Mircea Cărtărescu

Blinding: Volume 1

For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.

But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

1 CORINTHIANS 13: 9-12

Part One

1

BEFORE they built the apartment blocks across the street, before everything was screened off and suffocating, I used to watch Bucharest through the night from the triple window in my room above Ştefan cel Mare. The window usually reflected my room’s cheap furniture — a bedroom set of yellowed wood, a dresser and mirror, a table with some aloe and asparagus in clay pots, a chandelier with globes of green glass, one of which had been chipped long ago. The reflected yellow space turned even yellower as it deepened into the enormous window, and I, a thin, sickly adolescent in torn pajamas and a stretched-out vest, would spend the long afternoon perched on the small cabinet in the bedstead, staring, hypnotized, into the eyes of my reflection in the transparent glass. I would prop my feet on the radiator under the window, and in winter the soles of my feet would burn, giving me a perverse, subtle blend of pleasure and suffering. I saw myself in the yellow glass, under the triple blossom of the chandelier’s phantom, my face as thin as a razor, my eyes heavy within violet circles. A stringy moustache emphasized the asymmetry of my mouth, or more precisely, the asymmetry of my entire face. If you took a picture of my face and covered the left half, you would see an open, adventurous young man, almost beautiful. The other half, though, would shock and frighten you: a dead eye and a tragic mouth, hopelessness spread over the cheek like acne.

I only really felt like myself when I turned out the lights. At that moment, electric sparks from the trams that clattered on the streets five stories below would rotate across the walls in phosphorescent blue and green stripes. I suddenly became aware of the din of traffic, and of my loneliness, and of the endless sadness that was my life. When I clicked off the light switch behind the wardrobe, the room turned into a pale aquarium. I moved like an old fish around the pieces of putrid furniture that stank like the residue of a ravine. I crossed the jute rug, stiff under my feet, toward the cabinet in the bedstead, where I sat down again and put my feet on the radiator, and Bucharest exploded outside the lunar blue glass. The city was a nocturnal triptych, shining like glass, endless, inexhaustible. Below, I could see a part of the street where there were light poles like metal crosses that held tram lines and rosy light bulbs, poles that in winter nights attracted wave after wave of snowfall, furious or gentle, sparse like in cartoons or thick like fur. During the summer, for fun, I imagined a crucified body with a crown of thorns on every pole in that endless line. The bodies were bony and long-haired, with wet towels tied around their hips. Their tearful eyes followed the wash of cars over stony streets. Two or three children, out late for some reason, would stop to gaze at the nearest Christ, raising their triangular faces toward the moon.

Across the street were the state bakery, a few houses with small yards, a round tobacco kiosk, a shop that filled seltzer bottles, and a grocery. Possibly because the first time I ever crossed the street by myself was to buy bread, I dream most often about that building. In my dreams, it is no longer a dank hovel, always dark, where an old woman in a white coat kneads bread that looks and smells like a rat, but a space of mystery at the top of a staircase, long and difficult to climb. The weak light bulb, hanging from two bare wires, gains a mystical significance. The woman is now young and beautiful, and the stacks of bread racks are as high as a Cyclops. The woman herself towers tall. I count my coins in the chimerical light as they glitter in my palm, but then I lose track and start to cry, because I can’t tell if I have enough. Further up the street is Nenea Căţelu, a shabby and lazy old man, whose bare yard looks like a war zone, an empty lot filled with trash. He and his wife wander dazed here and there, in and out of their shack patched over with tarred cardboard, tripping over the skeletal dog who gave them their name. Looking toward Dinamo, I can see just the corner of the grocery store. Toward the circus grounds are the supermarket and newsstand. Here, in my dreams, the caves begin. I wander, holding a wire basket, through the shelves of sherbet and jam, napkins and sacks of sugar (some with little green or orange metal cans hidden inside, or so the kids say). I go through a swinging door into another area of the store, one that never existed, and I find myself outdoors, under the stars, with the basket of boxes and jars still in my hand. I’m behind the block, among mounds of crates made of broken boards, and in front of me is a white table where they sell cheese. But now there is not only one door, like in reality — here are ten doors in a row with windows between each one, brightly lit by the rooms of basement apartments. Through each window I can see a strange, very high bed, and in each bed a young girl is sleeping, her hair spilling over the pillow, her small breasts uncovered. In one of these dreams, I open the closest door and climb down a spiral staircase, which ends in a small alcove with an electric light. The staircase goes deep into the ground, and in the alcove, one of these girl-dolls is waiting for me, curly-haired and timid. Even though I am already a man when I have this dream, I am not meant to have Silvia, and all my excitement spends itself in woolen abstractions of words and gestures. We leave holding hands, we cross the snowy street, I see her blue hair in the lights of the pharmacy window and the restaurant named Hora, and then we both wait for the tram while a snowfall covers our faces. The tram comes, without walls, just the chassis and a few wooden chairs, and Silvia gets on and is lost to a part of the city that I found only later, in other dreams.

Behind this first row of buildings were others, and above them, stars. There was a massive house with red shutters, and a pink house that looked like a small castle. There were short apartment blocks braided with ivy, built between the wars, that had round windows with square panes, Jugendstil ornaments on the stairways, and grotesque towers. Everything was lost in the blackened leaves of poplars and beech trees, which made the sky seem deeper and darker toward the stars. In the lit windows, a life unrolled that I glimpsed only in fragments: a woman ironing, a man on the third floor in a white shirt wandering aimlessly, two women sitting in chairs and talking nonstop. Only three or four windows presented items of interest.

In my nights of erotic fever, I would sit in the dark at my window until every light was out and there was nothing to see, hoping to glimpse those uncovered breasts and cheeks and pubic triangles, those men tumbling women into bed or leading them to the window and taking them from behind. Often the drapes were drawn, and then I strove, squinting, to interpret the abstract and fragmentary movements that flashed in the wedge of unobstructed light. I would see hips and calves in everything, until I made myself dizzy and my sex dripped in my pajamas. Only then did I go to bed, to dream that I entered those foreign rooms and took part in the complicated erotic maneuvers in their depths …

Beyond this second row of buildings, the city stretched to the horizon, covering half of the window with a more and more miniscule, jumbled, blurry, haphazard mixture of the vegetable and the architectural, with steeples of trees shooting up here and there and strange cupolas arcing among the clouds. I could just make out the zigzagging shadow of the mall on Victoria (once, when I was a child, my mother showed it to me, against a post-storm sky), and some other tall buildings downtown, decades old and built like ziggurats, laden with pink, green and blue fluorescent billboards that blinked on and off in different rhythms. Further on, there was only the ever-greater density of stars at the horizon, which, way far-off, became a blade of tarnished gold. Held like a gemstone in the ring of stars, nocturnal Bucharest filled my window, pouring inside and reaching into my body and my mind so deeply that even as a young man I imagined that I was a mélange of flesh, stone, cephalo-spinal fluid, I-beams and urine, supported by vertebrae and concrete posts, animated by statues and obsessions, and digested through intestines and steam pipes, making the city and me a single being.

The truth is, while I sat all night on the bedstead with my feet on the radiator, not only did I watch the city, but it too spied on me, it too dreamed me, it too became excited, because it was only a substitute for my yellow phantom that stared back from the window when the light was on. I was over twenty years old before this impression left me. By then, they had laid the foundations of the building facing ours, they had decided to widen the street, repave it, demolish the bread factory, the seltzer shop, and the kiosks, and put a wall of apartment buildings, taller than ours, alongside it. The winter was windy, the sky white and clear after a heavy snow. I looked out the window only once in a while. A bulldozer knocked down, with its toothed cup, the building where a fulsome woman had lived, who had never shown herself to me naked. The interior of her rooms was bare and more visible now as ruins, and more sentimental covered in snow. Bucharest was losing a kidney, was having a gland removed, maybe a vital one. Maybe under the skin of the city, like under a wound, there really were caves, and maybe this libidinous housewife who (out of spite?) never showed herself to me naked was somehow a center, a matrix of this underground life. Now the city’s gums crumbled like plaster. Soon, that side of the street looked like a mouth of ruined teeth, with yellowed stumps and gaps and rotting metal caps. The snow smelled wonderful when I opened the thin, wet window and put my buzz-cut head outside, freezing my neck and ears and watching the vapors puff out of the room — but beyond its clear, clean smell of clothes frozen on the line, I could sense the stench of destruction. And if it was true that the cerebral hemispheres developed out of the ancient olfactory bulb, then the stench, the metaphysical drunken breath, the smell of the armpits of time, the dishrag acridity of approaching ecstasy, the air of watercress insanity are, possibly, our most profound thoughts.

In spring, the foundations were excavated, sewer pipes spread like scabies through clay, pink and black cables unrolled from enormous wooden spools, each taller than a person, and concrete skeletons rose up, obscuring one strip of Bucharest after another, choking off the rustling vegetation and blocking up the entryways, gargoyles, cupolas, and stacked terraces of the city. The disorderly and unsteady forms of wood and cast iron, the scaffolds that the workers climbed, the cement mixers that emitted waves of smoke, and the piles of new concrete electrical poles to replace the rusted metal crucifixes all looked like the visible parts of a conspiracy, meant to separate me from Bucharest, and from myself, from my fifteen years spent sitting on the bedstead with my feet on the radiator, pulling the curtain back and watching the vast skies of the city. A section of my mind closes, a wall goes up, and the wall keeps me from accessing all I projected into every cube and square — the black-green and the yellow-green, the moon, thin as a fingernail, reflecting in all of the windows.

When I was seven or eight, my parents made me take a nap every afternoon. The dresser faced the bed, and I would watch my reflection shine on its surface, minute after minute, a child with dark eyes sweating under his sheet and unable to sleep even for a second. When the sun reflecting in the veneer began to blind me, making me see purple spots, I turned my face to the wall to follow every little rust-colored blossom and leaf in the pattern on the upholstered side of the bedstead cabinet. In this floral labyrinth, I discovered little symmetries, unexpected patterns, animal heads and men’s silhouettes, and with these I created stories I meant to continue in my dreams. But sleep never came, there was too much light, and one October, precisely this white light convinced me to play with fire: I listened first for any sounds from my parents’ room, and then I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. The image of the city was dusty and far away. The street curved off toward the left, so I could see the apartments on our side, toward Lezeanu and Obor. In the distance, I could see the old fire watchtower, and behind it, a city heating plant with its parabolic tubes ejecting petrified smoke. The trees appeared straight, or like Gothic arches, but the closest ones betrayed their provenance: the branches filled with trembling, sprouting leaves were not straight but twisted like an unfastened braid. I leaned my forehead against the window and, dizzy with insomnia, waited for five o’clock, but time seemed to have stopped flowing, and the terrifying image of my father bursting through the door — his dark hair knotted in a stocking on top of his head like a fez and falling in a thick line as black as a crow’s tail — kept coming into my head.

Once, during these minutes stolen from obligatory sleep, I contemplated the most beautiful scene in the world. It was after a summer storm, with lightning branching through the suddenly dark sky, so dark that I would not have been able to say if it was darker in my room or outside, with gusts of rain, rapid parallel streams surrounded by a mist of fine drops lazily bouncing in every direction. When the rain stopped, daylight appeared between the black sky and the wet, gray city, as if two infinitely gentle hands were protecting the yellow, fresh, transparent light that lay across these surfaces, coloring them saffron and orange, and turning the air golden, making it shine like a prism. Slowly the clouds broke apart, and other stripes of the same rarified gold fell obliquely, crossing the initial light, making it clearer and cooler and even more intense. Spread over the hills, the Metropolitan towers the color of mercury, all the windows burning like a salt flame and crowned with a rainbow, Bucharest painted itself onto my triptych window, the sash of which my collarbone just touched.

My illumination would be scraped off, and above it, in neat, compact letters, a command would be written, as heavy as a curtain. But today, at the midpoint of my life’s arc, when I have read every book, even those tattooed on the moon and on my skin, even those written with the tip of a needle on the corners of my eyes, when I have seen enough and had enough, when I have systematically dismantled my five senses, when I have loved and hated, when I have raised immortal monuments in copper, when my ears have grown long awaiting our little God, without understanding for a long time that I am just a mite burrowing my trails through his skin of old light, when angels have populated my head like spiro bacteria, when all the sweetness of the world has been consumed and when April and May and June are gone — today, when my skin flakes beneath my ring like thousands of layers of onion paper, today, this vivacious and absurd today, I try to put my disorder into thought. I try to read the runes of windows and apartment balconies full of wet laundry, the apartments across the street that broke my life in two, just like the nautilus that walls over each outgrown compartment and moves into a larger one, inching through the ivory spiral that forms the summary of its life. But this text is not human and I cannot understand it anymore. What remains inside — my birth, my childhood, my adolescence — seeps through the pores of the enormous wall in long enigmatic strands, deformed, anamorphic and foreshortened, nebulized and diffracted, numberless, through which I can reach the small room where I sometimes return. Pearl over pearl over pearl, blue over blue over blue, every age and every house where I have lived (unless it was all a hallucination of nothingness) filters everything that came before, combining it all, making the bands of my life narrower and more heterogeneous. You do not describe the past by writing about old things, but by writing about the haze that exists between yourself and the past. I write about the way my present brain wraps around my brains of smaller and smaller crania, of bones and cartilage and membranes … the tension and discord between my present mind and my mind a moment ago, my mind ten years ago … their interactions as they mix with each other’s images and emotions. There’s so much necrophilia in memory! So much fascination for ruin and rot! It’s like being a forensic pathologist, peering at liquefied organs!

To conceive of myself at different ages, with so many previous lives completed, is like talking about a long, uninterrupted line of dead bodies, a tunnel of bodies dying one into the next. A moment ago, the body who was here writing the words “dying one into the next,” with his face reflected in the dark pool of a coffee cup, fell off his stool. His skin crumbled away revealing the bones of his face, and his eyes rolled out, weeping black blood. A moment from now, the one who will write “who will write” will be the next to fall into the dust of the one before. How can you enter this mausoleum? And why would you? And what mask of tiffany, what surgical glove, will protect you from the infection emanating from memory?

Years later, while reading poetry or listening to music, I would feel ecstasy, the abrupt and focused clot in the brain, the sudden surge of a volatile and vesicant liquid, the windowpane suddenly opening, not onto anything outside myself but into someplace surrounded by brains, something profound and unbearable, a welling-up of beatitude. I had access, I had gained access to the forbidden room, through poetry or music (or a single thought, or an image that appeared in my mind, or — much later, coming home from high school by myself, stomping in puddles along the streetcar tracks — a window glint, the scent of a woman). I entered the epithalamium, I steeped myself in the amygdalae, I curled up in the abstract extension of the gold ring in the center of the mind. The revelation was like a cry of silent happiness. It was nothing like an orgasm except in epileptic brutality, but it expressed tranquility, love, submission, surrender, and adoration. These were breakthroughs, ruptures leading to the cistern of living light from the depths of the depths of our being, rendings swirling in the interior limit of thought, turning it into a starry heaven, since we all have this starry heaven in the skull and, over it, our consciousness. Often, though, this interior ejaculation would not reach its consummation but stop in the antechamber, and the antechambers of antechambers, where it stirred flickering images that were snuffed out in a second, leaving behind regret and nostalgia that would follow me for the rest of the day. Poems, these illumination machines, debauched me. I used them like drugs, until it was impossible for me to live without them. I’d started, sometime before, to write poems too. Among so many graceful lines, enchanted and aggressive, I would find myself stringing together, for no reason, passages of nonsense that seemed dictated by some other being. When I re-read them, they terrified me like a prophecy come true. In these I spoke about my mother, God, childhood, just as if, in the course of a conversation over a beer, I had suddenly started to speak in tongues, with the thin voice of a child, a castrato, or an angel. My mother would appear in my poems walking down Ştefan cel Mare, taller than the apartment buildings, kicking over the trucks and streetcars, crushing the sheet-metal kiosks beneath her enormous heels, sweeping up passersby in her cheap skirts. She would stop in front of the triple window of my room, crouch down and look inside. Her enormous blue eye and frowning brow filled the window, and filled me with terror. Then she would stand and set off westward, her wiry, phosphorescent hair destroying postal airplanes and satellites in the sky full of blood … What was going on with this mythologizing of my mother? Nothing had ever made me feel close to her, nothing in her interested me. She was the woman who washed my clothes, fried potatoes for me, and made me go to my university classes even when I wanted to skip. She was Mamma, a neutral being who looked neutral, who lived a modest life full of chores, and who lived in our house, where I was always a stranger. What accounted for this dearth of feeling in our family? My father was always traveling, and when he came home, red-faced, stinking of sweat, he would tie his hair, thick as a horse’s tail, on top of his head with pantyhose, with the top sagging open, a dark foot hanging between his shoulder blades. My mother would make him dinner and watch television with him, pointing out the cute folk music singers or variety show actors, gossiping about them endlessly. I’d eat quickly and retreat to the room facing the street (the other two rooms gave onto the back of the building, toward the melancholy red-brick Dîmboviţa flour mill) to watch the polyhedral drone of Bucharest in the window, or to write disconnected poems in graph paper notebooks, or to curl up under the blanket, pulling it over my head as though I could not stand the humiliation and shame of being an adolescent … We were, my family, three insects, each only interested in our own chemical trails, occasionally touching antennae and moving on. “How did you do at school today?” “Fine.” “Your Dinamo got creamed, on their own turf.” “So what, I’m doing okay with Polytech.” And then into the shell, to write more lines from nowhere:

mother, the power of dreams was your gift to me

I would spend nights entire with you eye to eye

and hand in hand I would believe I was beginning to know.

and your heart would beat again for both of us

and between our crania translucent as the shells of shrimp

an imaginary umbilical cord would emerge

and hypnosis and levitation and telepathy and love

would be the different colors of the flowers in our arms.

together

we would play an eternal game of cards with two sides:

life, death

while the clouds would flash in the fall of day, far off.

