Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent Read online

  I hide the magazines and try to carry on reading. But I can’t. I’m filled with remorse. I look out of the window and see the poplar trees, the leaden coloured roofs, hear the muffled sounds of the street. Sometimes night falls. I may have cried several times without realizing.

  Wearily, I light the lamp.

  And then the room comes to life again, the books speak to me from their shelves, my soul returns. And I always regret the time I wasted looking out of the window, or crying over a melody played on the piano and a drawing of a country road in summer.

  I’d like to know who I am, because I don’t know. I’ve filled a great many notebooks trying to find out, but I haven’t succeeded. My novel is going to be full of strange heroes. Their souls won’t be one-dimensional, or all of a piece. Up till now I’ve never met an adolescent with a soul like this. But I won’t be able to analyse my characters because I’ve never met them. So I won’t be able to plumb the depths of their souls.

  I look at myself. Deep down within. So many odd characteristics, so many contradictions.

  That’s why I’ll never be able to write The Novel of the Short-Sighted Adolescent, which is the only hope I’ve got.

  Incipit Vita Nova

  It snowed all day. My soul would probably have liked to feel sad, but I wouldn’t let it. That’s why I was happy today, because it was how I wanted to be. I read late into the night. And then, exhausted, I began to ask myself questions. Autumn is over, and many of the things that I promised myself I would achieve, I’ve left half-completed. I’ve written less and less frequently in this notebook, and taken it less and less seriously. I haven’t analysed myself. And I haven’t studied psychology to help me understand myself.

  Other ideas have occurred to me. I’ve begun to enjoy other things. Rarely do I think about chemistry. I’d really like to know what the soul is, but I think it’s extremely difficult to understand. I’ve read many books, but gained nothing from them: quite the opposite. So now I want to read Bergson.

  At least I’ve escaped mathematics, which is something to be happy about. I had to make a decision to change to the Humanities. And so I did. They let me take the preliminary exam in May. And then I was given the Latin texts that are used in the Remove and the Fifth Form.

  The atmosphere in the Humanities is completely different. The master is lenient, erudite and ironic. He tells us a lot of things that we then discuss among ourselves. But he despises our ignorance. This ‘Maestro’ of ours is an occultist and a philosopher. That’s why he spends so little time on grammar, preferring to improve our use of logic and the quality of our knowledge. He enjoys listening to us discuss a topic, and then delights in exposing the holes in our arguments.

  Up till now I haven’t done much Latin. So I had to start from scratch, with aquila, aquilae, and then all the way up to Caesar. Yet at the moment I’m translating Horace. I bought some cloth-bound texts with cardboard covers. I’ve read all the introductions. I really like the Latin language, and the masters, the authors we study, and our class.

  Since the ‘Maestro’ only sets an exam at the end of the year and doesn’t give us written homework or surprise tests, we spend virtually the entire time discussing the subject, or doing the occasional short commentary on a text. This is why we all pay attention. Because we don’t live in fear of marks, reports or snap tests. The mainstays of our discussions are usually Leiber and Petrişor. Whenever Leiber translates and comments on a text, Petrişor stands up and criticizes. Once Petrişor has finished, Leiber gets up to defend himself. They toss ironic remarks back and forth. The rest of us prefer Petrişor’s irony, although the ‘Maestro’ has his doubts about both of them.

  Fănică sits in the second row. He has covered all his textbooks with blue paper, and writes all his Latin vocabulary in a special notebook. Next to him is Brătăşanu. Brătăşanu is brilliant at grammar. Even the ‘Maestro’ himself once told him: ‘You’ll addle your brains, old chap!’

  Brătăşanu knows all the irregular verbs and can translate any text. He doesn’t even have to look at the book, he only has to listen to the phrase. But he doesn’t understand how Augustus became emperor, or why Horace wrote Carmen Saeculare. In the same way, to him all poets are ‘marvellous.’ When he has to comment on: ‘Vides ut alta stat nive candidum Soracte...’ he tells us about Socrates, or the climate in Rome. Brătăşanu knows all the consuls, and their respective dates, from Tacitus’s Histories. He studies the Varemberg dictionary and Saglio. But for all that he’s no scholar. He forgets almost everything that he takes on board. Latin grammar and German vocabulary are the only things he doesn’t forget. Brătăşanu knows an incredible amount of German words, and yet he can’t read a German book without using a dictionary.

