Gaudeamus Page 2

  I walked apprehensively; intimidated by the glances the others gave me. I set my face in a scowl, to give myself courage. Leaning against a wall, in the passage that led to the administrative offices, I felt a stir of excitement. I did not want to be discovered by any­one; and yet I wanted to discover everyone. I loved everything about them, and I thought about how henceforth they would all be my classmates. There were so many young women, all of them beautiful to me, and all of them, I decided, Hypatias. I felt hopes and desires swelling and anxiously stirring about inside me. I observed; is it not true that these are the best years of my life? And I was not sure whether I should take control of them or allow them to control me.

  Gone were the torturous nights of Greek Grammar. One painfully­-clear morning I came down from my attic. I was seduced by the chrysanthemums. And the sky, the expansive blue sky. My home seemed so perfect, and so beloved. The courtyard had become my friend. Large lilac bushes bowed humbly in the sunshine. It was then that I decided: I am going to give up Greek, at least for now. You might say that I was waiting for something, promised long ago. But for what, I could not say.

  I would have to find new friends. But I did not dare talk to any of my classmates taking their seats at the back, who looked mistrustfully at my glasses and smiling face. Nor did I dare speak to any of the young women taking their seats on the front rows, who were not looking at me at all. I would just have to wait.

  It rained, and rained. I bought piles of books after the Bacca­laureate exam. Alone in my attic, I read them. My first autumn, I thought. And I smiled.

  Attending my first lecture in the Maiorescu Auditorium, I sat next to the window, tormented by too blood-red a sunset and the hand of the girl sitting next to me, too pale, too warm. Below, on the boulevard, passed people who had never heard of our professors. This stupid thought hindered me from understanding the lecturer’s eulogy to Philosophy as the crowning achievement of human endeavour. He spoke slowly and clearly, excruciatingly slowly and clearly. At the end of the lecture, young women took the edge off their irritation by opening and closing their handbags. There were also young women who took notes. They had big ears, and hair heaped wildly on top of their white necks. Other students struck the attitude of thinkers: high foreheads, knitted brows, chins resting on their hands.

  I descended the stairs, and yellow globe lights appeared in the night.

  In the corridors were couples and groups. The couples were next to windows, with autumn in their eyes. The groups stood along the walls, pointing at shy students, or students whose dresses were too long. Groups always laugh; couples always keep quiet.

  My first change: I developed a liking for sentimental souls. At least they don’t think that everything is just a joke, I thought. Why was I saddened by the choices of adolescence, made worse in tumultuous times?

  I was embarrassed by my hat, which was too big and too black. My brother had teased me about all students being poets and bohemians. But I had my attic, and I never wrote poetry. Under my big hat, I looked more like a German house painter. I only wore it when it rained. And in autumn it rained, and rained.

  The first sign that adolescence had definitively ended: I stopped writing my Diary. From now on, everything would be worked out in my soul, in secret. Another sign: I demanded and received money for the things I published. I had plenty of money and bought myself expensive books.

  The streets were colder now, and the walls even gloomier. The chestnut trees were yet another autumn older and around the windows the ivy was turning red.

  In the mornings, my soul was serene. But at night, clouds gathered. Why could I not remember the dreams that bourgeoned and took flight in nights of restless sleep?

  In the corridor, one evening, in front of a door, I bumped into a girl who looked up at me angrily. I turned pale, and then red, and then pale again. I found out later that she went by the name Bibi. From then on, I greeted her timidly. She never answered. Why did I, of all people, call her Bibi?

  I did not have much luck. None of my lycée friends were in any of my classes. But I had got to know a few new faces. One was a student from Bessarabia, tall, blond, and nearly bald. He was majoring in Theology, Law, and Philosophy. He never missed a class and wrote his notes in huge lined notebooks. He had been to Athens, Sofia, and Paris. No one knew anything else about him. He was friends with a Jew who was in love with a beautiful Jewish girl. He was ugly, but he loved her. I realised this when he told the Bessarabian: ‘She’s so intelligent!’ Sad, so sad.