2

I FOUND myself looking through my family’s small archive, housed in an old purse my mother had since before she was married, a shoulder bag, garnet-colored, its imitation leather almost completely worn through. It was lined with a cheap silk, somewhat stained. In the bag’s pocket, I found two watches, so old they had a blackish salt on their faces, and the backs of their cases were tarnished green. The watch-bands had been lost long ago. Aside from the watches, there were some fuses, a vacuum tube from an old radio, and other little things I had played with as a child. Folded inside a yellowed piece of paper were two braids of blond-gray hair, tied with elastics — my own hair, from when my family, as Mamma told me the story, would put me in dresses and aprons and call me (they and all our neighbors) Mircica. The hair was soft and always gave me a chill, because it was so tangible, it was like that three-year-old boy had lived a life parallel to mine, like he might come through the door at any moment. At the bottom of the bag there were documents and receipts, rental contracts, warranties, stamped and embossed, and also yellow, sharp-smelling old pills from old doctors, faded pictures with zigzagged and torn edges, with dates and short descriptions in permanent marker, written in an awkward and misshapen hand, coins no longer used, a small baptismal cross, a white flower from somebody’s wedding … I poured the bag onto my bed and went through the contents, without knowing what I wanted to find. I came across rolls of film, developed and wrapped in paper. I held them up against the light to see scenes of family, framed the long way or the short, everyone with black faces and white hair, white suits and black shirts, black dresses with white flowers and white dresses with black flowers. The three or so pictures from when I was small were well known: the one in a yard, near Silistra, in a little knit-cotton suit and boots, with curls and cowlicks, with one hand on a globe pedestal and the other moving toward my eyes. I was eighteen months old and sniffling. You could see the wall of a house from the edge of town, with geraniums in the window, and the yard paved with gravel. Then, the picture of me on a motorcycle with a sidecar, at a fair — me chunky and scared, in short sleeves — next to a thread-worn stuffed bear, not much taller than I was. In this last one, however, no one was sure it was me. It might as well have been my cousin, Marian, my aunt Sica’s kid. The image, a bit small, had faded into a dirty sepia. Three more pictures, from times immemorial, were mixed in with documents, discharge papers, and medals with chipped enamel. There was the typical picture of my parents, retouched so often that it was hard to say what the couple actually looked like: him with hair as black as an ink stain, slicked back, with an expression so stern you’d think he was facing a firing squad, wearing a black wool suit that seemed like part of the background, and her in a wedding gown, with an unrecognizable face (it could be anyone from the movies of the time), and on one side, holding the monstrous wedding candles, an unnaturally fat bridesmaid, her legs touched by elephantiasis, and a bald groomsman with a mustache like Groucho Marx. The second photo was, actually, the first chronologically. It was my mother and father in the spa town where they met. Here, she is beautiful, with high cheekbones, chestnut hair in curls, shining eyes: a young worker who moved to the city with no future plans. He is almost a boy, not much more than twenty, and he looks like me. He’s wearing sweats and military boots. It is snowing lightly on their bare heads, while they lean against the railing of a bridge. Two people cross the bridge, wearing berets. It’s 1955, and the winter is much gentler than the one before. Some wandering photographer, maybe a former factory owner, or perhaps he had been a photographer under the previous regime too, shivered on the bridge, waiting for customers, and my parents — who at the time just barely belonged to each other — let themselves be immortalized, out of timidity, in the sad splendor of their youth. The last picture was carefully cut in half, not with scissors, but by folding it over and over. The film coating had cracked first, so the porous paper could be torn relatively accurately. What was left was an image of my father holding me in his arms, around when I was two and wore the famous blond braids. Still, I’m not wearing a dress but a pair of flowery “Spielhosen.” My dad is smiling, square-jawed, with penetrating eyes, down the camera lens, while I am laughing at someone to my left, in the missing part of the picture. You can just see a woman’s bare elbow.

The inside of the handbag, where I had looked before, but not with the interest I now had, smelled like the watches’ old copper and tarnish. The last thing I saw, because they were well hidden in the bag’s dusty folds, were my mother’s dentures, which she never used and hid there like they were shameful, nothing to talk about. When I first found them, I felt the same nausea and discomfort that I’d felt once before, in the depths of my childhood. It happened during the first year that I could cross the street by myself — for some bread, an issue of The Reckless Club, or to get my dad some cigarettes. In the silent summer evenings, I would reach a building that is not there anymore, go into the tobacco store, and look with trepidation at the cashier, a heavily made-up and fat woman with pink hair, surrounded by magazines and newspapers. Outside it was getting darker, and only here, in the little room with a window, was the light intense and still. I looked through the glass counter at all the packs of cigarettes, pipe tobacco, pistol-shaped tin lighters, and pocket knives that looked like lead fish … Next to them were other little trinkets. To me, the most beautiful things were the boxes of lacquered cardboard, with pictures of blue and gold tropical butterflies, and on the right a sticker where something was written in black ink. The word was long and fascinating: prophylactic. What could it have inside? I would often sit in the silence of my room, fidgeting with a toy, a tin laurel tree with a plastic fairy coming out, and wondering what strange, exotic plaything could be inside the butterfly box. Sometimes I imagined it could be in fact a butterfly, with a body like a bow string and wings of the same crinkly paper as fancy candy wrappers. Or a scented, chewy gum, with a little red stone set in the gelatinous middle.

My plan was to wait until the next time my parents and I walked to the Volga Theater to see a movie, and ask them to buy me a prophylactic. It was only three lei. If it came to it, I could get the money myself, from around the house, in five, ten or fifteen bani coins, until I had enough. I started getting the money together, and I imagined the pink-haired cashier would give me a maternal smile and put the box I wanted in my hand (I even knew which one I wanted: the one in the case, where the butterfly fluttered against a bright green background) … One evening on the way to the theater, I saw some Chinese boxes in another tobacco store, and I got up the courage to ask: “Daddy, what’s a prophylactic?” My father frowned and said harshly, “You couldn’t think of anything better to ask?” I was walking between my mother and my father with quick steps, and they went quiet for a few minutes, trading glances. I knew from my father’s tone that I had hit one of those closed doors, those places that your parents, however much they love you, will never let you enter. I could feel their breathing, their mysterious, adult lives, those incomprehensible prohibitions regarding the birth of children and the small and underdeveloped members between the legs and the way Mamma was tumbled onto the bed by my dad in the bedroom, when she cried out and I tried to save her, pounding the spine of a prickly and bestial man. After the unfortunate question, I felt a kind of horror, a feeling I re-encountered when I opened the yellowed packet that held my mother’s dentures. They were upper teeth, from the front, dirty-white with a little blue, made of cheap plastic, stuck into artificial gums. The gums were a color of red that would never be found in the membrane of an actual mouth. They had a special shade, as though their plastic had come from other dentures, old ones melted down and reused: a purple, a barely breathing mauve in the dominant red. A few wire stubs, poking out here and there, added to the fascinating repulsion I felt toward the object in my hand.

I had bad teeth from my mother, prone to cavities and rotting, and chipping. While chewing, I would sometimes feel, on my tongue, an unmistakable piece of molar: shiny as a mirror on one side, rough and hard on the other. From her I had unimaginable toothaches that would make me run through the house, knocking chairs over and pulling on the drapes. But I could tell that it wasn’t dread of my own teeth’s foreseeable future that disturbed me when I saw the hideous curve of those gums. It was their color. There was something in particular about that tinge that reminded me of something I had seen before, something I had once known, but could not bring back to mind. For a few days, I carried my mother’s gums and teeth in my pocket everywhere I walked. I fiddled with them obsessively on my route past Cantemir High on Toamnei Street and Profetului Street, I went down Galaţi in the roar of tram number five, I wandered through ruins around Lizeanu. Twilight came, and the dusty snow on the sidewalks timidly reflected the pink sky. An old woman at a window sucked spasmodically at a child’s candy ring. I saw a cat with eyes that I would know later from Gina. A woman stopped, looked around, and hiked up her stockings, pinching them through her parka and skirt. I was waiting, as I wandered among stores and children’s carts, for the moment when the twilight would turn exactly the same color as my mother’s gums, and suddenly it did. I was on Domniţa Ruxandra Street, where a small piaţa opened, dreamlike, lined with courtyards with colored globes on trellises, and there was an apartment block, almost alive, yellow and thin as a scalpel, with a vertical strip of matte glass over the entrance. The glass glowed in the twilight, and its flame inverted the branching art nouveau ironwork, black and warm as night. The snow lit the piaţa strangely with a white light from below, as though from underground, melting quickly in the morbid rose of nightfall. The silent block made me feel shaken and faint, like a blade plunged into asphalt and broken off. I stood in the middle of the piaţa, like a statue of a sad hero, and from my pocket I took the paper thin with age and unwrapped the hideous object. I raised the dentures over my head, and the teeth began to glitter, yellow like a salt flame, while the gums disappeared, melting into the matching color of evening.

“Ah, Mamma,” I whispered in the crazed silence. I stared at the dentures for a few more minutes in the darkening light, until the dusk turned as scarlet as blood in veins, and the dental appliance began to glow with an interior light, as though a gentle fluorescent gas had filled the curved rubber gums. And then my mother formed, like a phantom, around her dentures. First there was her skeleton, as transparent as bloodworms or a green x-ray, velvet and delicate. Then her skull with the wide, dark stains of her eyes and the small stains of her sinuses, her thoracic cavity, the translucent butterfly of the iliac crest, the gelatinous tubes of her hands, feet, toes, and fingers. Over them, like a light snow, like the veiled fins of an exotic fish, grew my mother’s spectral flesh, a large naked woman with sagging breasts, yet beautiful and young like in photos, with her liquid hair dissolving into the night. She turned toward the livid block, and I held my hand over her lips, as though to stop her from saying something, or from singing. The crown of my head barely reached her nipples. Together, in the descending darkness, we formed an enigmatic statue, holding still for no one. I came back to myself with the dentures in my hand and a sense of frustration, the feeling that I had been very close to something important and serious. I wrapped them up again in the paper and waited, dazed, in the piaţa’s whirling silence.

And suddenly it started to snow. In the sweet light of the lone bulb on the square, hanging, lonesome and violet, from a post, the flakes fell quickly, then slowly, white entering the diffuse ball of light, almost-black passing the center, then white again toward the ground. I felt the snowflakes’ invisible touch on my lips and eyelids, when two or three of the windows in the nearby middle-class houses lit up. Through the colorless air, speckled with the wet ice of the snowflakes, I moved toward the apartment block, a black iceberg rising into the foggy sky. I entered through the side gate, which was guarded by gas meters like two chimerical beasts. I went down a few steps to the garden level. In the whole hallway, painted green, one yellow bulb burned as weakly as a candle. Along the ceiling of the corridor, which twisted unpredictably, ran a pipe, its iron bandaged in places with red putty and hemp. Small rooms, with doors that looked as thin as cardboard, lined the walls on the left and right. At the sound of my footsteps, a door would open to reveal narrow and muggy spaces — a man in his underwear, a woman in a housedress drinking coffee from a chipped cup, an old woman with her headscarf hanging off the back of a chair, revealing two braids of graying hair that hung to her heels … I crept to the stairway that led to the next floor and beyond, and climbed. Each floor was a different color of desolation. There were black doors like in a morgue, enamel plates, much bigger than they had to be, with the apartment numbers; brass, metallic-smelling peepholes, wilted fichus and dank jute rugs. On the top floor there were no doors — only bare walls, with greenish skin, under a weak bulb. A few metal steps led toward the roof exit. Miniscule, quick snowflakes fell inside and melted on the mosaic of the floor. I went out onto the roof and was stunned. A nation of melancholy stretched out before me. It was not possible that I was still on the roof of the yellow block from the piaţa. I was on the peak of a gigantic construction, where at last I recognized one of the old blocks downtown, surrounded by copper cupolas like monstrous breasts. As far as my eyes could reach, Bucharest, like a glass model filled with blood, stretched out its fantasy of roofs: enormous eggs, medieval towers, the spirals of the Metropolitan, the CEC’s crystal stomach, the spheres on top of the Negoiu Hotel and the ASE buildings, the twisted mushrooms of the Russian church, the Telephone Palace iceberg riddled with parabolic antennae, like the iron-braced leg of a child with polio, the phallus of the old fire watchtower, all of it populated with statues of gorgons and Atlases and cherubs and Agriculture and Industry and all the Virtues and Seneca and Kogălniceanu and Bălcescu and Rosetti and Vasile Lascăr, a universe of contorted limestone and gypsum and bronze, covered with snow.

I was standing just beside the sad face of a stone woman, a winged woman five times my height. A quarter of Bucharest was filled with her stone feathers. The cupolas had scales, like moon-creature eggs. All the flora, fauna, and demonology of this sight fluttered in petrifaction, black with pinkish flashes against the low, off-white sky. In the face of the statue I leaned against, I recognized my mother. When, in the silence of a winter night broken by lonely buses, one of the eggs in the limestone garland on my roof cracked dryly open and a translucent fetus, as big as a dog, wiggled out, twitching its wet and eyeless head, and when the jugular vein in the statue of my mother began to pulse, I ran toward the opening where I’d emerged and rushed down about ten floors before coming to one I recognized. I was in front of the familiar door of my parents’ apartment, on Ştefan cel Mare, where I had left a few hours before. My father opened the door. I took off my boots and my snow-wet hat and scarf, and took refuge, as usual, in my room. I took the packet from my pocket and returned it to the bottom of the bag, beside the documents. I hid the bag again behind some linens. I stripped down in front of the mirror. What a strange animal I was! My triangular head, like a snake’s, was transformed now by the terror of statues and cupolas that still reflected in my eyes. My heart was almost visible in the network of blue veins in the skin of my narrow torso. Between my thighs, my sex, already thick from the erections of so many painful nights, veered from childish pink toward dark brown. The hair on my thighs was growing thicker. I turned my back to the mirror and looked over my shoulder. My vertebrae rose like little white hills beneath my skin. On my back, as far as I could see, the triangles of my shoulder blades were so apparent that they looked like two thin discs, one on top of the other. My buttocks were round and heavy, like a girl’s, and the space between them was dark with hair, like a thick line of ink. I was obviously an animal, a fragile mechanism of organic material. I could not understand how I was able to make my skin and muscles move. I focused all the powers of my spirit on my fingers and commanded, “Move!” Nothing happened. It was like I had told a glass to slide across the table. How could I put one foot in front of the other? How could my pancreas and pituitary gland secrete their juices? How could sperm be born in my testicles and sounds in my ear canal? I passed my hands over my entire body and still did not understand how I could be just this assemblage of bones, cartilage, and skin and nothing more. I stuck out my tongue as far as it would go. I made wild movements with my hands. I pretended to be catatonic, trying to imagine how I looked from outside myself, from a meter away. Or I would wonder what it would have been like to not be born a person, but a bug or a plant, to live without realizing I was alive … After I got tired, I put on my pajamas and sat at the window, on the bedstead, to watch how the snow fell on the street. The sharp elements of the heater burned the soles of my feet.

3

AFTER evenings like this, which had become the atmosphere of my lonely and frustrated life, after my mole-like wanderings along the continuum of reality-hallucination-dream, an inextricable triple empire, I would fall onto my bed and take a book at random from the pile on the floor, beside the bedstead. I would read almost all night. Books came at the right moment, mysteriously, as though they were pieces of a puzzle, of an image that was clear yet incomprehensible, incomplete, a kind of superbook at the threshold of books and my mind. I read deep into the night, the silence ringing ever louder, and sometimes a bug would buzz into the lampshades, burning itself on the hot light bulb. A truck would shake the windows. I began to blink more and more, faster with the right eyelid, more reluctantly with the left. I remembered nights when I would have to press my eyelid closed with my fingers to fall asleep, and days when only half of my face would laugh, while the other half stayed sullen and sinister. Now, when I blinked quickly, the orbicularis muscle of my mouth twitched and bothered me, and when I was tired, a cold sweat spouted from the pores of my left cheek. I tried looking at the image of the room with a single eye. With my right eye, the room looked bright, and the colors shone obediently one beside the next. My left eye, however, saw a strange greenish cavern, where wet forms oscillated like the skin of an underwater animal. By the end of the night the books’ meanings would completely evaporate, and I would be in the embrace of their thin pages, their incomprehensible cabalistic signs, and the scent of their dusty paper, the most stimulating scent on the planet. My two cerebral hemispheres contracted with pleasure in their bone scrotum. Half asleep, I spied on the books with the passion of a voyeur. I would rip a page’s corner to see the threads of puffy texture, pick at the wound of a torn binding, or watch, for as long as half an hour, an insect crossing the enormous field, from its home in Dostoyevsky’s “The Double” or Everyman’s Physics.

From its miniscule black body, the insect projected six transparent legs, each with a dark spot at the end. If you concentrated, you could see that its antennae, also translucent, were constantly shaking. It patiently traversed the hills and valleys of cheap paper, buried itself in between the pages, and appeared in the yellow, glistening light again, without giving any thought to the complicated mental processes of Goliadkin or to the black letters, bigger than its own body, which encoded his insanities. Hard little barbs kept it anchored to the book, to the universe where it was born. You could blow as hard as you liked, but you wouldn’t knock it off. It would, though, stop for a moment to weather the hurricane, pressing its stomach to the thick mat of the paper, and then it would go on, with steady and satisfied steps. No one could take it from its homeland, where it appeared and where it would die, turning into a dry shell at the base of a page. It might bite, from time to time, into a black or white piece of woven fiber. It would stick its ovipositor into the dot on the “i” in Goliadkin and leave a cylindrical tube with a small embryo inside. It did not know that its world meant something, that it could be read — it experienced its world, and that was enough. Maybe Goliadkin, or I, whose eye like a billion suns approached, was this insect’s God, but its nervous ganglions barley managed to keep it alive. I was a God that had not created it and could not save it. I was eternally unknown and indescribable.

Then suddenly I would feel someone watching me. I would shiver all over, leap up and go to the window. I saw the stars scattered over the city. Someone, deep inside another night, of another kind, held my world and followed, with amusement, my progress over its twisting roads, blowing loneliness and evil from its mouth like tongues of black fire, and I hung on to my life, spreading sticky viscera over the page. What book might I be in? And what kind of mind would I need to understand it? And if I could, wouldn’t I be disappointed to find I was living inside a cheap, licentious little book, or a train schedule, or a coloring book for children, or an abject anonymous letter, or a roll of toilet paper?

I closed the book over this being, miniscule but just like me, a body full of organs like mine, cells whose protoplasm accomplished the same billion chemical maneuvers per second, and I turned out the light at exactly the moment dawn began to whiten the window. I curled up and pulled the blanket over my head, leaving just a narrow gap where I could breathe. That was how my mother slept, mummified in the fetal position, and that was how I had slept, too, for as long as I could remember. But I was always afraid to fall asleep. Where would my being be for so many hours? I might go somewhere I could not come back from, or I might return transformed into a horrible monster. The rupture of my self’s continuity made acid churn in my solar plexus. The idea seemed unbearable — that I dissolved, night after night, into a terrifying jungle, one that was inside me, but that was not me. What would I do, descending further and further into the catacombs of the imagination, if I penetrated its depths and found myself among horrific, blood- and sperm-splattered idols of archetypes, the instincts of hunger and thirst, the gag reflex? And what if I did penetrate this zone, what if I I sank into the somatic, what if I twisted around kidneys and vertebrae, suffocated by cells that were growing hair and nails, hugged by the peristalsis of my innards? Anything could happen: the mechanism that wakes you up could break, like on one spring morning, when I opened my eyes in a room flooded with light, fresh and full of life, and I realized I could not move. I was completely paralyzed. I tried to get up. I commanded my fingers to move. I didn’t know, I did not know how to do it anymore. The light dwindled to a few folds of the blanket, a piece of flowered fabric, a flash in the mirror. It lasted no more than a minute, and then my body returned to my possession, and the hypnologic rebellion was over.