  He’s good at trigonometry, chemistry, physics, and zoology. Brătăşanu knows everything that a model pupil needs to know. That’s why he’s been top of the class and won all the prizes from the moment he arrived at the lycée. But actually – this is what I think – he doesn’t know anything at all. All he knows is what he’s taught.

  He’s popular because he’s ‘a good boy,’ and will gladly come to your house to help you with Latin grammar and not ask for payment. After which he’ll stay up after midnight doing his ‘homework.’ And he really does do it. He learns everything that he’s given to learn, even when the ‘homework’ isn’t very interesting and he knows he won’t be tested on it. He’s so conscientious it makes you sick. For written tests he revises absolutely everything. Because written tests – so Brătăşanu tells us – are based on the whole term’s work. Which is perfectly true. But I’ve never seen a good test essay produced by Brătăşanu. He only ever repeats what he’s read or heard the master say. He’s not capable of anything else.

  He’s the class ‘prefect’. He’s also the monitor for the Humanities. Which is to say that he sits at the master’s desk and threatens people: ‘Marcu, I’m going to write your name in my book!’

  When he isn’t reading a novel, Marcu is the laziest and most disruptive person in the class. And yet – although he despises Latin civilization, which he regards as ‘despotic’ – he actually knows far more about it than the rest of us. He has read all of Tacitus, something that even the best pupils haven’t done. Plus he’s read several volumes of Boissier, which is something else that virtually no one else can claim. But Marcu isn’t good at grammar, and produces poor translations. Given half a chance, he cribs. Whenever there’s an oral exam he revises a few random paragraphs from the line-by-line translation. Which is why he always gets an ‘Unsatisfactory’ in Latin. But he’s never made to retake, because the ‘Maestro’ doesn’t allow this: ‘I know that none of you ever do any work.’

  Robert sits in the middle of the classroom, next to Bricterian. Robert can’t translate, and hasn’t read many books about Rome. But he knows how to talk. He talks whenever and about whatever comes into his mind. Not because he’s talented, but because he thinks he ‘speaks well.’ At least that’s Robert’s opinion. Which is why he smiles and gives a little cough whenever he stands up. And then he starts talking. Slowly and melodically (or so he says), searching for his words, and then, once he finds them, pronouncing them triumphantly. He’s very loquacious, because it means he can talk for longer. Even so, the boys say that last summer he gave quite a successful talk on Circus Games in Ancient Rome. The ‘Maestro’ congratulated him, and predicted that one day he’d be a great writer and orator. Robert blushed and strutted about self-importantly, barely saying a word to the rest of us. Yet his talk happened purely by chance. It was only a success because it came after Brătăşanu’s, who spoke about Roman Roads and Aqueducts, summarizing a hundred pages in quarto from Varemberg and Saglio. Meanwhile the other boys played nine men’s morris or backgammon. The ‘Maestro’ closed his eyes and nodded off. The only sounds were the speaker’s voice and flies buzzing. When the bell rang, everyone gave a sigh of relief. Salvation at last! But Brătăşan
u hadn’t finished his talk on Aqueducts. And he never did finish, because the other boys wouldn’t let him. And the next day it was Robert’s turn.

  Before the ‘Maestro’ arrives, Brătăşanu coaches people in Latin grammar and translation. At the same time, three rows back, Leiber does commentaries. Leibner’s commentaries are original and very instructive – at least, for those who haven’t read La Cité antique.* Because when it comes to ‘the Ancient World’, Leiber’s erudition – rather like Brătăşanu’s – is nothing but a myth. The night before a lesson, Leiber reads Fustel de Coulanges19, so that the next day he is able to quote Latin authors and sources that he’s never set eyes on.