  I had also met a snub-nosed girl who read German philosophy books and was proud of her feminist views. She discussed German Philosophy and Feminism with anyone and everyone. She had a rather odd way of beginning a sentence: ‘I mean, do you or do you not agree with me?’

  The feminist looked down on the girls who were pretty or uncultured. I overheard the following snatch of conversation.

  ‘If they haven’t read Hegel, they’re good for nothing!’

  ‘Really?’

  Someone else, indiscreetly, ‘Who put you in charge?’

  ‘I, sir, am a feminist.’

  Another voice, ‘More power to her!’

  Every once in a while she would arrive with a pale, delicate young man. The students at the back whispered that he must be one of her disciples.

  I also met a brunette, whose hair was cut in a fringe. She spoke in a soft voice and crammed Latin vocabulary before lectures. Once, I caught her reading a book of verse. She blushed. After that, she would smile at me, and I would say hello to her.

  If it rained at night, after seminars, we sheltered in a corridor with large windows. Little by little I shed my shyness. I met theology students with long hair, and youthful, unkempt beards. And destitute literature students, who cursed the rain, because they would miss their meal at the cafeteria. And students from distant cities, with wide eyes and mud-specked socks. All kinds of groups set off to the student halls of residence, with their briefcases tucked under their arms.

  Once the rain had passed, I made my way home along cold, laved streets. I looked at the lighted windows and imagined warm, cosy rooms, with languid female footfalls on soft rugs. But I did not allow myself to feel any sadness.

  *

  Autumn, with its sadness and twilight, passed. Two years later, my memories are bitter and heavy. I write this story with peace of mind, hardened by the path that I have taken. But I write a story that is not yet finished. Life goes on, and I write only of the life that has been lived.

  TWO: THE CHAIRMAN

  I finished that autumn, alone. And then, all of a sudden, in early December, the attic came to life. Evening fell, but upstairs, in my attic, choirs intoned. It had all happened so fast – I am beginning to forget exactly how I came to meet the doctoral student with the broad forehead and nervous smile at the corner of his thin lips. He explained to me, walking down the boulevard, how the city did not yet have a student association, how at the university year after year passed without anyone attending or establishing one. An older gentleman wished to donate his fortune for a students’ club, if only an association existed, but there was no association, because students were happy to spend their years with old friends to whom they were connected by childhood or lycée. If only a room could be found somewhere, a room in which to organise.

  ‘I have a attic.’

  The doctoral student demurred; young men and women are noisy, unruly. They would disturb and annoy whoever else might be at home.

  ‘But the attic is mine.’

  He consented, but only for the choir. Happy, we went our separate ways in the night. The next morning, he climbed the wooden stairs and knocked on my door.

  ‘So many books, so many books.’

  He told me everything he had done since we parted; he had recruited five friends to form a committee, written an appeal to the city’s students, taken receipt of the first funds from the old gentle­man, and ordered membership cards from the printers. Medical student that he was, he gauged the
volume of air in the room.

  ‘No more than two hours, for fifteen people. After two hours we’ll have to open the windows.’ He had been wanting to announce a student assembly in the newspapers, but had not found a room large enough. I quickly put on my coat, and together we set off to visit the headmaster of the lycée.

  The old man attempted to be nostalgic: I had first arrived there nine years ago, a small, shy boy, but look at me now: a university student! Did I still recognise my old headmaster, the parent of my adolescent soul? The doctoral student bit his lips in impatience. But what good was any of this now? A new, fruitful and dynamic life was beginning. Could he lend us a helping hand? Would he agree to let us use the music hall for our first few meetings?

  ‘For university students, naturally.’

  The student thanked the headmaster briefly but warmly, then left, heading for the university, the newspapers, the dean’s office, the cafeteria.

  On my way back, alone, with bitter memories of the headmaster in my soul, I encountered the first snowflakes of the season.