4

IN THE end I would sink into sleep, wrapped in a cocoon of fraying dreams. I melted into sleep like sugar into water. I slid like a gear in the clutch of forgetting. I started awake, sometimes so violently that it seemed like everything inside me rattled. Other times, I fell in a nosedive like an old elevator plummeting down an endless well. Horrifying snouts and masks — torn cheeks, eyes hanging from their sockets, brains exposed — appeared for a second, then melted away with the howls of animals in agony. A timid voice whispered my name, very close to my ear. Slowly, a lather of word-images flooded my retinal screens, and someone composed stories and scenes from the aleatory marks, the way I would, from the stencils on the apartment wall or the tile on the bathroom floor. A chiromancer traced his finger, with a fat gold ring at its base, over the palm of my dream, interpreting and prophesying, slowly wading through the chaotic lines, then suddenly circling his nail around a mound of limpid skin, the glassy cover of thumping veins and arteries. Acrid delirium, a stew of colored threads, garbage swept into heaps — and unexpected, sweeping Altdorfer scenes, oceans and ships, blue mountains and amber beasts, battles where every button and lily on the banners and every freckle on the soldiers’ faces was visible, like under a blinding magnifying glass. Ivory castles, abstruse, with twisted columns and round windows like in Monsú Desiderio. Cells like Piranesi. Twilight collapsed over abandoned buildings, severe and singular — I circle around them in a slow flight, passing the mascarons below the roof, alternating with glowing windows, where “HARDMUTH” is written. In a night coagulated like blood, marble itself turns brown, its geometry emphasized by small, red stripes. These kinds of stripes and bands of evening light hem the acanthus leaves on immense capitals, stone snakes in gorgons’ hair, the nipples and pubic hair of living, rickety Atlases who hold up balconies. I pass, tiny as a flea, under immense porticos, into halls with beautiful mosaic floors, under cupolas high as the stars. I wander through sinuous labyrinths, leaving through crystal doors, to sink again into aphasia, misunderstanding, delirium, and dejection. Jungles with limpid springs, swamps with visions of eternal citadels: such was the cartography of my dreams. And in my dream life I remembered earlier dreams. I knew: I had been in that pink building before, the one that seemed made from a child’s blocks. I had already held a completely transparent spider, spread across my palm, heavy as a sphere of quartz, with only its emerald, pulsing sack of venom visible in its stomach. I had already squinted, blinded by the flame of sunrise, in one of the canals of this impossible Venice. Pipes ran between dreams, they were connected the way buildings in Bucharest were connected with each other, the way each of the days of my life, at a distance of years or months, or one night alone, was bound, by imperceptible threadlike tubes, to all of the others. But the catacombs, tubes, cables, wires, or passages were not all equally important. The dream highways would abruptly pour onto reality’s thoroughfares, making constellations and engrams that someone, from a great height, could read like a multicolored tattoo, and someone from a great depth could feel on his own skin, like the sadistic torture of tattooing. Sometimes I woke in the middle of the night with one hand completely numb, cold as a snake’s skin and strangely heavy, a soft object I could move only with my other hand. In my mind I saw it black and bruised, and I rubbed it, with the same incomprehension and terror I would have touching an anaconda on the mosaic of its back, in the absurd hope that somehow I would feel it become part of me. When I let it go, it fell back onto the pillow, and only when I pushed and pulled it did the cold skin find its power, the inert flesh begin to prickle, and I fill the numb glove again. Its lace of nerves, veins, lymph pathways and tubes of psychic energy came back to life, and soon my corporeal system was once more complete.

My dreams also pulled me into the past. For almost two years, before they built the apartments across the street, I often dreamed I was climbing mountain peaks to dizzying heights. Usually, inside the black rocks, thin as skyscrapers, there were stairs and places to live, but I preferred to scale their outsides, to grab stone after stone, always higher, until I reached the fog-covered summit. Then the crags and towers disappeared, and the dream took me through sunken spaces, wet with emotion, through buildings and rooms I recognized without knowing where they were, or when I had been there, or what had happened to me to now cause this hysterical sobbing, this fainting, and the inhuman sadness of living in these rooms. I dreamed of buildings at the bottom of cold, clear water, where I could breathe, but which resisted my advance. Through diffuse light, my hair fluttering in the currents, I moved toward massive ruins, toward blue and yellow walls thousands of meters deep, at the bottom of the water. Red crabs scuttled in the sand, and here and there a fish shuddered in front of a window. The façades were rotten and ruined. I penetrated through swollen doors crusted with snails, I penetrated interiors full of swirling water. How high the rooms were! They were eaten away with decay and melancholy. Embroidered tablecloths floated over the buffet, a sea urchin rose out of a red crystal cup, and coral grew on the worn marshes of carpet, infested with krill. An octopus nested in the toilet, and a glittering dust swirled in the sink. I explored every room, trying to determine where I was, how I knew the large radio with ivory knobs and a magic eye, the sewing machine with a pedal, corroded beyond recognition, the tapestry with two wool cats, framed with the flowering of a million flickering worms. Even the chairs, toppled and tumbled by the currents, seemed familiar. Yes, I had once sat between their legs that slanted toward the sky, I had rocked there, during yellow spring evenings. A loneliness no person can experience in real life, one that could break your bones like a wild animal, tore at my internal organs. The dream would end when I found, in the kitchen, seated at the feet of the old cooler, a large cadaver rocking in the currents. A woman devoured by salt covered the entire cement mosaic floor. Her dress had melted and tangled with seaweed, like paste, like a coffee-colored gelatin. The stove had crusted into her hip and her hair was stuck to a drape with butterfly ribbons. The great statue, wrapped in rags, was four or five meters tall.

I would awake shaken, frustrated like an amnesiac who cannot remember who he is. I tried to relive the vast, dead areas of my mind. A few cardboard buildings rose up in the petri dish of my thalamus, there between my hippocampus and my tonsils. Over them was the great aurora borealis of my cortex. I recapitulated: from birth to age two — on Silistra, a slum street in Colentina, from age two to three — the apartment in Floreasca, near a garage; from three to five — the house, still in Floreasca, but on a beautiful, quiet side street, named for an Italian composer. Then, on Ştefan cel Mare, in the tall building next to Miliţie. These were the forgotten compartments of my spiral shell, built by my mind, one after the other, like a line of ever-larger skulls, and left behind to decay like molars, down to the bloody rot of their roots. I knew that I had lived in those places. I retained some images, but no experiences, no emotions, nothing real. The three or four buildings were like the deformed teeth of my mother’s dentures, untouched by the nerves or irrigating threads of her veins and arteries. Plastic, cheap, stupid plastic. I imagined that their doors were only etched on the walls, that their interiors were full and massive, like fillings in praline candies, and that, therefore, everything was a crude, fairground imitation. But I searched around these edifices more and more stubbornly, because they still were my only landmarks. I tried to reconstitute my cerebral animal in their strange dance through time, touching the bumps of the buildings, the housing of its successive skulls, built from calcium spittle. Patiently, the flesh of my mind built rooms and roofs, scenes and deeds. Growing, it left them dry and empty like the yellowed skulls of dogs on fields, or like the clean, rubbery inside of a doll’s head.

5

UNUSUALLY for me, I started to linger at the table after eating, talking with Mamma, who was happy to remember one thing or another from the past. The table, with its torn plastic cloth, was laden with chipped and dirty plates, and with spoons and forks that, no one knows why, were larger than any others I had ever seen. Their metal, maybe plated, was twisted in strange ways: hunched spoons, forks with bent tongs, teaspoons as big as other people’s serving spoons, and a gigantic ladle. Mamma, silhouetted against the summer sky (where the tips of poplar trees rose, full of seed puffs and the crenellations of the Dâmboviţa mill), with her face thin like mine and her skin soft, spoke more for herself than for me, her attention inward, her voice mixing with the sound of doves and the scent of summer. I pushed a wasp into the honey and watched it writhe, heavy, a bubble of air between its jaws, while Mamma told old stories about her childhood in the country, with my grandparents “Mămica” and “Tătica,” who appeared in her dreams almost every night, about the family house, old and rotted, in Tântava, with all the rituals of Romanized Bulgarians, wrapped in the mystical incense of Orthodoxy and an ancient, un-Christian fear, talking about Christ and the Virgin and archangels without knowing the first thing about the Bible, singing their carols like petrified stories, with no clue who Herod was or the magi. As children, Mamma and the other girls her age had sent balls of eggshell-covered clay down the waters of the Argeş, the same river where today they cast kolaches with burning candles toward the souls of the dead. During droughts she had helped whip and then chop down the troiţe and icons, the vengeance of the village on a persecuting God. She had seen the Mother of God and Infant Son spit on and lashed by people who had knelt and kissed her since before they could remember, who now moaned like people in a trance: “Give us rain! Give us rain!” She had seen the gypsy girls led to the edge of the village and doused with trays and vials of water while they danced for rain, naked and black paparuda, hips already womanly, the udders of their breasts starting to fill, covering their blameless embarrassment, not yet hairy, with a few elderberry leaves. After the dance, they were given to the gypsy men, the bear keeper and the violin player, who took them into the forest and raped them in turns, so it would rain. The country people would swear that next the girls were given to the bear, who crushed their thin bones under arbors of raspberries. As a kid, nothing scared Mamma so much as the priest, because whenever one of the village kids cried, rocked on their mothers’ legs or in wooden cradles, they’d be told “the priest will cut off your tongue,” and here there must have been a memory housed not in the mind, but in the infants’ bodies, naked and snatched up brutally by the priest, his paw held over their noses and mouths as he dunked them three times in the icy fount. Bearded and vicious, in mystical vestments, the village priest ravaged the dreams of children sleeping with their heads on straw pillows. Mamma also remembered apocalyptic winters, with snow drifts up to the windows, and the blind furies of her father, who grabbed her one night by the hair and threw her — she would have been five or six — into the piles of snow, in the dark, wearing just her shirt. The terrified little girl had to sleep in the barn, pressed against a cow’s stomach, covered in straw and dung.

I was the same age when I went to Tântava for the first time. The roads were covered in snow. In the center of the village, wafts of ţuica brandy came from the bar. Peasants in shaggy wool coats dotted the snow here and there. If you got close to one of them, you could smell smoke and garlic. We went on our way and, after a long walk, came to my Tataie’s house. We opened the whitewashed gate and entered the yard, stopping between two quince trees. The demon-black dog clanged his chain dementedly, running back and forth, his body so thin you could see his ribs. For all his work, he’d get a dinner of corn meal mămăligă. Into the doorway came Tataie, showing no pleasure, old and fierce with a prickly white beard, his head white and almost completely shaved, with a stripe of darker hair in the middle. The house glowed white like an eggshell in the flames of smoldering dusk. I climbed onto the porch and entered through a thin, bright-red door with a four-paned window. I passed through the entryway, with its dirt floor and whitewashed stove and vents, which opened to the other room, and I entered a place that smelled of goat fur, the room where they sat during the day. The only light was the violet flame (it would change to yellow in an hour) that came in through the window, where the pear tree branches knocked, and reflected in the crooked mirror, high, near the beams. On the walls were cheap paper icons, strident, framed in black: St. George killing a gall-green dragon, the archangel Michael in medieval armor, a flag wrapped around his lance, God himself, in wide blue and yellow robes, holding open a book where something was written in red letters. Many times had I climbed onto the scratchy, quilt-covered beds to look up-close at all these creatures of a ghostly and multifarious world, at the angels’ wings, at the odd, melancholic Omega between the eyebrows of the Mother of God, at the venerable, blackish face, long locks, and white beard of an angry God … I went to the other wall, where, under the same washrags that my mother and her sister had sewn as girls, other images glowed under the pane, this time in strange pink frames of crushed glass. They were tan photos, yellow, sepia, ashen, almost totally faded, where country men and women stood rigid under hats and headscarves, with perhaps two weddings — my mother’s and Aunt Sica’s, pictures I knew from copies in the red bag — and a soldier with a long, old rifle, bayoneted, that was taller than he was. It was Tataie, Dumitru Badislav, the same man who was at that moment pouring hot ţuica into clay cups as small as a thimble. I flopped onto the bed, while the big people sat on three-legged stools by a round table and had a treat. The almost-dark evening, the smell of goat and peppered ţuica, the monotonous small talk, and Tataie’s quiet, wheezing voice all sounded like they came from another age and another world, everything strange and solemn, and it became more otherworldly when the gas lamp on the wall, with its glass and round reflector, was lit. The creatures of transparent wax, flickers and darkness, grave like the Last Supper, and the silence that could happen only in the country — they calmed me, stilled me, with my wide eyes alongside the square table, where the ancient radio and Tataie’s old glasses sat in a dusty still life. My mother’s sister, who puttered around the oven, brought in mămăligă, put it in the middle of a round table and then brought a platter with roast chicken, then another one, smaller, enameled and painted with flowers, with a white garlic sauce. It was a peace from another century, a small world, that belonged to one family, a world protected by winged and holy faces. A smell of clay and holiness filled the room that was now the center of the center of the world. We slept head-to-head in hard beds that were propped on stakes, we rolled into old sheepskin coats and slept heavily, and through the thin walls of our dreams we heard the snow falling. Curled up like a fetus in a belly of old wool and crackling straw, eaten by dozens and hundreds of fleas, I rested my head beside Tatie’s and dreamed his dreams. When a little owl spooked me and I opened my eyes in the dark, I clearly saw — blue, separate, fluttering — a halo of pure light around his spiky head, an intense nimbus like the flame of the stove burners where it emerged from his skull, rarified and yellow, then, a palm’s width to one side, it became perfectly circular, with a line of liquid diamond outlining it precisely, like a great, miraculous platter of rays, on which the old head would be placed. I felt in my sleep how, in this geyser of light, my own cranium became transparent, how the wrinkled hemispheres of my brain, wrapped in their skin, looked like the meat of walnuts yet unformed. The neurons under the pia mater, like spores bedded under asphalt, swelled here and there, growing hundreds of church spires under the sky of my skull, each one with a bell tolling for a funeral, until the pearly skin broke in hundreds of places and the neuron bells opened like wonders, like sea urchins on their peduncles, rocking and undulating in the solar wind of my Tataie’s halo. I then descended into a delirious Scythia.

6

A LINE of sleighs without bells, pulled by small, puffy-maned horses with hooves wrapped in strips of leather, led the entire Badislav Clan to salvation — their bold and hearty infants and women, their sacks of grain, hanks of lard-smothered pork, and the vestments, icons and stoles for the priest, who sat dressed like an ordinary peasant and lashed the mare’s shiny brown back while she plodded calmly between the reins in front of him. The mare whipped him on the cheek with her coarse, golden tail, flashing her pitch black birther between her haunches. There was no visible road ahead, only the field that led to the Danube and to escape, covered with a snow that reached the horses’ chests. Glades of thin, young trees with twigs petrified in the frozen air, as if painted with sepia, fell behind on one side and the other. Crows, like black leaves, hopped between trees, shaking snow from the boughs. A melted-gold sun pushed out transparent shadows behind the sleighs and drew thin trees onto the waves of snow, growing from the same roots as the vertical trees, but they stretched longer and seemed to have more branches. The seven sleighs were packed with all that remained of the village they had left, charred and smoking, its alleyways and cottages filled with dead bodies, picked at by wolves and vultures. In that year of terror, no Turks had devastated them, no gale of flame or Albanian warlords. If you had asked one of the Bulgarian women with a mantle of coins and a scarf pulled over her ugly face, her desperate and quivering eyes limpid as a goat’s, she might have winced and crossed herself, but she would not have answered you, because all of them wanted nothing more than to forget. In their sheepskin coats, the children huddled together at the bottom of the sleigh, some with a black puppy whose hips trembled as though possessed. They would only let themselves remember the isolated hamlet in a ravine in the Rhodope mountains, surrounded by basalt peaks, just a footpath through the rock, overlooking flowering fields and fertile gardens as far as you could see. The village was held together by complicated sets of relations — everyone was someone’s cousin or godparent, everyone lived in fear of God near the little church without a steeple in the village’s center. In summer, they bent over rows of tomatoes and green peppers, while the children took the cows to graze. They made endless dandelion chains or fought with beautifully carved and decorated staves. The sky above was brilliant like a flower opening its transparent-blue petals over the valley.

Next to the hamlet was a cemetery crowded with crosses, bent by time, inscribed in tremulous Cyrillic letters. The oldest stones were so laden with moss and pocked by lichen that they looked like deformed sponges, discarded onto the black earth, surrounded by crocuses and wild arum. In the incense-filled church, the priest prayed for the living and dead as often as possible, and tallow candles constantly burned, blackening the low ceiling like the bottom of a pot. Kolaches and coliva, rice with milk and smoked prunes were the food of the dead. They were sent down the thread of water called Bârzova Creek in little wooden boats loaded with candles at the proper liturgical times. The old people of the village passed into their dormition in God with slow songs in their ears, all through the night of vigil, describing the pilgrimage that awaited them: how they would have to befriend an otter to cross the black waters, a wolf to find their path through the thick forest, a golden weasel to guide them toward their family’s house, where they would embrace their mother and father, and they all would be pulled close to She who Gave Birth to God and to the Infant of Light.

That year, however, had been the year of the poppy. As early as the winter, the Badislavs’ bruised palms had held the tiny, ashen poppy seeds, unknown to them at the time, brought by a caravan that traveled the Balkans, thieving and reading the future in snail shells. While combing the fleas from their bears, the gypsies had told of a miraculous flower that made dreams, that quieted infants and kept them asleep like logs through the night, that widened a woman’s pupils and gave her the desire to mate. The seeds were good in aromatic pastries, kneaded with honey, and if you squeezed the saints’ milk from the pods, you went to heaven while you were still alive and you met angels in the clouds. For the seeds, for a little sack full of seeds, the gypsies asked for four beautiful fiddles that still smelled of pine sap, with sheep-gut strings, the craft of some of the villagers. Then the caravan left, all at once, melting into the air as though it had never been.

