but defend ourselves if we’re attacked. ‘Until the end’ –
that was the slogan.
It’s a bad strategy, I think, but I’m
not going to tell the boys that, so thrilled are they with today’s success. We gave as
good as we got, perhaps, but did nobody notice Liebovici Isodor, jammed in the corner by the
blackboard, with his coat ripped and a bloody split lip? Ianchelevici Şapsă did
wonders: he was pale and serious, holding the leg of a chair he had broken off for the
fight.
Evening. Marcel Winder made a list of those who
were beaten up, to give to the paper. I told him to rub my name out: I don’t think I
received more than two blows and, more to the point, Mama doesn’t need to find out.
*
Calm exteriors. Perhaps antagonism has acquired
a certain style.
‘Dear colleague, would you kindly show me
your student identification card?’
Three of them surround me, waiting. I take out my
student card and display it to the one who spoke.
‘Aha! Please vacate the lecture hall. Come
along.’
He points the way.
*
Liebovici Isodor got badly beaten up. Again. I
wasn’t there, but heard from Marga Stern, who was.
I’m rather fond of his curt manner, his
proud, firm reserve.
‘Again, Liebovici?’
‘Again, what?’
‘They beat you up again.’
‘No.’
‘Of course they did.’
‘All right, they did, then … You seem
to know all about it.’
He turns and leaves, irritated, head bowed.
I lost my gloves in the scuffle or they were
taken.
1 comment