  Leiber always ‘speaks’ after Robert has finished, and criticizes him in scholarly fashion. Petrişor, meanwhile, smiles ironically. Naturally, once Leiber has talked himself hoarse, Petrişor stands up. He doesn’t know much about ‘the Ancient World’ either, but his job is to criticize Leiber. Whatever Leiber says, we can be sure that Petrişor won’t agree. Quite the opposite. Nonetheless, the truth is always on Petrişor’s side.

  The rest of the class are always delighted when a discussion between the ‘orators’ begins to get heated. Mişu Tolihroniade is another of the ‘orators’, although he doesn’t say as much. When he does stand up, he goes red and speaks very precisely. Most of the time he smiles ironically, in order to ‘baffle’ his opponent.

  My classmates in the Humanities are a very engaging crowd. I’ve become friends with quite a lot of them. There’s no doubt that the Humanities are far superior to the Sciences. Mainly because of Vanciu, the atmosphere there was frosty. The people who were good at maths could eat croissants until Vanciu walked in. But as for the rest of us...

  That’s why I’m happy. So I ought to forget all the sadness that the snowy days have brought me. I have a good companion in Horace.

  * * *

  19Fustel de Coulanges: Numa Denis Fustel de Coulanges (1830-1889), French historian noted particularly for his work La Cité antique.

  Christmas Eve

  The choir meets in my attic every evening. To give us more light we take the globe off the lamp. We smoke and enjoy ourselves chatting while we wait for everyone to arrive. We discuss the rehearsals for A Model Lycée and gossip about Robert. We all take unusual delight in gossiping about Robert. Because ever since he told us that it won’t be long before he wins the love of a princess, he’s become quite unbearable.

  We’re all good friends. We call each other by our first names, swear at each other without causing offense, lend each other money and share confidences about our ‘conquests.’ Every night, Poprişan – who is a bass and lives in the suburbs, in Floreasca – tells us about a woman who’s in love with him, sparing no details. He claims that she’s ‘hysterical,’ and we listen to him, because that’s what friends are for.

  Fănică is keen to find out about certain establishments. He’s a serious boy. As far as I know, he’s never wanted to get involved with ‘hysterical’ women. He prefers to pay a fixed amount of money every week, and avoid any problems. His main interests are chemistry and maths, which is enough to put off Robert, who will soon win the love of a princess.

  Other friends soon arrive, – tenors, baritones, basses – who admire my books and my perseverance. They all tell me the same thing: that they wouldn’t have my ‘willpower’. For my part I’m flattered, try to be modest and give them a pat on the back.

  One or two of the ‘elite’ ask me what I’m writing at the moment, and who publishes my work. I’m sure that none of them have read a word of anything I’ve written. Because it wouldn’t ‘interest’ them. Although they admire my boxes of insects, which astonish them. They’re amazed at how many I have, and that their legs are all intact. So I explain that I preserve them in a solution of sublimate then pin them on a piece of cork to dry. They all ask what the greenish-gold beetles in the corner are called. And I calmly tell them: Cetonia aurata. This impresses them.

  Fănică is only sorry that I have so few butterflies and so many ‘bees.’ Three of my other friends think the same. I tell them that they aren’t bees, they’re Hymenoptera. But as we haven’t yet learnt about insects in zoology, Fănică has no way of knowing this. He still insists that butterflies are more ‘beautiful’, and more interesting.

  ‘I see them differently.’

  There are too many of us to get involved in heated discussions about literature and philosophy. That’s what we usually talk about late into the evening when it’s just Bricterian, Petrişor, Dinu and myself. Bricterian paces up and down as he speaks. As my attic is very small, this doesn’t calm him down, but only makes him more agitated.

  Dinu sits in the armchair, smoking as he talks. When he gets angry, he sits up and speaks more loudly.

  Petrişor argues like a sophist. All this achieves is to annoy the rest of us, because we’re not in a position to refute his sophisms with logic.

  We begin rehearsals, with Fănică conducting. Perri has lent him a tuning fork. Fănică gives it a mighty tap against the edge of the desk, closes his eyes and begins: laaaa... the tuning fork is indispensable, as is his reed baton.

  First we sing Bună Dimineața la Moş-Ajun20 with three voices. The tenors open their mouths as wide as possible, and throw their heads back. The basses clamp their lips together and lower their chins onto their chests. They say that’s how the choir sings at the Patriarchate.