The poppy seeds, light as paper, stayed behind, and the Badislavs planted a full row of them in the black, buttery earth, between the zucchini and lettuce. In the depth of summer, the flowers opened their purple petals with black folds, like the tongues of hanged men, on stalks with pallid green-blue leaves, splashed with lime-white. After the petals withered and became one with the earth, the milky pods were left, releasing a stench so sweet that birds would not fly over the poisoned field, nor would beetles or locusts brave the pale stalks. Soon, the pods grew as big as babies’ heads and their seeds rattled inside. The women held scythes and walked through breast-high fields and spent the day cutting poppies, weak with laughter, since the pods reminded them of the hanging fruits of their men. They carried the pods in baskets to their front porches, and there in the twilight, still laughing, they wrung out the thick, spermy sap and spread the “gypsy seed,” as they called it in the end, to air on copper platters. After a few days the milk curdled. First it turned as hard as cheese, then as hard as rocks. It looked like a soapy chalk, a white-blue crust that the women pressed into pills and ground as fine as the dust of the road. They made kolaches and Turkish pastries, scattering the magic powder into the sweetness of jams and honey. They mixed it with wine and pear brandy, they put it in milk with mămăligă and cigarettes that they rolled themselves from dried corn husks. The entire village came together for an unforgettable festival, as though it were the middle of winter. They drank and told jokes until the poppy vapors went to everyone’s heads at once. From boys to old men, they all fell into a strange trance, for an angel of light showed itself to them, naked, with a woman’s breasts and a man’s shame, with golden hair in thousands of braids. And the angel said to them, “You are without sin. Be like your Adam and your Eve, because your sins have been forgiven.” And everyone, boys and girls, husbands and wives, took off their sheepskin coats and long shirts and began to mate together in a writhing pile among the dogs and children, mothers with sons, fathers with daughters, brothers with sisters, their pupils as big as their irises and clear, cold sweat dripping from their cheeks, and they didn’t stop until autumn appeared, first as mild as grape juice, then as bitter as black wine. Flickering gold and rust touched the hills, while in the valley, the village slowly fell apart and the cattle moaned with hunger. Smoking mahorka mixed with gypsy seeds, the women lay on benches, staring at the wood in the stove and ignoring everything else. The women gazed at their children and let them toddle off through the ravines. Then they went to the village, their faces and nipples painted, to find some hardy soul whose weight they had yet to feel. Feeling their way inside a dark barn full of straw bales and bugs with cross-marked backs sated in the center of their cobwebs, the women, who had married as virgins and never dared to raise their eyes from the ground in front of their men, now pulled their skirts up to their faces to exhibit their thick thighs and the hairy mounds between them, and they let themselves be mounted there, on sacks of grain, among bridles and reins rubbed with tallow.

Webs with tiny spider babies at one end filled the golden air, tangled in the tender curling grapevines and garden trellises, and were pushed toward the edge of the village, where the old cemetery sat in the sun like a toad in Brumaire’s last days. There, the arms of the crosses caught so many spider webs that soon the entire cemetery wore a silky lace. Below ground, in narrow pine houses, the dead were starving. For the past forty days, no one had come to the church to remember them. While the old priest wept among the icons like the captain of a leaky boat, for forty days no kolaches or coliva or rice with milk had come down from the living. Fearful they would die a second time, from hunger and oblivion, the dead began to stir, like a dangerous underground river. Chattering their powerful teeth, they began to break the shards of wood, spongy and full of cockchafer larvae, and they dug tunnels to each other like moles, to consult in twos or threes or, finally, all of them together, in their underground village, packed into an alcove whose walls ran with roots, where the urns above their skulls glowed like crystals. Three hundred dead, weak from the long fast, but animated with a fury only the departed can know, knocked their livid, moldy skulls and chafed their blackened clothes against each other. They held long, frenzied meetings, and stared at each other with gaping eye sockets full of worms. At the start of winter, at nightfall on the feast day of Saints Mina, Ermoghen, and Eugraf, a putrid, dry, and bare-toothed host broke a path toward the white world. There were the old dead with shanks as yellow as a cow’s, so addled they couldn’t keep track of their bones, who left knuckles and jaws behind in their ancient caskets. There were younger dead, still wrapped in long shifts, with vines of flesh as dry as pastrami on their faces and torsos, and dead women with the butterflies of their hips widened by births, and their ribcages wrapped in flesh like unbeaten hemp. There were dead children a few years old, overcome by skulls too heavy for their delicate cadavers. There were rotting dogs and cats raised up by the mania of the host they followed alongside. The poisoned air swirled overhead like green smoke, blowing toward the night’s first stars. Once they reached the houses, each went to his own people to begin the terrifying carnage, while dogs howled desperately in the courtyards. The ghouls poured through the doors and into bedrooms, where, under the eyes of women who thought they were dreaming, they pulled swaddled infants from their cribs and gleefully tore at their tender flesh, staining the clay floor with a thin layer of blood. They turned to the women, they mounted them on benches and penetrated them with their black, ithyphallic worms that hardened for the first time in ages. They cornered young men in barns, masterfully parrying desperate jabs from their pitchforks and finally grabbing them by their long braided hair, pulling off their hands and legs like they were bugs, and chomping their teeth into the nape of their necks and feeding down to the bone. Dying of fright, many villagers took the side of the undead, beating their own wives and children and then, with glassy eyes and shaking joints, going outside to slice the dog’s throat and drink its black blood. Large, wet snowflakes started to fall over the alleyways, melting into scarlet puddles. Corpses wandered at random from house to house, searching out the living. They felt for them under beds and pulled them out from behind stoves, unfazed by their screams, and then martyred them, impaling and flaying them, until late in the night, when it seemed like no one in the village was left alive. Then they set fire to the houses, and all fifty cottages began to smoke and stick out red tongues like the dragons in their icons. Only the small church in the middle of the village was black and silent, under its high, clay-tile roof with a silver fringe of snow. In front of the church, in the yard where the villagers would dance hora on Sundays, the dead gathered, one by one, filing in from the narrow streets. The sweet smell of the flesh of living, whole people wafted through the cracks in the old walls, and it made the people from under the earth hungry. The last surviving villagers were huddled in the holy site, where they knelt with clenched eyes and fingers, shaken from their purple-poppy inebriation, and prayed to the merciful Mother of God. The priest, meanwhile, the only one in the village who had never ceded to the dark flower, was preparing his tools of war, in which he put all his hope. He donned his high holy vestments, and put a silver chain around his neck, from which hung, covering his entire chest, an ebony cross inlaid with old, crooked mother-of-pearl. Arranged in front of him, taken from the church walls, were the icons that worked the greatest miracles. In a large pocket in the front of his robe, he had the glass box that held the church’s priceless treasure: the tooth of one of the two hundred adepts of the martyred Saint Nicon. In his right hand, the priest held the censer burning with incense, and in his left, the Gospels, opened to the page in which Christ the Lord drove demons from a passel of hogs. Each of the roughly forty Badislavs hung holy icons over their chests and wore an oily mark of myrrh on their foreheads.

Terrifically animated by the light of the flames, the rag and bone army deliberated. The clean skeletons, the oldest, waved limbs as long as a praying mantis’s through the falling snow. They disliked the pious murmurs inside, and the tang of incense. The fortress had to be destroyed, and everyone inside had to be sacrificed, all before the cock crowed. The accumulating snow, damp and crystalline, retreated in front of the creaky feet whose petrified toenails poked through ancient leather. The church door was nailed together with iron and had on its thick, cracked fur the marks of flintlocks and harquebuses, bloodstains, and carved Cyrillic letters, blasphemies poorly scratched in by some priest from long ago. The corpse of Baba Liubiţa, buried just a week ago, writhing with white, fat worms, moved toward the door and touched it with purple fingers. She shook her eyeless head and moved away. They would have to set it on fire, because the thick planks were as sturdy as a castle wall. The fiends came together and blew a venomous green flame from their lipless muzzles, their black tongues hanging like dogs’. The flame thrust at an ageless piece of wood, but only a few splinters caught fire and burned out almost instantly. They blew again, but the tarred oak did not light. The skeletons realized they could not triumph by themselves. They gathered, like the base of a fountain, around a circle of fire in the snow that the oldest one had lit with a torch. Their black, vacant eye sockets watched the earth inside the circle turn translucent, like deep, green water, and this water reddened, then turned more auburn, brown, black like tar, descending into the earth’s depths, where a few points and lights seemed to move. Hundreds of flitting spots, the color of crabs, appeared in the dark, crawling up the chain of light. Soon, leathery bat wings, pointed tails, hooked beaks, hunched chests, horns like a bull’s or goat’s or sheep’s or ram’s or horned viper’s or dragon’s emerged from a swamp that screamed like a woman giving birth or a man having his balls pulled off. They moved faster and faster, they swarmed like beetles, scaling the beams of light with claws and suckers, they spouted out of scaly hips, they chortled through toothy mouths in their bellies, they belched through wall-eyed, twisted faces wedged between their ass cheeks. They were demons. They sprang from the enchanted circle like the fabled coming of evil, filling the sky with wings and howls, filling the earth with squirts of venom and sperm, and filling the divine being with horror. Cricket-demons swarmed onto the church’s roof, they slid their saw-tails through the tiles and dropped long eggs inside, which burst into poisonous spiders with a hundred legs each. But the priest in his gold-threaded robes turned them to stone, dousing them with holy water. Demons tunneled through the earth and sprang up among the kneeling people, but the incense from the censer poured into their large nostrils and exploded their serpent-heads into a thousand splinters. Bat-demons grabbed up rocks, swooped over the roof and let them go. As soon as the angelic vibration of prayer reached them, however, the stones stopped in the air and opened like enormous buds, spreading fleshy petals, strangely beautiful, until the sky over the church was filled with multicolored flowers. Insane with rage, demons scuttled onto the walls, they scurried over the roof, scratching and scraping with their claws, until no part of the holy place could be seen under the wormy swarm, the demented tangle, the furious ravel of wings and antennae.

Then the heavy door swung open, and the forty villagers, in white long shirts, their faces and hands translucent red in the light of the candles they carried, came out holding onto each other tightly, led by the priest with a beard to his waist, frowning and determined like an icon of the Father. His powerful hands emerged from large sleeves to grip a cross as long as a league, which, like the cross on each person’s chest, sparkled like gold. Stronger still, scintillating like a diamond with millions of fires, the tooth of the martyr glowed in its glass box, tied now to a girl’s forehead. The light shone over the valley. It turned the surrounding cliffs as transparent as gemstones, and, with an ever greater power, it rose in a single column of greatness to the sky, shattering the clouds, moving the stars aside, and revealing the endlessly gentle majesty of the Trinity. And through the field of light, flurries of angels began to fall, ablaze with bows and quivers, long spears in their hands, their golden wire locks fluttering in descent. A cry of victory broke out from the Badislav chests.

Touching the ground with their feet, the transparent heralds built of ideas and crystal partook of the power of the earth. Thin threads of blood grew in their feet, spreading quickly through their bodies of light, becoming systems of veins and arteries, visible inside like those in the translucent bodies of shrimp. A porphyry blood colored their lips and cheeks, and enormous wings, like swans’ wings, attached themselves to the naves of their chests with triangular, powerful muscles. The courageous alate, in gold-plated armor, formed a phalanx and drove their spears forward into the brazen band of the dead. A few moments later, the terrible subterranean host had turned into a pile of tibiae, vertebrae, mandibles, skulls, and pelvises, yellowed like old wax, their venom still steaming toward the sky. The demons ran down the sides of the church like thick swamp water, leaving it stained with saliva and excrement, and like a pack of rabid wolves they threw themselves onto the phalanx of angels. For they knew them, each in part — these were the Faithful, the ones who had stayed with the Lord during the great rebellion, the ones made million in glory, while the others descended into the subdivine, sub-human, sub-animal, and wrapped in the spiral of blood of the eternally damned. Deep in the being of each demon, behind the scales, claws, and dragon wings, lived an angel in tears.

The battle intensified, quaking the little valley, as flakes of silver snowed. Protected by icons and crosses, wrapped in veils of incense, the villagers watched the melee with wide eyes, arm in arm, with their beards on end and their flesh quivering. The angels skewered the cacodemons with arrows of steel, glass, and light. They hacked them with double-edged swords, spilling black blood in the snow. They flew up and strangled the winged demons with their wide hands. Dragons and werewolves, locusts with human heads and humans with fly heads opened their snouts, muzzles, and beaks and vomited jets of fire at the celestial legion. Some angels, their wings in multicolored flames like fireworks, like birds of paradise, fell down onto a shack or into a leafless path. Like fat dogs with bared teeth, three or four devils would pounce on the heavenly heralds, nauseating them with the breath of their bowels, spraying them with urine from the impressive hoses between their legs, and covering them with murderous curses more venomous than the fire they blew from their mouths, for the devastating speech of blasphemy filled the heavenly minds with terrible pain. Wave after wave of monsters attacked the spiky rectangular phalanx wearing it away, plucking soldiers out and throwing them into the dark. At every assault, devils also fell, writhing, into the snow.

But then, when the snowfall slowed toward dawn, the angels began to sing. They threw down their dripping swords and their lances with snuffed flames. They took off their transparent armor and stood in long, white robes, rings of golden hair falling from their shoulders to their waists. Cheek by cheek, their blue eyes trained on the sky, the angels sang. They lifted their girlish voices toward God, gentle and fresh as saplings or the stalks of carnations. They offered the crystal filigree of the psalms into the cold, hard air. The people cried like children, clutching their icons against their chests. The hill of bones began to rumble, and the skeletons assembled themselves again — the skulls found their bodies, the femurs joined to hips, and as though grown from the yeast of the unearthly song, new and tender flesh touched the cold bones again, muscle was wrapped in skin, and soon, naked and young again, all of them thirty years old, the dead rose to their feet. Waving one last time to their living kin, the group of unclothed men and women turned slowly toward the cemetery. One of them paused in front of the church to trace a wide circle of fire over the ground. The demons, petrified once the angelic psalms began, now scurried to the well of transparent earth. They dove inside, grabbing on to windpipes of light, trailing meters of intestines from their slit stomachs, and leaving behind mounds of vomit and blood before becoming smaller and smaller and disappearing into the dark.

A new cry of joy filled the air over the Badislavs. Carrying the song further, the heralds went among the villagers, embracing them one by one, putting their palms on their cheeks and marking their foreheads with their pomegranate lips. At the touch their brow bones turned to glass, like ice beneath a bonfire, until their skulls were entirely transparent and sparkling and revealed the folds and lobes of the rose of the brain. One child alone, the one with the most curls of all, with the largest and bluest eyes, did not hide delicate cerebral matter under his skull but an enormous spider with legs pulled up against its body. The vision lasted only a moment before a milky fog darkened the skull bones and brow again into aged pearl. Embracing a buxom congregant, one of the angels saw the lap of its vestment grow rigid, rising slowly, in unspeakable pain and sweetness, until it stuck straight up, until the gown of light, held by an unseen hair, gathered around its middle, revealing his chalcedony toenails. The song of praise halted in his throat, and instead a guttural cry, like that of a young wolf, trailed from his mouth. His eyes, clear since the world was made, clouded with tears, and the clouded angel, a grimace across his divine face, suddenly threw himself into the fountain of fire, his venomous claws grabbing the last devil’s tail. As he traveled the path to Hell, his skin grew sores and fistulas, his limbs scabies, his eyes grew glaucoma, his spine grew scales, and his mind filled with the hips and breasts of women. But the other angels, barely showing a twinge of pain for their fallen brother, took up their song again, and with a few vigorous pulses of their wings, they unstuck themselves from the earth, solemnly rising toward heaven on the wide beam of the martyr’s tooth, like a flock of human birds. Their blood, lymph, and black and yellow bile sprayed from the soles of their feet like a jet engine, until they were as clean and clear as the light of reckoning. Once they were among the stars, the skies opened, and the villagers saw the blinding, merciful face of the Divine again, where the angels dissolved into an air of gold.

And now the sleighs cut across the wide and sunny platter of the pathless field. The horses snorted ropes of mist out hot nostrils. Sometimes a woman, her hair completely gray after the frenzied night, turned her head back frightened, making a cross with her tongue on the roof of her mouth, but she saw only the lengthening tracks of the sleigh runners, narrowing like an arrow toward the village in the valley, the invisible origin of space and time. They traveled through the day, but at dusk, when the snow turned dark pink, the priest raised his hand and the sleighs circled into a small camp. In the center, the fire lifted thousands of brushes, in cobalt, saffron, and gold, and like a church painter it decorated a nervous tuft of horse hair, a coat with cotton embroidery, a wide face with tired eyes, a jug on worn leather straps, and a few steps from the camp, the raised fur on a wolf’s throat. At dawn, after a well-guarded sleep, they yoked the horses below the red, melted globe of the sun, and the flight began again. At night, no man touched his woman, and would not until they found a place to settle, with a hearth and church and gardens.

For some nights the stars began to fill more and more of the sky, and the darkness hung against the firmament became deeper, bluer, with clusters and tendrils of stars. Each day became warmer, more snow melted, the drip of icicles rained from the branches in groves, and the hooves splattered a warming mix of water and snow. The gray light became sparkling yellow, and the early spring, with its troubling scents, filled the white sphere that had in its center the small, dark worm of the sleighs. One morning, a blue band as wide as the entire horizon appeared to the pilgrims. As they approached, the band widened into a snake knotting through the horizon, until the land began to descend and, whipped by new branches on the trees, pierced by the squawking flight of crows, they could finally take in the miraculous sight. It was the greatness of the Danube river, so wide that the trees on the other side were barely visible, plain reeds in a purple fog. A skin of thick glass over the entire verdant expanse, lustered by a warm wind, hid the terrifying tumult of the waters underneath, and its blinding mirror reflected the sun in its orbit through space. “Dunav! Dunav!” cried the children, who jumped from the sleighs and ran, crunching the snow under their pigskin-wrapped feet, to the enormous frozen presence. But the priest yelled at them loudly, and the small people came back, stroking the horses’ hot bellies as they passed.

Before you cross its depths, a river must be blessed. A sacrifice was required, so all would not perish in a furious shatter of ice. The servant of God remembered that once, in his youth, when bringing the miraculous tooth and other holy relics from the north, he’d seen the priest cut a hole in the Danube. After praying over the hole and dousing it with holy water, leaning now and then to read from the Gospels open on the ice beside him, the priest took the shoulders of the girl fate had chosen, kissed her eyes, and dropped her into the frozen water. A lifetime had passed since then, and times were not as harsh. The elders had come to believe that, as long as it was not the body but the person’s soul that the powers of Creation wanted, be they luminous or unfriendly, and as long as the shadow was nothing other than spirit, it would be enough to sacrifice the shadow alone. So if a house was ever to be built, a river crossed, or a bridge constructed, the sleepless powers of the place were given the shadows of living people, in place of the old sacrifices of flesh and blood.