  ‘December.’

  Two days later, my little windows were lit blue by the snow. In my room, it was cold and dark. I brought up loads of coal and wood, dusted white. Sitting by the stove I read, in disbelief, the announcement in the columns of Universitare: ‘Today, at five p.m., students of the university who wish to join the city choir are invited to enrol at the provisional headquarters in the attic of.’

  I ran downstairs.

  ‘We’ll be having guests at five o’clock.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I’m not sure; twenty or thirty. But we’ll be holding auditions – some will be leaving almost as soon as they arrive.’

  Mother did not believe that I would be having ‘guests’ until she met a girl asking for directions.

  ‘Excuse me, is there a attic here, some kind of provisional head­quarters?’

  As luck would have it, it was Bibi. The doctoral student had not yet arrived. I was nervous and wondered if it was warm enough, if the armchairs were comfortable, if the bookshelves were tidy. Bibi had not expected to see me or, even more so, to see me there all by myself.

  ‘Are you the only one here?’

  ‘Yes, I am … well, you see.’

  ‘Ah, so this is your attic.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  An awkward silence.

  ‘You were working when I arrived; let me take something to read, something from here.’

  She took a copy of Corydon. I blushed.

  ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘It’s interesting.’

  ‘A novel?’

  ‘No. Gide.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Haven’t you read anything by Gide?’

  ‘Yes I have. A textbook: The Political Economy.’

  Charmed, I explained, ‘That’s by Charles Gide.’

  ‘Oh! Sorry! And this is by Andrei.’ She smiled, looking through the book.

  ‘I know somebody called Andrei, a polytechnic student. He skis.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  I invited her to sit down in an armchair between the bookcases.

  ‘Don’t you get bored up here all alone?’

  I lied, presumptuously.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m alone, exactly.’

  She took a long look at me.

  ‘That’s strange; you don’t look like someone in love.’

  Pale, very pale.

  I was saved by the doctoral student; he entered without a word, with a bag, damp from melted snowflakes, his forehead red from the cold.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to the young lady?’

  How was I supposed to introduce her by her nickname, Bibi? But she introduced herself. I made a mental note of her name.

  Within half an hour, the attic was full of students. The provisional committee assembled at the table. I recognised a few of them. Two from the Polytechnic: a second-lieutenant in his final year at medical school, and a stooped, skinny young man, who smoked copiously and weighed his words carefully. The others were strangers. There were only a few girls; they sat on chairs and the bed. We listened to what the chairman had to say.

  He was not a gifted orator. He struggled to find the right words, but when he did find them, he delivered them resoundingly. He reminded us of the old gentleman’s donation. But the association did not yet exist. It would have to be established as soon as possible. The choir and the festival would bring in funds. We would sing carols for government ministers, for the dean of the university, at the royal palace. The association would have to be officially registered. That way, we would be able to receive donations. At the same time, we had to foster ‘the student life’.

  My guests were inspired. They promised help, work, with enthusiasm.

  ‘And discipline’, added the chairman.

  A young man with black hair was appointed choirmaster. Flattered, he asked to hear everyone’s voice. The girls protested.

  ‘We’ve been singing since lycée.’

  The boys teased, ‘Then it’s been a long while, hasn’t it.’

  A pale, quiet girl capitulated.

  ‘Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti!’

  A tall, swarthy, thick-lipped student, who stood leaning against the door, opined: ‘She’s a tenor.’

  Laughter. The girl turned red, and shrank back apologetically. The chairman interjected, ‘Gentlemen, you promised.’

  A young woman, with dark, sunken eyes, moist lips, and trembling nostrils spoke up. She had wavy, neck-length black hair and her arms were bared to the shoulder.

  ‘Chairman, sir, they should go first!’

  The boys protested, suddenly nervous.

  ‘Ladies first.’

  ‘The boldest first’, replied a blond girl.