  Fănică is happy with Bună Dimineața. We’re all red in the face, and wipe our foreheads with our handkerchiefs, very pleased with ourselves. After that we sing The leaves on the vine have turned to gold, which, as Fănică explains, is no longer very popular, except in old folks’ homes. Then comes A student’s life for me, which makes us feel sad, and reminds Bricterian of Heidelberg of old. We also practice On our standard is writ the word United, for singing at patriots’ houses. And In all Seville there is none like you, a romantic ballad from Don Juan. This is Robert’s favourite. He says that we ‘don’t really understand it.’ And he half closes his eyes and smiles. Some people look at him admiringly. He runs his fingers through his cropped hair and sighs: ‘I’m in love with a woman...’

  Fănică reminds him that we also need to practice Gaudeamus igitur. So Robert resigns himself. The others are keen to perform this student hymn and sing solemnly, despite not knowing the words and straining to hear the person next to them: ‘...ita nostra, ă, evis est.’

  ‘evis... iii, eretur...’

  Fănică does his best to pronounce the words as clearly as possible so the tenors can hear. But they’re completely carried away and have stopped listening to the conductor.

  Finally we rehearse Many Years and Let us drink our whole life through as I drink wine today with you. We sing these because we know we’ll be invited into some of our friends’ houses and need to be prepared. We’ll leave our coats in the cloakroom, smile politely and peel our mandarins. There will be young ladies who will tell us: ‘Please, help yourselves!’

  And the ladies will admire us: ‘How long have you been rehearsing?’

  And then Bricterian will be asked to sing the prologue from Pagliaccio, and he’ll say that he’s slightly hoarse, and give a meaningful cough.

  But in the end he’ll give in:

  ‘Si puo, si puo, Signore, Signori;

  Scusatemi. Se da sol mi presento:

  Io sono il prologo...’

  The young ladies will fall in love with him, and his friends will pat him on the back and say: ‘You’re quite good for an Armenian.’

  The night was clear and cold. The light covering of snow had frozen and was glittering. The boys arrived in groups, and greeted each other heartily at the door to my attic: ‘Salve, Babo!’

  ‘Hurrah, old chap!’

  ‘Here you are...’

  Fănică asked if anyone had been eating nuts or had drunk red wine. For those who broke the rules, he f
ixed a scale of punishment. For a minor misdemeanour it was a twenty lei fine, deducted from the money we would be paid at the end. A more serious offence would mean missing the choir feast, or permanent expulsion. Fănică is a little tyrant. But these are only threats. The rules are a mere formality.

  We set off at quarter past nine. Altogether there were fifteen boys. Eleven choir members, a conductor, a treasurer and two ‘kibitzers’. In the courtyard we sang for Mama. She listened at the window, smiling. Then she gave us mandarins, figs, biscuits, apples, and slipped the treasurer a banknote. Everyone said ‘Sărut-mâna21’and wondered: ‘How much did she give us?’

  Then we sang carols. We walked down the middle of the road, looking at each other, very pleased with ourselves and shouting: ‘Gosh, there’s so many of us!’

  And we burst out laughing.

  We walked into a courtyard surrounded by iron railings, where there were chestnut trees. A dog started barking, and then the lights suddenly went out. Fănică whistled through his teeth: ‘Damn and blast!’

  The boys were disgusted. They swore at the owners and walked out, slamming the gate behind them.

  At the next house we were made welcome. We sang Bună Dimineaţa... out of tune, then In all Seville... and then A student’s life for me. Then we waited. And then we sang again Many Years. A woman with a bright, cheerful face came out and asked how much we had in our wallet. We took this as a joke and roared with laughter, although we could have got away with just smiling.

  On her tray were all the traditional fruits. The boys walked over sheepishly, and took the first thing they laid hands on. By the time I got there, there was nothing left except five nuts and a fig. I took them and thanked the woman politely.

  Once we were out the gate, the treasurer told us: ‘A hundred lei!’

  At a large house in Batiştei Street, the gate was padlocked. At another, the lights went out the moment we launched into: ‘Bună Dimineața la Moş-Ajun...’