They had to wait until dawn, which after a night of collective vigil, under stars that were swallowed by clouds, and then emerged again sparkling more purely, as though they were glasses washed with raw silk, appeared like a bouquet of fire. The peasants rubbed their faces with snow. Their eyes were shining red and round like birds’ eyes, and in their white gowns with wide sleeves, they did look like a flock of great water birds, fooled by the weather into visiting the Danube before the start of spring. This time, fate chose the boy who would become the grandfather of old Babuc, that is, my Tataie. He was a lost child, different from the others. Ten springs earlier, a flock of girls had gone gathering twigs and violets in a nearby glen. They tied them into crowns and wandered among the trees with green bark that marked the air with a dizzying scent, one they would be shocked to recognize a few years later, when on certain holidays, young men took them up the mountain and made them women: the fresh bark smelled like men. Under the sky torn by bare branches, the girls themselves were torn by a dark and strange longing. Wasting away with languorous eyes, they left their toe prints in the barely grown grass, drizzled with the purple and yellow of gentian flowers that smelled, actually, repulsive. In one spot, the trees thinned out, withered into tan clusters of sticks, and the crocuses were not brilliant in their usual color, but black, drops of pitch drizzled over the short grass. A crust of snow with large beads of water tarried around the roots and glowed like a diamond. Their hair warmed by a western wind, the girls set toward this strange clearing, and even from a distance they could see, on the grass fur stained with black, a small pink creature lying still, surrounded by a crown of sunrays like paintings of saints in the church. It was a chubby, naked infant asleep, its toes twitching, enveloped in a round crystal husk, thin as a fingernail, glowing in the sunlight. The girls cocked their heads and walked around the vision. Their rings of hair stuck to the transparent egg, which they lifted carefully, so that they could get a better look at the sleeping baby. They were surprised. He was as beautiful as only a three-month-old little sausage can be, but there was something impure about him. He was a golden child with long lashes and large eyebrows, a tender, pouty mouth, pale titties like two lentil pods and a wee-wee frowning between his dimpled thighs, and he had no sign of a navel, a fact which completed the miracle. They took him to the village and tried to remove him from the capsule of hardened tears, but even the blacksmith, the woodsman, and the priest, using all of their skills, couldn’t break through the membrane. The infant woke up and began to cry. He was already hungry, and his little hands were trembling. They called the village witch, an old baba forgotten by time, who lived in the trunk of an enormous linden tree that in the night seemed to hold the enormous coin of the moon by its crest, like a vase. She stuck the egg and the infant under her dress, against her stomach. Holding her hands against the bump, like a pregnant woman, she lay down by the hearth. At dawn, in front of the wondering village elders, her labor began. She roared and convulsed, foaming at her mouth with her eyes hanging out like a snail’s, until the pseudo-stomach began to soften and slacken. Under the baba’s quilts that smelled of grass and roots, something started to move. The midwife slid the infant out, still in its flaccid skin, which she slit with a sausage knife. The boy spurted meconium and wailed like a cat. The midwife washed and swaddled him and gave the child to a woman still raising her own, who took this new boy into her care. They baptized him that same dawn, plunging him three times into the font and liberating him from Satan’s power. The boy grew up alongside the village children. Aside from his missing navel, he was no different from the others until the day when, after the devastating year of the poppy, fate chose him to lean his shadow over the frozen Danube.

There were chilling stories about people who lost their shadows. Within a year, they said, their legs wasted away, they were covered in sores from their heads to the soles of their feet, white worms with black heads burst out of their bodies and crawled along the surface of their skin, and when they died, their guts slithered out of their stomachs like tangles of snakes and vanished into holes in the earth. Their souls went to Hell the moment their shadows were taken off, leaving their putrid corpses behind to wander briefly under the sun. The devils took the souls into a hole in the rocks, hung them upside-down from a redhot iron hook over a fireplace crackling with flames, and in the red air, in the stench of sulfur that burned more than the fire, in the screams more rending than the sulfur, the devils cut their tongues, pulled off their balls, burst their eyes, flayed their flesh, scratched their long nails across their livers, hearts, and kidneys, and jabbed a reddened stake into their anuses, and over and over again, without pause, for every moment of eternity.

The priest’s Holy Writ, bound with golden wire, smoldered like embers in the purple, transparent, rayless sun of the morning. The large, leather Gospel, weathered as hard as iron and braced in tarnished silver, was held open by four children to the page where those fleeing Egypt, led by Moses, crossed the Red Sea between walls of water. The priest spoke the black and red Cyrillic letters, chanting and censing, and then motioned for the peasants to strip Vasili, the chosen boy. In spite of the wind that made his skin mist like a steaming horse, he was quiet, not trembling or rubbing his hands over the gooseflesh of his chest, where he wore a small, shining brass cross. Only a rag clung to his hips. He moved slowly toward the cliff-like bank of the river, his bare feet sinking into the snow, and the villagers followed a little behind. He was avoiding the lines of squawking crows on the roots, when suddenly his shadow became as long and pointed as the black hand of a watch and flowed onto the ice. The villagers knelt and made large crosses over their bodies, from their foreheads to their navels, while the priest prayed that the great frozen god would accept this sacrifice and let them cross safely to the other side. The boy held his arms out to the sides, and his shadow, close to the bank since the river ran from west to east, followed his lead. A long cross, blackish-pink, now stretched over the mirror of the water. “Receive, receive the shadow,” murmured the Badislavs ceaselessly, and then, before their eyes, the cross-phantom began to eat itself away, to evaporate like wet spots in the sun. The long trunk and the beam of the arms became thinner, broke into splinters, and were sucked one after the other into the river. After a few minutes, Vasili, pallid, the short golden hair of his arms and breast on end, had no trace of a shadow. He was moaning and crying. The others embraced him and quickly put his clothes back on, covering his shoulders with a shaggy sheepskin. The child climbed into the sleigh, covered himself in a blanket and mourned his shadow, lost now forever.

The horses now stepped easily and powerfully across the ice, and the Badislavs marveled at what they saw through its transparent glass. They never would have imagined that there was such beauty frozen in the thick crust of ice. But the garden of the Lord is greater than the mind of man, and its wonders are many. The line of sleighs moved forward in silence and cold over the enchanting sight. On every side, at the depth of a fathom beneath the crystal, there were butterflies with spread wings. Their delicate, furry bodies like little worms, scarlet or light yellow or black, were more than twenty paces long, and their wings sometimes spanned forty paces. Their thin little feet were extended, three on each side, and their proboscides for drinking the fog of flowers (but where were there palace-sized flowers for these miraculous insects?) were turned like the hands of a watch under their heads, under their large, bloodshot eyes. Their scintillating wings were azure, touched with a painful velvet of Tyrian purple, and almost had the taste of a rotten cherry, a pistachio, an orange peel, or a Persian rug rubbed between the fingers of the eyelids. The exuberant floral patterns, with swallow tails, peacock eyes, ferret eyes, wasp eyes, sinful eyes and weasel eyes overlapped in the waters and multiplied all the way to the lilies of the field, which toil not, neither do they spin, but, to quote Matthew, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Everywhere along the length of the river, as far as the eyes could see, were colored butterflies with their wings spread, a few steps from each other, in a dizzying mosaic. Those far away were small and hazy, in a blue fog, while those beneath the crossing sleighs looked like enchanted animals, the kind of sprite that old men prattled on about — like an unseen doe, an ostrich, a basilisk, or a milk-white unicorn. The sun, beating on their frozen wings, already near the cross of heaven and glowing like a yellow coin, reflected the butterflies’ colors onto the horses’ middles and muzzles and the faces of the people in the sleighs, staining them with blue, gold, scarlet, and saffron — select, luxurious colors, more beautiful than the ancient red of the icons at home.

The convoy stopped to rest and eat, plum in the middle of the frozen Danube. They unpacked zacusca and cherry liquor, and sat on pallets of blankets, here and there, on the verdant glass. Shanks of pork stewed in pots of their own fat, along with the tripe that for so long had satisfied the convoy. They could see the back of a gigantic butterfly beneath them, only a few paces under the ice, like the neck of a dolphin under the waves of the sea. “I wonder what butterfly meat tastes like?” said a teenager with luminous snot on his upper lip, and, suddenly inspired, the peasants began to offer opinions: maybe it’s like goose breast, maybe the slimy foot of a snail, maybe like the tender, soft flesh from the shell of a boiled lobster. In the end, in spite of the priest’s advice to ponder the matter further, a few villagers lit up on hooch took out their shovels and heated stakes in the flames and began to break the ice. They lit more fires around, to lift out the entire winged midge. The crowd worked for a few hours, until they could touch the velvet fur on every side of the ringed stomach and palm the little goldfish scales on the wings. And when, suddenly, a tremor blew through the trim, budded horns of the butterfly and its thin feet began to twitch, the villagers took a scythe to the barrel-sized head and sent it rolling away. Blue, thick blood splattered the executioner. Then they began to cut hunks out of the butterfly’s back. The meat was as shiny and wiggly as aspic, but a little firmer, and sweet-smelling. Not one bone ran through it, but the skin and ivory needles held it in place like in a glittering net. They boiled it in clay pots and hung it from an iron tripod. All of them ate the flesh, except the priest, who thought he spotted one of the Impure One’s ploys. But nothing bad happened: the peasants licked their fingers with pleasure. Cracking the shell of the legs, they found a kind of marrow that tasted even better. Once they smashed the head to bits, they didn’t find anything inside but a fist-sized bit of brains that smelled revolting, like mold. With their stomachs set to rights and happy as clams, they took their curved knives and began to chop up the wings, like sails of a ship painted a thousand colors, calling their women and holding ragged blankets around their hips. “Not even the czarina has a skirt like this, old woman,” they smiled and laughed, while the women, wiser than they, dismissed them and left, saying that only a gypsy would wear clothes that gaudy. In the end, they made sheets from the wings and bundled themselves up in the sleighs, and set off again. They left behind a giant butterfly hacked to pieces, the veins of its wings spread on each side like rags, its mutilated legs strewn around in puddles of ash and burnt corn cobs.

Over the course of 1845, Vasili and his kin continued along on the snowy paths of Muntenia. As far as they could see, flat fields stretched out around them that seemed to reach the ends of the earth. In some places, villages of cob houses and straw roofs lifted smoke toward a sky as white as cream. The peasants were mean and quick-witted, always thinking of tricks, the men thinner and darker than the gardeners in the sleighs. The women, in contrast, were much more beautiful. They were painted like city women, and knew how to make their eyes shine with a certain boiled plant. When the convoy stopped in the middle of a village, dogs barked at them, and they were surrounded by kids with pointy hats. The villagers, well paid in copper mahmuds, stabled their unbridled horses, and after they had knelt in the church (which was rounder than theirs, with lead-shingled steeples, but painted and furnished more poorly), the fifty Bulgarians were welcomed into the rooms of their willing hosts, where they drank hot ţuica brandy, spun wool, and told jokes. The two priests drained cup after little cup by themselves, trying to communicate in baptismal-fount Slavonic, and they ended up singing the holy drones and benedictions together. The others mixed with the Vlachs, talking with their hands and trading shots of rachiv, laughing without knowing why, marveling at each other’s strangeness. The Bulgarian boys, stout and awkward, with unibrows and thick, red-purple cheeks, ran their eyes over the thin mountain girls, whose faces were masterfully made up like Easter eggs. Not infrequently, knives came out as dawn broke, after the gazes got too bold, but the more level-headed ones separated the boys and calmed them down. Then the Badislavs made pallets for sleeping in someone’s entryway, and they slept as heavily as the ground, wrapped in their butterfly wings, protected by the candle that marked the wall with melted gold. They left as dawn broke, and a pale light stretched over the field. After three days and three more nights, they found the place.

It was twilight, and snow had started to fall again. The whips snapped lazily and a horse snorted through its powerful nostrils. The priest, deep in thought, counted his prayers on a string of agate beads. The cherry-red stones knocked against each other with a sweet, quiet sound, shaking under the priest’s furry phalanges, one of which was only a stub. His right index finger had withered and dropped off in a few seconds, when, as a young monk with downy beard, he had first touched a woman’s nipple, breaking his vows of purity and propriety. Now the stub began to itch and the agate beads glowed, as had the brazen blackberry of that breast. The moment he began to be afraid and to whisper prayers into his beard to ward off the Unclean One, he saw the ruin. It was a soft light in the blood-red field, like the last molar in the mouth of an old woman. They stopped, climbed down beside the abandoned walls, holding a lantern up to one almost-finished wall and one half done that made a corner in a pile of snow-covered stones. The walls were painted inside, following the norms of piety — saints with parted beards, gold haloes, wide vestments, and blue skirts, olive-faced and frowning. There was no doubt that a church had once stood there, beautiful and famous. There were over forty saints painted on the two walls, each unrolling a parchment cylinder with letters nestled inside. Each had his own little house, separated from the others with thick, scarlet lines. And in an odd coincidence, one of them like the priest had a deformed stub in place of his left index finger. This was unheard of in a holy painting, since if a saint had missing parts, he would be imperfect. Weaklings, yes: this would demonstrate the way the spirit overcomes the flesh, but the handless, the gimps, and the blind could not be saints. Trembling in front of everyone, in the flickering lanterns, the priest held out his hand against the saint’s. At that moment, they all felt the earth move and they dropped to their knees. They would never be able to say whether it was the earth that leapt or their spirits within, or both at once. The fact is that in the passionate murmurs of prayer, flakes of fire fell from the sky and sat upon each of them, and suddenly, men, women, and children began to prophesize and speak in tongues, with their eyes wide, shouting and laughing and chortling in tears, while walls of glittering air grew from the earth, elongating the walls that stood, vaults of air arched over the glowing heads, and a steeple of air rose toward the heavens. Slowly, the new walls condensed. They became milky, then translucent, then metallic matte, finally covered in masterful paintings, matching the ruined walls, which now were clean and couldn’t be distinguished from the new church. Cathedrals with carved flowers and vines, an iconostasis covered in images, and an altar dressed in expensive items added themselves to the miraculous collection. Meanwhile, the priest’s stub grew into a ghostly crystal finger, with slender bones inside it, and a transparent nail on the tip. Capillaries wove through the flesh, while skin sprouting with thin threads of gray hair dressed the finger. When the priest took his hand from the saint’s painted palm, he saw that the saint also had a new finger to replace the one that had been left out.

They founded the village of Tântava there, between the Argeş and Saba. First they dug cottages into the strangely soft clay, and as spring came closer, they built houses, each with an entryway and two rooms, gathered around the grandeur of the church like sheep around their shepherd. Beside the church, they dug long beds for vegetables, and by summer the little village was as happy among its greens and vines as it had been in the Rhodope Valley. Over the next quarter century, the first Badislavs in Muntenia became the land’s inhabitants — they lived, they procreated, and they forgot their old language and learned what the people around them spoke. They extended their lands and drank their brains out at the bodega that soon appeared in the village center. The bar was a place to toast the Devil, the Lord’s little brother (as the older ones believed), to kill each other with tomato stakes over a woman, to hold vigils over old men in agony, so that they wouldn’t have to die without a candle on their chests, and to look for rainclouds in the sky, all without ever imagining that, in fact, they weren’t building houses, plowing land, or planting seeds on anything more than a gray speck in a great-grandson’s right parietal lobe, and that all their existence and striving in the world was just as fleeting and illusory as that fragment of anatomy in the mind that dreamed them.

7

THE past is everything, the future nothing, and time has no other meaning. We live on a piece of plaque in the multiple sclerosis of the universe. An animal, small and compact, a single particle a billion times smaller than a quark, and a billion billion times hotter than the center of the sun, encompassed the entire design that our mind perceives in the moment it is given to perceive, uniting it in the breath of a single force, with balls of space and strings and the foggy droppings of the galaxies and the political map of the planet and the unpleasant smell of someone’s mouth you’re talking to on the bus and Ezekiel’s vision on the banks of the Chebar and every molecule of melanin in a freckle under the left eyebrow of the woman you undressed and possessed a night ago and the wax in the ear of one of the ten thousand immortals of Artaxerxes and the group of catecholaminergic neurons in the medulla oblongata of a badger asleep in the woods of the Caucasus. It encompassed everything our mind has never known and will never understand, because, in a sense, that point actually was our mind, the thought that thinks itself, like a sword so sharp it cuts itself to pieces. It was the absolute past, without fissure. It was metaphysical flesh, homogenous and fiberless, without any distinction, aside from some at first unobservable filaments of the future. When and why did the symmetry shift? Who created the initial estrangements, and how? Who could have withstood the first crack of the fissuring All? The future, that is, estrangement, separation, and cooling, broke the original globe into a thousand shards and gouged hideous wounds into the body of the oneness of being, spaces that widened ever more, separating the granules of substance and letting a photonic blood gurgle between them. A purulent night wrapped every corpuscle into being, in a dark and hopeless schizophrenia. The universe, which was once so simple and complete, obtained organs, systems, and apparatuses. Today, it’s as grotesque and fascinating as a steam engine displayed on an unused track at a museum. It demonstrates its rods and levers under a bell jar. And until the bell of our minds is incorporated into the universal desolation, it will function as an internal organ reflecting the whole, the way a pearl reflects the martyred flesh of an oyster.

And yet, the universe is not everything that happens, but much, much more. Because, if those parts of us that analyze, those parts of every living being — the eyes, the compound eyes, the camera eyes, the antennae with batteries of chemoreceptors, the lateral lines of fish, the ears with trembling cochlea, the osmic cells in the nasal passages, the taste buds, the organs a spider uses to feel vibration and the organs a tick uses to sense carbon dioxide, the touch receptors of the skin, the ones that twist around every fiber of muscle in the oral organs of the Sarcoptes scabia, the ones that feel cold and heat, the ones stimulated by the otolithic stalactites of the organs of balance and the hundreds of thousands of other senses that simultaneously ingest the vibrations of matter — if these vulvae, if these tentacles adhere to the symmetry of the stars, there is still everything that we cannot perceive except through the super-sensory organ of thought, a super-symmetry, structures twisted around themselves that annul, at a higher level, the flow from the past toward the future, from all toward nothing. The universe, at a higher level than the visions of galaxies and quasars, is reflected in itself, in a super-mind, whose foundation is memory. There is a universal memory, a memory that encompasses, houses, and destroys the idea of time. There is Akasia, and Akasia is the savior of the universe, and beyond Akasia there is no hope of salvation. She is the eye in the forehead of All, encompassing the history of All and all that is, was, and shall be. In Akasia there is no death, or birth — all is coplanar and all is illusion. All of the world’s events, and every particle of substance, and every quantum of energy are present in transfinite light, there, in Memory. And if our thought (by which we perceive, in privileged moments of ecstasy, Akasia) would ever be able to turn back upon itself — perhaps by adding a seventh layer to the neocortex or by creating another, bizarre, organic basis for itself — the way that once, in the mind of a fur-covered being, awareness turned on itself and became consciousness, we might be able, like the angels, to detect the Memory of the Memory of the world, and the Memory of the Memory of the Memory and so on and so on, infinitely. And if conscience became prescience, reflecting itself in itself, it would then become omniscience, rising above this telescoping memory to see the center of the rose with infinite petals, to see the enchanting spider that weaves illusion, modeling it quickly into universes, spaces and times, bodies and faces, with its infinite, articulating legs.