  Amid this hubbub, I took a look around my attic: Cigarette smoke, the smell of women’s clothing, shadows. The bookshelves paid silent witness.

  Above the headboard of my bed, the dried willow garland around an icon shed its dry leaves. I felt so happy and such a stranger!

  The chairman’s ruling solved the dilemma: ‘The girls will sing scales, and the gentlemen will go downstairs and wait in the courtyard for a few minutes. Make sure not to break any windows!’

  I could hear them plotting.

  ‘But we’ll catch cold.’

  The girls agreed to go first, but only if the boys promised to behave themselves. The young lady with the dark eyes gave a perfect, defiant rendition of the scale.

  ‘Your name and faculty?’

  ‘Nonora – Law, and the Conservatory.’

  The boys ‘Aha!’

  Two days later, rehearsals began. The young women one afternoon, and the young men the next. This arrangement was not to the liking of the men. They arrived late, smoked, and ignored the chairman. It was decided to hold joint practice sessions. The men arrived half an hour early. Some politely asked me to forgive the intrusion. They began to discuss the student strike. Some were for it, others were carried along with the tide, and others still were against it.

  ‘And what do you think?’

  I did not want to think anything. I listened. When the first young lady arrived, the discussion grew impassioned.

  ‘Sexual selection’, I said to myself.

  The women complained to the chairman about the men ‘talking politics’. The chairman banned any further talk of politics, as it was conducive to disorder. If the men in the room wished to discuss such matters elsewhere, they were perfectly free to do so.

  We rehearsed Gaudeamus igitur – a certain feeling descended into the attic, amid the cigarette smoke and the books, a feeling of Heidelberg coming to life. It was hot between the white walls, we were happy that it was snowing outside, that it was snowing heavily. Our voices resounded through the windows and enlivened the street. The women had befriended each other. They huddled around the tiled stove, and leafed through German books in fascination. I divined
how, evening after evening, they were becoming more drawn to the attic. In the beginning, they had voiced concern about entering so small a room, without rugs, and with so many bookshelves and burning cigarettes. But it was so novel, so unusual. They then found themselves starting to look forward to our rehearsals. It was ‘pleasant’. Perhaps they were dreaming, perhaps it reminded them of novels, or perhaps they were hoping.

  Nonora was becoming more and more forward. But she was still undecided. She smiled at all the men and received never-­ending compliments from admirers who cast furtive looks at her knees, breasts, shoulders. She annoyed the women because every night she positively demanded a gentleman walk her home. Even the chairman was charmed by her. In discussions he now began to ask her to take the floor: ‘And what does Miss Nonora think?’

  One afternoon, I saw her standing at the top of the stairs after being kissed by a dull but handsome student.

  ‘You’ve got a cheek! You’ve wiped off all my lipstick.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  She and Bibi had become friends. They came to rehearsals together.

  ‘Who will help me take off my wellingtons?’

  Maybe she was speaking to me as well. Five tenors bent down to assist her.

  ‘Wait a second, wait a second! Just my boots.’

  She liked Radu. She met him one evening at my place, maybe what she liked in him was his ungainliness, his cheerful short­sightedness, his cynicism, which was that of a man who submits to fate. Radu was the only friend who had not abandoned me in the autumn. I met the others only seldom, and when I did, we talked about insignificant things. They were furious that I had hired out the attic to a club of strangers.

  ‘Before long you’ll turn into an anti-Semite, too.’

  We preserved the same closeness when we talked, but I was looking for new friends. Radu might as well have been a new friend. After we had gone our separate ways, in him I had discovered very many qualities that nights spent drinking in taverns had not managed to destroy.

  And Radu came to my attic every night, once he found out that Nonora came too. He alone walked her home now. Nonora liked him best of all the students, because he was intelligent, cynical and ‘witty’. The others were handsome and vulgar. Nonetheless, she continued to let herself be embraced by any who dared. She kissed with open lips, her head thrown back. And she would complain afterwards about ‘the savages wiping off all my lipstick’.