We ourselves, although an unimportant organ of the world, are in some way the entire world. The All is everywhere at once and in every moment. The shuttle’s first pass through the weft that began to describe the world — the way a rod, spinning quickly, creates a dense, still circle, or the way the sweeping spot of a cathode-ray tube creates a televised image — has stamped the same configuration onto all the fragments of being, from the bottom to the top, from the holon to the holonarchy, from the eon to the pleroma. Every object, imaginable or beyond imagination, in a poor example of universial homogeneity, has a bipolar structure. Everything has a dual structure, like magnets, with poles oriented in opposition. Animal and vegetable polarities are paired everywhere, in every object. The first belongs to space, the spirit, searching, and movement. The other belongs to time, the soul, and immobile passivity. We find masculine and feminine, sulfur and mercury, yin and yang in the emblem of the hill in light and the hill in shadow. We live in two media, just as a tree lives in both the air and earth, its branches aerial roots, and its roots underground branches.

The bilateral symmetry of our organism — our two arms, two legs, two cerebral hemispheres, two eyes, two lungs, two kidneys, and two gonads — often overshadows the subtler symmetry of top-bottom, the higher and truer symmetry. Our diaphragms, like walls between two kingdoms, divide our bodies into two zones with opposing polarities. Above our diaphragms, we’re dominated by the signs of air and fire, while below, we’re dominated by water and earth. It is easy to see that our arms correspond to our legs and our pelvises to our scapulae, but strange correspondences link the organs of our thoracic cavities with our abdomens. Any study of embryos will show that the heart corresponds to the liver and the lungs correspond to the intestines and kidneys, however diverse their morphology might appear. If we examined the entire, magical symmetry of a man hung upside-down on an imaginary Saint Andrew’s cross — the symmetry of a larva, the symmetry of a being whose evolution is incomplete — we would find the most fantastic, bizarre, and dizzying correspondence, and differences as well, between the organs at the ends of his body, in between his arms and in between his legs. The head corresponds to the genitals, and all our mystical, animal faculties are concentrated there. The cerebral hemispheres and the testicles or ovaries are the same organs, but opposing polarities pushed them toward opposing functions and forced them to diversify their morphologies. The brain moved toward the animal pole, which shaped it into an organ of relation, spatiality, and internal and external exploration, while the gonads anchored themselves in the fertile substance of time. And both, in different planes of existence, live and bathe in immortality. The sublime universe appears to us in the orgasm of the mind and the syllogisms of fecundity, in the sperm of the brain and the memory of the ovaries. Under two different faces — angelic and demonic, masculine and feminine — the sublime universe appears to us, touches the blood-filled jewel in which we live.

Space is Paradise and time is Inferno. How strange it is that, like the emblem of bipolarity, in the center of a shadow is light, and that light creates shadows. After all, what else is memory, this poisoned fountain at the center of the mind, this center of paradise? Well-shaft walls of tooled marble shaking water green as bile, and its bat-winged dragon standing guard? And what is love? A limpid, cool water from the depths of sexual hell, an ashen pearl in an oyster of fire and rending screams? Memory, the time of the timeless kingdom. Love, the space of the spaceless domain. The seeds of our existence, opposed yet so alike, unite across the great symmetry, and annul it through a single great feeling: nostalgia.

We are animals of nostalgia, abjections organized by geometry, as though our genitor spat into the cup of a lily and created us there, out of phlegm and perfume. But, unlike Akasia, because our memory only knows the dimensions of the past, our nostalgia is amputated, partial, a feeling that takes metaphors as reality and contorts itself around half-truths. We all have memories of the past, but none of us can remember the future. And yet, we exist between the past and future like the vermiform body of a butterfly, in between its two wings. We use one wing to fly, because we have sent our nerve filaments out to its edges, and the other is unknown, as if we were missing an eye on that side. But how can we fly with one wing? Prophets, illuminati, and heretics of symmetry foresaw what we could and must become. But what they see per speculum in aenigmate we will all see clearly, at least as clearly as we can see the past. Then, even our torturous nostalgia will be whole. Time will no longer exist, memory and love will be one, the brain and the sex will be one, and we will be like the angels.

We know from our cerebro-spinal trunk that we are the larvae of an astral being. With the marrow of our spines as its root and the two cerebral hemispheres in our skulls like two fleshly cotyledons, they perfectly resemble a plant in the first stages after sprouting. Their flesh is the earth into which they were sown and whose resources they will exhaust, and our brains will also be consumed and will wrinkle like a walnut kernel inside its dry fruit. Two small leaves will burst from its center, tender and filled with light — wings of the soul, wings of the spirit that will depart from the hothouse of this world, vested in the glory of a heavenly body, to be planted in a new earth, under a new sky.

Our painful love, born from the center of time, our daily nostalgia given to us today, itself the larva of the great and true nostalgia, projects into the past what it foresees as our destiny and future: it searches deep within the caves, cellars, basements, cells, and grottoes of time for what might be found in the rarefied air and metaphysical light of the attic. It desperately searches for something that must be found, a way out that must be uncovered, even though no organ exists that can sense it. We are constantly searching in the opposite direction, but the more mistakenly we search, the more we feel joy and certainty, because diametric opposites must lie on the same axis, and this itself is a powerful connection. We can only see our target in a mirror, in illusion, but we know that it exists somewhere in reality. Our blindness toward the future is like some patients’ corporeal agnosia: for them, the right (or left) half of the world has simply disappeared, along with the respective half of their bodies. There is not even nothingness for them. It is like the absolute silence of those born deaf, who lack any idea or intuition of sound. Metaphors, circumlocutions, approximations, the basest or most ingenious of verbal tricks, definitions by negation — you can try everything, but for someone who does not feel, for whom an area of reality does not exist, it quickly becomes tiresome to keep asking what it is like, what is comparable to something he will never know. Metaphorical speculations are, for him, simple parlor games, symbols of aesthetic value more than a deep need to define. Would we fall back on these kinds of glass-bead games, were it not for nostalgia? If passivity did not cause us pain? If we did not suffer like dogs when we weren’t searching, torturing ourselves with questions we know all too well we cannot answer, because the answer would not be a word or phrase but a deep and dramatic modification to our body’s schema and our being’s essence. We are not like someone blind from birth, but like someone who lost his sight in childhood, who sometimes dreams of things he cannot conceive: images and colors, shapes and shadows, lips, eyes, a hand that he only recognizes as an evanescent emotion, a foreboding that someday he will see again, not with his eyes, but with all the skin of his body, and not just with his skin, but his viscera, his veins and arteries, his trachea and esophagus, his pelvic bones and endocrine glands, his blood and saliva and the musk of his sweat. And not just with his body, but with the dogs and acacia and apartment blocks and cars and stores all around him, the seasons and constellations — a foreboding that he will see, someday, with the great eye, clear and pure as the whole, outside of which only non-existence exists.

Abjection and glory, like mucous that can just as well be holy myrrh, both vest the form of our body. Abjection, because we are worms, tubes with a double symmetry, nutrition in our center, relation and reproduction at our extremities, guts full of fecal matter between our brains and our genitals. The capacity for thought that we trumpet is no more wondrous a phenomenon than the ability of deep-water fish to generate light, or the power of an eel to produce electric shocks. Maybe we do have an organ to sense the divine, but it’s rudimentary, a plus or a minus, an “it is or it isn’t.” It perceives the divine the way paramecia sense light with a red dot, without actually “seeing.” What can be rescued in us? The soul? The astral body? Consciousness? A simple tumor wipes out all of those things, an epileptic nucleus shakes away memory, the sight of a woman’s hips stops a man’s thinking, an injustice drives us into the purest paranoiac delirium, a dream chills our necks and makes our hair stand on end. The harmony of a billion billion tiny, mushy things (systems and devices composed of tissues composed of cells composed of organelles: ribosomes, lysozymes, mitochondria, Golgi apparatuses, nuclei with chromosomes composed of chains of DNA and RNA composed of nucleic acids composed of molecules of hallucinatory stereosymmetry composed of atoms composed of nuclear particles composed of quarks) barely leaves any room for a splash of sparkling liquid, a clear thought, where the structured dust of worlds could develop. And this is only for a few of the billions of sentient worms that crowd together inside the stomach of a larger worm. They live as long as they’re given, and then they’re reabsorbed into the spiraling conglomeration of the earth. Everything is a grain of sand on a beach as wide as the universe. Where is there room for salvation? And why would you, you in particular, atomic bog, receive eternal life?

Glory is analogously disorienting because the symmetry of all worlds follows from the symmetry of our bodies. The human embryo recapitulates an abbreviated phylogeny of the living world. Swimming in the muscular pool of the uterus, feeling the warmth of the urinary and rectal canals, translucent and curled up, we envelop ourselves with the complications of embryonic layers, becoming, one by one, coelenterates and worms, fish with fluttering gills, amphibians, insectivorous mammifers and primates, until we break the blood-filled vulva and, dirty with meconium, we emerge headfirst into the new place where we live until our next birth. The same magical link exists between the stages of this life and the corporeal scheme of our flesh, as if we could see through time the way we see the panorama of space — as if our lives themselves were human beings made out of time, with structures identical to ours down to the smallest details, and analogous in surprising ways to a gigantic being, whose organs were the countless generations of all living creatures. In a way, by being born, playing, loving, maturing, aging, and dying, we live and breathe the gonads, vertebrae, sphincters, intestines, diaphragms, lungs, hearts, jugulars, jaws, brains, and skulls of our own lifespans.

If our whole lives are only the shadows of our bodies projected onto time, maybe we have super-shadows too — projections that are truer and more complex than the objects themselves. Maybe these shadows live inside us, the way parasitic crabs extend their own substance into the bodies of the host-crabs, but not exactly, because here the parasite is far superior to the host. Our heavenly body, like our physical bodies, has a paradoxical anatomy. It’s assembled from spiritual material, gaseous crystal circulating in diamond veins and jade arteries, pearl capillaries and marble canals, turquoise interstices and opal lymph nodes, jasper kidneys and quartz skin and a zirconium heart and a beryllium brain and sapphire testicles, our interior angels and our interior shadows, and superimposed over the stench-ridden mud of our flesh.

There are seven chakras along the spinal cord, and seven plexuses in the viscera. Three of them are below the diaphragm, the pole of time, of sex, of vegetable life. Separating the spirit from matter, the diaphragm is the border between two kingdoms, because we are amphibious beings between heaven and earth. The diaphragm is the surface of the earth: below it, blind roots grope among the moles, and above it, the corona and its gifts push toward the sky. Under the diaphragm, Muladhara is wrapped like a snake around the sacrum, innervating the snake between the thighs with four petals of thick light. A bit higher, in the small of the back, Svadisthana has six multicolored petals, the queen of the kidneys and bladder, the Leyding cells and the rectum, the place of will and vitality. Manipura has ten petals and illuminates the solar plexus. It tames the anaconda of the bowels, the pallid tongues of the pancreas and spleen, and the blood-red liver with its sack of bile. Above the diaphragm are another three chakras, the pole of the animal, space, and brain. Between the shoulder blades is Anahata, the seat of the feelings, the one that washes our interior islands in blood, the one that nourishes the timus. The gland of childhood, Visuddha, with its sixteen transparent petals, illuminates the vertebrae of the neck, aids the rhythm of respiration, protects the lungs and thyroid, and opens the frozen eyes of the intellect. The triangle between the eyebrows is inlaid with Ajna of the three fires, because there, in the pituitary gland, the queen of the nervous system, is the seat of the soul. And beyond these symmetries, beyond space-time and brain-sex, but toward space and the brain, Sahasrara glistens — the diadem and the spherical eye on the crown of the head, the Aleph of Alephs, the diamond of a diamond world.

We ought to remember with our testicles and love with our brains, but that’s not how it is. Memory is in the middle of the mind, and love between the legs, as though our perverse souls sit in their organic coffins upside-down. Maybe once, surely once, before the wall of the diaphragm was built, and before the wall of apartment blocks on Ştefan cel Mare, the great wall of maturity, the seven chakras and plexuses were flipped upside-down, so that we actually did think and love with the same organ, and we ejaculated and remembered with the parts on the opposite ends. But then, the doppelganger of our chakras and plexuses and rays flipped over, the way that in the eighth month a child turns its head down in the uterus — the reversal that makes us so paradoxical, and so fascinating. Maybe the fetus turns itself over precisely because it senses the onset of birth. We are all women, we are uteruses, and we will tear ourselves apart and we will rot, so that in another world, under a new heaven, crystalline beings can emerge, translucent as crustaceans, with their seven hearts beating in the alpha rhythm, with seven brains, or with seven sexes.

Memory is in the middle of the mind, under the brain, pia mater and neocortex, where it spills over the sensory and motor zones, the homunculus with its swollen tongue and orangutan paws. In the center of the brain, formed in the limbic system, in the fornix and hippocampus, the mammillary bodies and the amygdalae, memory soaks in the striated waters of the thalamus and hypothalamus, it shapes neuronal sculptures, and it wets the marble of the mind with florescent liquids. It creates nets as flimsy as spiderwebs, turned on themselves like Möbius bands, and rippled like the petals of a colorless rose. It runs from the real to the virtual and back to the real, as though Escher’s hands were drawing each other a billion times a second. But does this glittering and tireless shuttle weave something truer, something less monstrous than the homunculus which is its starry sky? Could it be that time’s body and our life’s reverie, from the moment the spermatozoon adheres revoltingly to the ovum and its mind advances through the mucilage to mix with the sun’s mind, and up to the moment when we ourselves, spermatozoa of some inconceivable animal, adhere revoltingly to the great globe of our deaths, and our skulls break into shards and our brains (carrying half of whose information?) migrate through the mucous of death and fuse with the mind of death and then everything dies in a gigantic metabiological explosion called rebirth — could that be projected, reliably, onto the screen behind the retina? The teeth upon the gears of our lives are not only horribly uneven, but of different colors, made of different substances, blown around by the winds like the sails of a skiff, and their indicator needle, capricious, suddenly spins for dozens of revolutions until it disappears, as if it didn’t exist. Then it stops on a minute or for hours on end, licking and touching the minute, analyzing it minutely, coupling with it and giving it children, until it grows old and tarnished and falls, and only then will the indicator deem it ready to advance. From this comes another homunculus, more deformed, grotesque, and phantom-like than that of the sensorial-motor, that hunchbacked stillbirth of our life’s ultimate and hidden meaning. But even this stillborn fetus has a shining mark on its forehead that can smell God and on and on until the billionth dimension, as far as we can imagine, alongside a spatial world whose people and animals have suddenly disappeared, and instead, only their images remain, crowded together on streets and in houses. There are homunculi of people and dogs and cats and rats projected onto this shell — and a world in time, where instead of their actual lives there are only lives reconstructed in memory, lives where one gesture in childhood takes up more time and space than ten years of adulthood, and elephantine temporal organs hang on every side, while the sensory organs can barely be seen.

Memory weaves us, there in the depths of the three-petaled chakra, the forehead’s eye. However hideous (because time is an inferno and a creature of time is a devil from the inferno, or maybe a creature forever damned), it is our twin, and a strange desire pushes one toward the other, one into the arms of the other. When I’m lying on my bed in the afternoon, with kids shouting outside and poplar tufts floating in the sun-filled summer, I remember scenes and gestures and faces from long ago, obscure, enigmatic, melted into pure emotion, then I see it — co-created with my flesh but in another dimension, creating a caricature of me, frightening but at the same time dear to me. Every moment that passes, my memory separates from me a little more, it becomes more daring and independent, its shadow and power grow, and it rises over me, spreading its claws and bat wings. Its beak has crooked teeth, just like my mother’s dentures, and it has a single eye in the black and shining bone of its brow. It crawls out of me like an insect, still wet and soft, from the transparent shell of its former carcass. My memory is the metamorphosis of my life. If I do not plunge bravely into the milky abyss that surrounds and hides my memory in the pupa of my mind, I will never know if I have been, if I am a voracious praying mantis, a spider dreaming upon an endless pair of stilts, or a butterfly of supernatural beauty.

I remember, that is, I invent. I transmute the ghosts of moments into weighty, oily gold. And, somehow, it is also transparent, ever more transparent the deeper the fountain of my mind becomes (and I, a skeleton leaning over its walls, contemplate the wide, dreaming eyes reflected in the golden water). That hyaline cartilage, there on the shield where the three heraldic flowers meet — dream, memory, and emotion — that is my domain, my world, the World. There in that sparkling cylinder that descends through my mind. There, like a specimen in a green jar, pale and bloated with formaldehyde, it lies with its Asiatic eyelids half closed, with its ecstatic and lifeless smile, with its umbilical cord wrapped around its stomach. How well I know it! How accurately did I imagine it! Oh, my twin, open your painted eyelids, press your lipsticked, sweet lips, swell until the vat bursts and, through the shards of brain, through the organic mucilage, come into the light! With the eye between your eyebrows, enlighten the pearly-skinned pages of this book, of this illegible book, of this book.

8

ON HER left hip, my mother had a large violet-pink mark shaped like a butterfly. The vermiform body moved horizontally across her stomach toward her left buttock, one wing descending over her thigh, and the other rising toward her waist. I remembered this only when I was in my teens, and not during some vesperal reverie, but in a dream. I dreamed, one night in July, after hours of wandering streets downtown, and looking carefully at statues, that my mother was sitting on a bed with a white satin sheet, artfully wrinkled like the felt in jewelry boxes. She was huge and marble-white, capillaries and sweat glands showed through her transparent skin, and on her left hip a tropical butterfly, its colors shining intensely, had landed on thin, nervous little legs. When I woke up, I knew my mother had a lupus eritematos marked on her hip. I had often seen it, in the depths of time, when she walked naked around the house on sweltering afternoons. I knew what she looked like naked, my two- or three-year-old eyes had seen her and remembered. But then, after we moved to the apartment and my mother started to make Persian rugs, I only saw her naked to the waist, her nipples the same color as the butterfly on her hip, now off-limits. Because, later, when we moved again to the house in Floreasca, I wasn’t even allowed to see her breasts. It was as though this woman I came out of — a zone of wet skin, with pimples and moles — was once my domain, and then we were estranged, piece by piece, at the end of a series of unlucky battles. In each one, not only did I lose hectares of thighs, pubic hair, armpits and breasts and wrinkles on the stomach, but also I was wounded, mutilated by steel blades lettered in an unknown alphabet. In five years I lost my mother’s body irreversibly, and I moved away from it, I was moved away with such force that the thought of it and the memory lobotomized my brain with the same blood-covered blade. Therefore, when I dreamed of the butterfly on her hip, I woke with a horrible nausea. Where had my memory been keeping that image? Was it even real? More than the mark itself, I actually remembered my wonder in looking at it. Had my grandma, whom I didn’t remember at all, as though my grandpa made my mother by himself, stolen a butterfly? Or, when she was sunbathing naked on the banks of the Sabar, when she had my mother in her womb, was she touched by the shadow of a pair of delicate wings?

I lay in my bed until an intense night fell, cut in pieces by electric stripes on the ceiling and walls, sparks from the trams on Ştefan cel Mare. I was excited and sad. If I closed my eyes, beneath my eyelids I saw the dozens of statues I had looked at, eye to eye, trying to understand the thoughts of those men made of green bronze and stone, illustrious men whose rubicund muses held out goose quills or equally tarnished laurels, trying to understand how these woman with marble uteruses could make love. Yes, long into the night, when the trolley buses were in the station, the illustrious men climbed down from their plinths, grabbed the muses by their hair, and humped among the trees in the park. They pushed their polished-metal penises between the women’s dew-dampened stone labia. Atlases coupled with limestone gorgons with chipped noses, leaving oleander-filled balconies to fall onto the sidewalk. But I stopped my erotic reverie short, because a balcony like that, on the second floor, with pots of oleander and teasel, actually existed somewhere. It came from somewhere real, in very close connection to the lupus mark on my mother’s left hip — the mark the color of her dentures (ah, now I got it!), the sinister mark. Sinister. Silistra. There was a house on Silistra with a balcony supported by Atlas statues. When mother carried me home from the store, wrapped in my coat, my head passed right by the pubises of the two terrible bearded men bent under the weight of the balcony, which were painted a dirty yellow. I looked up and, framed against the white sky, I saw an old woman whose grey hair fell in waves like a girl’s. But the rest seemed to have melted into fog, pearly and unraveled, and truly the rest melted into dreams.

In the morning, I woke up nervous and distracted, to the birds’ strident chirping and the great yellow light of summer. I got out of the wrinkled bed, walked through rooms painted dull olive and beige, and went into the kitchen, where my mother was already doing her chores, moving among the food-stained chairs. I ate breakfast silently, dipping my bread in coffee and milk, rolling the wet crumbs into marbled balls, and flicking them into dirty cups in the sink. I went onto the balcony. The Dâmboviţa mill, once so flashy in its red-brick vestments, now was white with flour and dust over the roofs full of tin patches, over the huge walls, the round and rectangular windows, and the supports that had girded them for over a hundred years. The mixture of brick-red and white produced an indefinite color, something sad, the shade of all the ancient mills, factories, and workshops in ruin, worn away by time and vegetation. Pitch-black poplars grew everywhere, with carnivalesque green leaves, licking the old, pallid walls and covering them with waves of puffy seeds. Poplar seed puffs — in July, they came down like snow, they drifted around the mill’s foundation, they stuck to the holes and cracks between bricks, they latched onto the feet of pigeons that filled the roof, and they found a tiny bit of earth and extended roots through the panes of glass blocked out by flour. The giant corpse of a ruined but still-functioning mill dominated the back of our block. It scraped the clouds with its triangular pediments like a medieval castle, equally crumbling and melancholy. The mill had a large yard, a few small administrative buildings, deserted and quiet under the sun, and a bulky concrete fence to separate it from the territory of the eight floors of children who came out of the block every morning and played in its shadow, lighting it up with shards of glass and strident screams. Far away to the left of the mill, you could see the outline of Casa Scinteii, the building that published The Spark, with its little red star burning all night. On the right, the State Circus had been visible, but now it was obliterated by the flesh, nerves, muscles and bones of the poplars. You could see the circus only from the roof terrace, a flying saucer on the park expanse. The poplars had been planted only a few meters from the building, and they grew as high as the fifth floor, where we lived, so close we could lean out and touch their supple, leafy branches, splattered by pigeons. Last year, there was a pigeon who spent three weeks trying to hatch a ping-pong ball that had fallen into our balcony drain. I sat on the balcony in my pajamas for half an hour, watching the clouds, whiter than the very white sky, outlined in light, and when I went back into the kitchen, I felt I was entering a sinister cave. In the deep shadow, Mamma seemed like a gypsy woman forgotten on a chair beside the stove, all dark and sweaty, except for the globes of her eyes, which caught the blinding folds of the summer sky. Wasps in yellow plating crawled everywhere. They’d made a nest in the vent and had come through its metal grill. There were wasps as big as my fingers on my mother’s body, as though she were some kind of odd animal trainer. They pulled themselves along with their powerful buccal mechanisms, through her fine, thin, chestnut hair that was untouched by gray, spinning their wings like fans. I told her I was going for a walk. I got dressed and went into the blinding heat outside.

My short-sleeved shirts were too tight at the shoulders, so they creased across the front, making my chest look more sunken than it really was. As soon as I left the cool apartment, I started to sweat. Big drops dripped from my armpit hair onto my already wet skin. Under my pink or leek-green shirts, my crooked thorax drowned in transparent colors and water. The asphalt was soft under my shoes. I looked in the furniture store windows on the ground floor and saw myself among the ficuses and kitchen decor, a kid with a blade-thin face and a wobbly walk. If I felt someone looking at me, my steps became awkward and mechanical, as though I was afraid that I would forget how to walk, and that I might fall onto the asphalt at any moment. I walked toward Obor on the shady side of the boulevard, blinded by the shining windshields and windows, unconsciously registering the great curve of the blocks, and ending up in front of the Melodia movie theater.

From Obor, I knew I should go up toward Colentina. Here it already felt like the edge of town. Among the cars passed horse-pulled trucks with automobile tires, their azure or green panels painted with mermaids, stags, and floral patterns. They left a trail of yellow-green, globular scat. And the people changed. The women wore headscarves and print skirts; they bared their metal teeth at each other as they came out the factory door, lugging plastic bags and woven baskets. They looked like meaty hens with sagging crests. Clusters of gypsies filled the sidewalks, waiting for the tram, the women in layers of flowery orange and brick-red dresses and sport coats, the men in black suits and hats, sitting on puffed sacks, incredibly greasy. Still, I liked their smell, of the slums, of natural decay, like the unmistakable smell of the country, a combination of fruit fermenting in vats of ţuica, lye splattered in semi-circles on the ground, and sap from frightening vegetation that darkened my gaze in the summer. Workers on ancient, iron bicycles, with two or three soda bottles tied with wire to the little racks behind their saddles, pedaled deftly in bleached sneakers. The yellow road rose toward the east, framed by a green labyrinth of trees.

I crossed Suveica, where my mother had worked at the mechanical looms, and where she would emerge at dusk, drowning in gnats and plagued by the urge to vomit, smelling the rancid fat from the soap factory next door. All the way home, and all night at home, the noise of the looms where she spent her days would ring in her ears. Over the entry gate, in red block letters, arched the words “Long Live the Romanian Communist Party,” and on the wall of honor, in black and white photos the size of postcards, the vanguard of production smiled stupidly — women with crooked faces, like men or children, with immobile hair and dead eyes. Dresses that looked like school uniforms — with white collars and polka-dot prints in white on black, or black on white — seemed to be the universal fashion in their limited environment of factory, market, and home.

I stopped at Teiul Doamnei, feeling irritated. I could sense, in my mind’s nostrils, the effluvia of the house on Silistra. But where was it coming from? Since the moment we had moved away from that part of town, I couldn’t remember coming back except once: like in a dream, I saw a road and a tram, a market paved with square bricks, and the hazy ghosts of buildings, leaning forward menacingly … Nothing else. But now, lost, I wandered through the neighborhood of run-down houses, with watch repair shops and locksmiths, I asked an old man — yes, the street was somewhere around here, everyone knew it, but maybe they didn’t call it Silistra, something else, who knows what … and I would have gone back home, if, suddenly, in the rarefied air of my mind, the route I’d taken that day hadn’t come to me in a glimmering vision, from who knows where, as the crystalline skeleton of a bird’s wing, or a flying mammifer. The humerus stretched from my block to Bucur Obor, the radius and cubitus, stuck together — from Obor to Teiul Doamnei, and from there the finger bones separated, much too long and ending in powerful claws. When I saw, on one of the beast’s fingers, a massive gold ring, I knew that I had found (because any discovery is remembrance) the mystical street and house of my birth. I only had to cross the boulevard and drown myself in the streets of that neighborhood.

But it seemed the shining wing did not have only five fingers, but many, a tangle of fingers. I wandered for hours under a tropical sun along identical sad streets on the edge of town, with middle-class and country houses, with kites hanging from telegraph wires and pigeons singing in mulberry bushes. I rounded corners, I read the street signs: Bujoreni, Zorilor, Sadova, Major Anastasie Petru, Perişani … I was hypnotized by the abandoned buildings invaded by weeds, the doorframes and window frames torn out, and a dirty child pulling a band of cut copper behind him, muttering something in a room painted blue. I stopped old women wearing slippers and asked them where Silistra was. “Ah, Silistra, I think it’s two streets that way. But who are you looking for, sonny?” I froze when, deep into a far-away street, perpendicular to those I’d walked before, I saw, against a sky crossed by clouds, a melancholy and austere tower, the one I had seen for some time in my dreams. The actual tower had a window on the upper floor, with heavy bent shades. Standing there, petrified on the empty street, face to face with the high building, I felt certain I had been there before, and a strange magic made me open the unpainted wooden door. There was a spiral stairway, with a cold stone railing. I walked up, with all of my joints trembling. The paint on the wall was green and oily. There was a pot with a sick cactus, covered in mold, pale and ulcerous. I leaned on the cool railing and knocked at the only door on the miniscule landing. It had a large, outdated peephole. In the cloudy light that came through a single windowpane, Anca opened the door. I walked into a hall that smelled like dusty Persian rugs. The room was packed with old things, chipped porcelain and almost black silver servings. There was a picture of the tower, somewhat crudely painted, with Anca in front, playing hopscotch. Beside the tower, in the picture (not in reality) rose an olive-green cypress tree.

Still dizzy from so many twists and turns through Colentina, my shirt drenched with sweat, I was glad for the cold of the dark, quiet apartment. Anca brought a saucer with a spoonful of rose petal jam, and while I ate, looking at the filigreed spirals on the handle of the spoon, she told me about her childhood.

9

HER mother worked the stamping machine in a metal shop. Eight hours a day, Monday to Saturday, she sat on a rotting wooden box, in front of an enormous and greasy hydraulic press, jabbing rectangular pieces of sheet metal into the jaws of the machine. A shiny cylinder would fall in a flash with a deafening sound, stamping the sheets and rising just as quickly. In the shop, eight presses were operating constantly. At each one worked a woman in a blue coat. All of the women were practically deaf. They each had all of their fingers, because the ones whose fingers got caught under the cylinder did not come back. Anca’s mother worked in the shop until she went into labor (her daughter never had any trouble remembering the howl of the presses, because she had heard it, diffused by the liquid of the placenta, since she was no bigger than a salamander). She left for the maternity ward by tram, in a happy, sweating crowd on a Saturday afternoon.

Anca grew up in the tower, the former brick annex of a workshop from the beginning of the century, later demolished. A vacant lot with a few black, greasy pieces of machinery — wheels, belts, springs, and the frame of a tram wagon, with flaking paint and missing windows — spread its weeds and trash behind the tower. That’s where the girl would play, sitting on one of the wooden benches of the old tram and pretending to take a trip, catching gray and brown locusts that writhed in her fist and tried to escape between her fingers, touching her dress (with a bud of yellow velvet sewn onto her front pocket) to the greased machinery … When evening came and the sky turned purple, and a little window sparkled high on the tower wall, Anca knew that it was time to come inside. Still, sometimes she would stay in the field, flattening balls of paper with colorful pictures, listening to the factory whistle, or just running here and there until the light fell into the earth and the moon appeared.

“Mircea, things were so strange! The moon looked like a huge slurry of ice, and even the wild snapdragons in the field turned the pallid color of the moon. The plaster and half-demolished walls would start to shine, while everything else descended further into shadow. And from the other side of the wall, on nights like these, Herman would always come. I wasn’t scared of him at all, since he came toward me very slowly, as I sat on my heels, with my skirt tucked between my legs, so I could look at whatever scrap I was looking at. I never responded to my father the first time he called for me, even though in that silence, his voice was as strong and clear as an angel’s, because I wanted very much to stay a little longer with Herman. He didn’t take my hand, I took his, and we always went toward the ruined house nearby that had a hole in its roof almost as big as an entire room. We walked through the horsetails growing in the doorway and went into the fluid blue of the room below the bare sky. There, while we held hands, face to face, his eyes, blue like mine in the light, turned transparent white, like a fish’s, and on their glassy surface, scratched with the point of a needle, I saw my chest and the flowering, flayed tapestry from the wall behind me. Since he was bent at his shoulder blades, more hunched over than anyone I had ever seen, he had to bend his head back as far as he could just to see straight. The fact that there, in the room where everything seemed to float, he always took off my blouse, carefully unbuttoning me and leaving me with bare, dark nipples on a nearly flat chest, seemed amusing and mysterious to me, and it never scared me, because he never touched my chest, at most he would move a lock of hair in front, bringing it down to where my ribs ended. He started to tell me about a world that, for me, was normal, next to this one but still inaccessible. Herman’s steady, low voice was a tunnel that led me there directly.

“All of a sudden, the tunnel would expand into fleshy, soft folds, and a blinding world would appear before us. Dozens of pink moons made the water glow, a vast gulf full of ships, edged with hills with crystal palaces, beryllium pagodas, and crysolite bells piled one on top of the next — ornaments for the architecture of fables. Our frigate neared the shore, and we disembarked onto pink marble steps, carved with volutes and counter-volutes. The staircase began in the waves and rose toward a grand façade. The columns of the portico were fifty times thicker than my body. The statues above, in moon-reddened arcades, could have symbolized either vices or virtues. Blind windows, round and rectangular, showed on the façade as translucent and flat as a mirror. We went into the marble palace, bare of any furniture, tapestries, or paintings, and eventually, in one of the halls, on a marble throne, we found a girl with a shaved head, her entire scalp decorated in marvelous tattoos. On another night, in another castle and another hall, instead of the throne, in the middle of the marble cavern, we found one of the hydraulic presses from my mother’s shop. A scrap of brass came out of its jaws, and on it were letters. A word was written there, a name I had never heard before.

“One night in every two or three, Herman would come and we would talk, never for more than an hour, in the ruined house. Set against the moon, spiders would shimmer their transparent legs through the steps of a strange ritual. Speaking in a sad monotone, the young hunchback again and again unraveled the thin material of my life — with prints of our tower, the field, Mamma and Pappa, my dolls, and the neighbor’s girls — to build other and still other scenes in their place, with marble temples dissolving into the light. One night, after he had led me through the galleries of a house whose windows were held by putti and garlands, and then down rectangular corridors with niches of pot-bellied urns, we came to a room in ruins, lit by a moon through a frameless window and overgrown with weeds. There I looked Herman in the eye.

“I was naked to the waist, as usual, and my hair ran over my shoulders, down to my nipples. Herman held a hair clipper, nickel-plated, like a pair of pliers with one long side, full of teeth along the edge. He came toward me, smiling, and with his other hand he mimed a pair of scissors. I let him clip me bald, strand by strand, my hair falling around me. Then I let him shave my head with a razor, an old one that folded into its handle. In the end, Herman ran his fingers over the flat hemisphere that housed my brain, as voluptuously as he would have touched a grown woman’s breast. That was the one time I was scared. Only then did I see a plank table, with an arrangement of instruments that were completely unfamiliar to me. Some of them looked like the pieces of metal I found in the field, near the greasy machinery and the old tram. Others had long needles at the end with unnerving curves. With these, all night long, until the dawn turned white, Herman tattooed my entire scalp. He worked as laboriously as a giant arachnid, mechanical and quiet. What fantastically colored anatomical illustration, what constellations from a map of another planet’s stars, what starched lace, like over the scalp of a rotund Dutchwoman, did Herman engrave into my skull? I would never know. Through the long hours of painful slices, prickings, and impregnations of multicolored inks, I looked around myself, moving only my eyeballs, and I observed certain incongruities between the ruined room I was seeing and the way it had looked before, like in those games where you compare two almost-identical pictures. The tarnished doorknob, the plug hanging from the wall, and the mold on the tapestry were all different, even if I couldn’t say how. Perhaps the difference was not in them, but in me, in my emotions, even in my nature (yes, yes, that’s it, because I remember looking deep into Herman’s fish eyes, and seeing a strange princess from a faraway land, her head shaved and her ears oddly large. That was the only time I ever saw myself and thought that I was beautiful).”

Anca went home at dawn, at last, with stiff bones, with the conviction that this was not the world where she had been born, that it all looked different, that the clouds made impossible, prophetic shapes in the morning sky, that even the sparrows who hopped through the garbage were not supposed to be the way they were, but some other way completely, although they had the same shape that Anca remembered. Her father saw her through the tower window, his face pale and sleepless, his hair blown in the cold wind. When he saw her, he was motionless for a moment, and then he disappeared from the window. “He banged down the spiral staircase and rushed to me. I hugged him and drew in his smell of red putty and hemp. My head was cold and painful. My inflamed skin drew a network in my mind of linear and pointillist pain. I leaned my skull against his chest, and this was how my mother found us, rushing over from a neighbor who had a phone. She had called all the hospitals, ambulances, the police … I climbed the tower’s three flights of stairs, and they locked me up in my room without a mirror, and there I stayed until, in slow rotation, autumn, winter, and spring had passed, and it was summer again. My hair grew like reeds, like a brown grass, and that year bushes of hair sprouted from my armpits, and below my belly, so much that I was afraid that the curly, sparkling tufts would surface and cover me everywhere, leaving just my nipples and eyes, like a mother dog. How lonely I was, when the cupolas of my breasts took shape! When my skin became soft! I lay in my wet bed for hours, curled up, my hands pressed between my legs, wetting my pillow with saliva and tears. Ever since, ashen faced, she had seen the colored drawings on my skull, my mother had begun to hate me, she only came into my room to yell at me about straightening up, or smelling bad, or that I hadn’t bathed since who knows when. She said nothing to me when I woke up one morning, scared to death, with a spot of blood on the sheet, between my legs. She just brought me a tub with some bleach and soapy water, so I could wash the coarse cloth. When she would burst into my room, with her tortured laborer’s face, with the smell of cheap soap, “Cheia” or “Cămila,” carrying a bowl of soup, something softened and flowed within me, leaving an unbearable void between my ribs: I did not want, even if you broke my arm, to become a woman, to go to the factory, to cook, wash, sew, and then let a husband grab me at night and slam me onto the bed to step on me and abuse me, the way my father did with my mother. Why didn’t Mamma leave? Why didn’t she go out into the world? What kind of life was that, home and the factory, with only one dress for years and years, with a bra that looked more like a dishrag and underpants in shreds from being boiled so often? Now and then she went to the hairdresser, and she came back with some ridiculous stuffed-cabbage hairdo, and in a few days it fell apart. When a thread came out of a stocking, she took it for mending to a lady who sat from morning until evening in a small room with one window, barely big enough for her folds of fat, looking like a caterpillar in a print dress. Yes, my mother came into the world and lived without joy and without hope. So I didn’t mind when I saw how much she hated me. I saw my shitty future in her, being a painter or weaver or stamper, because then I could not imagine a different life was possible. And maybe it isn’t.

“There were several times that the teacher knocked on our door, because I was supposed to be in the sixth grade and I hadn’t come to school in the fall. By September, my hair was already bushy and covered up the tattoos. I didn’t go to school all year. The doctors found something in my bones or my heart, I don’t know what, that let me put school off for a year. But I read a lot, because anything was better than lying in bed or wandering around the table. And I dreamed a lot, more than ever, the way I heard once on the radio that embryos dream in the womb, that they are dreaming (but of what?) almost all the time. And locked in my room, curled up under the sheets, I was nothing but a fruit of flesh ripening in the shadows. I dreamed that you would come, I dreamed of what you would look like, in every detail, which is why I was not upset when you knocked, and I invited you into the house like an old friend, as I would Herman himself, if he ever came. In my dream, you were wandering the streets of a quiet and sunny neighborhood, you were like a blind man’s hand, plunged into what might be called reality, if it wasn’t unseen, the way something can exist even when there’s nobody there to perceive its existence. I watched from the little window as you approached, as you crossed the lot full of strange wheels, prismatic windows, fresh red and yellow paint, steps that lower automatically, the number clear on the side, and a small platform at the back. I watched as you reached the cypress — chopped down years ago — to the right of the tower, as you read the silly thing that Dănuţ, the carpenter’s son next door, had written in the wall in chalk, and as you sensed that you had to come in. I called you then, in the dream, by your name: ‘Mircea,’ and I knew that, years later, you would hear.”

10

THE rose jam gave me a dizzying pain at the bridge of my nose. I finished the jam, and now I distractedly scratched the spoon against the thick glass plate, dotted with syrup. Herman. How strangely everything was starting to connect! I had always hoped my life would go differently than anyone else’s, that it would have a meaning, a meaning that perhaps I couldn’t grasp, but that was visible from somewhere high up, like a pattern in an immense field. Nothing ought to be accidental. Every person I ever met and every toothache and every grain of dust seen in a ray of light (or unseen, but there with its unsteady geometry to plug a corner of my life’s endless fractal) and even the vaguest feeling of hunger or anxiety were only colored dots in a carpet rolling and unrolling within itself, wrapping me like a silk cocoon or like the mottled strips that wrap mummies. And even I, a mummified butterfly, was just another figure, dotting the canvas with the wool of my blood. Anca kept watch over the entrance to the labyrinth, in her lonely dungeon, with her tattooed scalp covered by hair, the way that Mayan temples full of rattlesnakes lie in the jungle and in Ernst’s paintings. An immense full moon might turn the steps yellow. Anca’s blue eyes would remain the only constant of her life, from when she was a little girl to her old age, as though the fluctuating volume of her life was only a series of photos passing before two blue bars. But an old Anca, hanging flaccidly from her own eyes, was inconceivable to me, because she could not have her own destiny, separate from mine. She was as dense and homogenous as a statue. Anca only made a brief appearance in my life. She was a robot built to deliver her lines, just like every person I ever met, and every object. The glass of juice I sipped sometime as a child appeared so I could drink it. There had been nothing before and there would be nothing after it left my hand or my sight. A woman on the street, who looked at me for a moment and then, with the same expression, at the window of a home store, existed only for that moment, slopped together with some plaster and a bit of color, and then dissolved on the spot in the scorching traffic. What could Anca do in old age? Raise her grandchildren? But the chair I sat on, sipping my cup of cold water and watching her, had never been made by a carpenter from timber brought from the mountains, and the timber was not cut from a tree that lived for thirty years in the piney solitude of the forest, and the fir had not sprouted from a seed fallen to the earth, among decaying pine needles and ferns. A year from now it will not be sold, other people will not sit on it, and in ten years it will not be taken apart, not used to patch a hole in a wood fence … it will not grow mold and lichen there, in a grove of cherry trees, until all its nails rust and its wood passes through the intestines of termites, to mingle with the earth. The chair had no history, but was conceived there only for an hour, in a house built for an hour, inhabited by a girl with breasts already large and round, but without qualities, without softness and warmth and internal structure. If I had touched Anca’s breasts, they would have become instantly pliable and scented, and then just as instantly not. I move slowly along a predestined path, while around me someone creates my existence.

Yes, I was sure: my life was constructed. Second by second, a metaphysical artist invented billions of details and made captivating and exuberant scenery, iridescent surfaces beyond which was perhaps a uniform radiance, or the indescribable. Naturally, this immense façade could at any moment take on the appearance of depth. You could put a sample of anything (a drop of blood from your finger, say) under the microscope and gaze at the snowflakes of hemoglobin, the iron atom in the center and the surrounding lace of oxygen and hydrogen, but this structure is created by the investigation itself, and only locally, no other drop of the cubic kilometers of blood of all living creatures had that pattern. Its depth was only produced by surfaces …

I stood. Anca did too, smoothing her blue dress with her fingers. Each fold housed in its depths a silken, ultramarine reflection, darker than the azure dress and flowing like water, as though she were dressed in a gelatinous liquid. She called me into another, smaller room, where a chipped mirror hung on the wall. Under the mirror was a pine table with a drawer, covered with a naïve cross-stitch. We looked into the mirror of olive-brown waters: a young man with hollow cheeks, sensual lips, fixed and fanatical eyes, and a modest girl from the edge of town. Anca pulled open the drawer, and I saw that it was filled with fantastical instruments: a glittering toolkit. I could recognize a razor, clippers, pliers, needles and bottles, and more complex devices utterly foreign to me, things that looked like sewing machine shuttles, electric torture clamps, wishbones … All were French-fitted into trays of white latex foam. Joints with delicate rivets, fine tips arching like insect mandibles, heavy, truncated handles — they all produced as much pleasure as repulsion, they were perfect, but perfect for wounding, tearing, puncturing, cutting, and maybe also for strangling and trepanning (a small saw, a beauty of silver metal, might serve to take slices from the skull). I lifted the kit carefully and placed it on the table. The girl took an old, dirty chair and sat on it in front of the mirror. She unfastened the straps on her shoulders and was naked to her waist, her breasts large and firm, with gooseflesh from the cold. Standing behind her, I passed my hand through her hair, and through the disorder of brown strands, for the first time, I glimpsed the wonder: a multicolored universe etched into the white, pearly skin of her head. My fingers opened scented paths, bordered by thousands of threads extending their white shoots. Every path seemed paved with blue tiles, and violet and pink and yellow, so many disparate letters in a convex puzzle … a quiet forest, empty and lonely, that covered ancient foundations. For a moment I imagined I was a louse exploring the barren woods, stepping on pliable soil, grabbing onto thick, semitransparent trunks made of horn, trying to trace the inextricable mandala beneath my footsteps on a map.

I removed the clippers from their bay. I snapped them a few times in the air, watching the two toothed blades mounted on the end work together, well oiled, and then I placed the cold metal on Anca’s brow and cleared a first stripe, up to her crown. Her locks fell gracefully, art nouveau, into her lap, and just a few hairs clung to her eyelashes, which she shook off with a wink. I continued, carefully following the undulations of her scalp, scattering spiral locks on the ground, until her forehead stretched up to the fontanel. I cleared the area around her left ear (now I noticed her earrings, a little girl’s, three grains as ruby as a raspberry held in a bit of gold), and then her neck, trying hard not to look at the increasingly bizarre lithography I uncovered. There were some tufts between the two neck muscles that I found impossible to cut away. I continued toward her right ear, and everything was complete when an aery spiral fell in a delicate coil to the floor. Her scalp was ashen, as though along with her hair, she had also lost the frame that, like a motorcycle helmet, protected her brain. In that ashen desert there were drawings. The tattoos were clearly visible now. But I hadn’t wanted to understand the tattoos from the start, so, gently bringing my eyelids together to hide the dazzling embellishments, I kept working, repeating Herman’s technological maneuvers in reverse. I lathered her scalp, and with the razor, I removed the last traces of the ancient forest. I wiped her skull with a napkin until it began to shine dully, like an ivory ball. In comparison, Anca’s face seemed fleshy and vulgar, like a sexual organ hanging toward the floor. Her breasts, her slim teenager’s belly, her hips and legs now wrapped in electric blue cashmere were hanging, like the fringes of a multicolored jellyfish, from the convexity of her scalp. I stared, stunned by the thousands of lines intersecting like the threads of a bizarre embroidery, curves of endless grace traced over the floral design, tiny figurines flowing one into the next, knotted in an inextricable diorama. There was nothing to understand, yet everything cried out to be understood … the mystical conduction of the lines, the manic patience of the connections, and the refinement of the colors made you feel there was a message encoded there, that Herman had left a generous invitation or a terrible warning, or both at once, fixed on the hemisphere of that planet that had once been inhabited and flowering.

I circled around Anca, trying to make connections mentally, to join this spot in the shape of a wing with that line like a polyarticulate spider leg, this figure I thought I knew with that graffiti from a public toilet, this letter so clearly depicted (an M, in antic capital, colored in a beautiful violet), with that man as naked and beautiful as an archangel … But I didn’t have the key, and without it, everything was chaos and despair. Like in a coffee cup, a tortoise shell, the whole and broken lines of the I Ching, a palm whose sprawling fingers would hold the world, an inextricable dream, an obscure prophecy, I tried, in the catoptromant of memory, to divine, through the fog of too many colors, through the obscenity of excessive chastity, the message from another world. With my eyes closed, I circled my fingers over the pearly shell of Anca’s brain, like a phrenologist exploring the hump of stubbornness and gratitude. I opened my eyes and continued around her, trying dozens of angles, each of which revealed still more degrees of the design (the left parietal area seemed to house the watermark of a strange transparent egg, in which throbbed the fetus of a scaly chimera; toward the occiput I made out clearly the word DAN woven in royal cobras; above the forehead at one point I saw a naked girl sitting on her heels, urinating a flood of blue, and then I lost her; in Broca’s area my parents were smiling like in their wedding photo). Anca tried from time to time, helplessly, to meet my gaze, showing me a detail in the mirror and then shrugging her shoulders.

Only when I looked from exactly overhead, and just with my right eye — the one that lets me see clearly — did I have the revelation of the whole. There, on Anca’s skull, Herman (the same one I had talked to for hours on the cement steps of the block on Ştefan cel Mare, listening to his husky whispers about Felicia and the cosmos and his need to drink two bottles of vodka per day) had tattooed Everything, and everything had my face. Looking directly at the middle of the fontanel, I saw my face in a convex reflection. Moving my eyes just a centimeter to one side or the other changed the perspective and destroyed the overall picture, as if the drawing was not flat, but in relief, containing all of Anca’s intracranial space, biting into her jugular, and rooted in filaments of her entire body. It was my face, but every feature of it was formed in many miniscule designs, tightly intertwined, and their details, drawn in even thinner lines, were in turn composed of other designs, on another scale. The process had no end, because the twisting shroud of the abyssal fish that was a hair in my right eyebrow, was in turn composed of a nocturnal scene where Joseph, Mary, and baby Jesus sat by a fire the night before the flight to Egypt. If you looked carefully at one of the stars frothing in the sky above the Holy Family, you could just see an immense cluster of faces screaming among tongues of fire (one of these faces was Felicia’s). The mole on her chin clearly held the smoking remains of a railway accident, and in an atom of the smoke were the planets and suns of another universe, with their own flora, fauna and ethology, and so on, and so on, without end. Exploring any detail meant you had to chose one branch, ignore the rest of the design, and concentrate on just one detail of the original detail, and then a detail of the detail of the detail. This plunge into the heart of the design could be deadly for one’s mind to even attempt. From the thousandth level, you would have to come back, to reverse course to find, in the billions of details of your level of detail, a single detail from the next higher level, to combine it with a billion more to move higher up, in maddening continuity.

Hours must have passed before I surfaced, before I recomposed my face from a myriad of particulars in the silky mirror of Anca’s scalp. But did I come out onto the same surface? Might the image of me in the tower, looking at the shaved skull of a girl naked to the waist, seated in front of a mirror, repeat somewhere in the depths of the billions of layers? Perhaps, following a new thrust of my mind, I might have risen so high that the scene in Anca’s room, and the tower and houses nearby, and the clouds above, and the fantastical view of Bucharest, and the vast curvature of the earth, and the golden pocket watch of the galaxy, and the foam of the supergalaxy, curved within itself and throbbing like an embryo, all of this would make up just one atom of carbon in a thread of chitin in the back of a fly from another universe, and this universe would constitute one atom of a potato peel in the garbage of a higher universe, and this whole process of my mind would continue indefinitely too, just like diving into the details and details of details …

Again I looked at my thin and sad face, that seemed drawn in charcoal, as it was reflected in the shining, living ball in front of my sternum. I looked around us, and the world was concrete again, reassuring, with impenetrable gray walls, where lights and shadows were sharply drawn, with a window where summer clouds rolled by, and a bald girl seated in front of a mirror — and me. The wet floor was strewn with brown hair, and looked somehow dirty. Anca stood, reattached the straps at her shoulders and took my hand, leading me back to the living room. We were quiet for a few minutes. She was ashen and exhausted, as if she knew her life was over (I saw her again a few years ago: a housewife holding a baby boy and a misshapen bag from which arose a hemisphere of cabbage. She was about to cross somewhere on Ziduri Moşi. She had a fatigued expression, and her right cheekbone was bruised. I rapped on the tram window taking me to Pantelimon, but I couldn’t get her to look) and that from that moment on, she would grope blindly through the dark, as spent as a discharged weapon, as ignored as a valuable incunabulum mixed in with rags and scraps by a clueless antiques dealer. I was distractedly looking at the wall, where there was a painting of a girl in a red dress jumping a crooked hopscotch, each square a different color. The tower was solemn and awkward, like a hut of planks raised higher than high, its crown in the clouds, and above it, like an ashen blade, slanted, hung the shadow of the cypress. We embraced in the hallway, like brother and sister, and touched our lips to each other’s cheeks. I went down the spiral staircase, opened the front door, and was struck suddenly by the gale, ready to knock me down, of the light and heat of the day. I didn’t take even a dozen steps before my shirt was sopping. I waded into the flames squinting, wounded, trying to orient myself, almost sure I was going the wrong direction. And I was, because after a while, turning onto a street with an algae-filled gutter along the edge, I recognized a ruined house, where I had seen the gypsy working a strip of brass. The boy was a few houses further on, eating sunflower seeds with some other kids wearing only underwear: black, dirty shorts and torn tank tops. Among the weeds that jetted up from the rank and the gaping holes in the windows, where plaster had been worn down to the brick, I saw something glittering gold. I walked through the garbage and thistles up to the wall of the house, staining my pants on the rusty cans and greasy pipes. Human feces, dry and full of flies, were scattered everywhere, in the corners of empty rooms, on the grass, and in the weeds … I lifted the brass band, a crooked crescent baked so long in the sun I could barely hold it. It looked like a filmstrip, with every frame sliced by the jaws of a guillotine press. My heart jumped when I saw that, near the middle, the series of rectangles broke off and were replaced by etched letters. A word. Perhaps it was the word Anca saw in her dream (or in her true reality): PÎNCOTA.

11

WITH tears in my eyes, I remember thirty years. I am not in my right mind. A loneliness murmurs in my ears, desperate and soothing at the same time, like the sound I once heard of the murmuring bowels wrapped around my mother’s womb — the babble of caves, with the underground spring of her bladder. Sometimes a tram passes, or deep in the night, a stray dog barks, or someone talks loudly, and all of these noises remind my skin (certainly then I heard through my skin, like spiders do, as though I were completely enveloped in my own eardrum) of the distant echo of my father’s voice, from a miserable room where I had yet to exist. Very young, unshaven, and wearing just an undershirt, my father would stick his ear to my mother’s stomach and speak, and my skin, thin as a soap bubble, heard his garbled words, the way you hear noises in the house when you sink into a full bathtub. I thought I smelled sweat from the bushes of his armpits. I felt him punch me on the heel or elbow when I pushed them against the elastic wall of my mother’s belly. Over part of my hunched, transparent body, I felt the shadow of the large butterfly on my mother’s hip, eclipsing the dim light bulb that hung from two wires in the ceiling. I would open my eyelids, soaking my corneas in placental fluid, and through the thick glass of the uterus, I saw the World: two huge animals sniffing each other in their lair, embracing each other on a plank bed, penetrating each other like heavenly bodies. Two monstrous anatomies nailed to the stocks, two teratological exhibits. My mother’s womb, like a lens of flesh, distorted the new world into which I would be expelled. Through it, the woman’s skull elongated, her snout filled with frightening teeth, her ribs poked through her skin and opened into two monstrous bat wings, while my father’s spine shot out bone spikes that scratched the ceiling. I was afraid of them, of their lair, of supplication to respiration and digestion, of the unimaginable touch of horny fingers on my fresh, moist skin.

I have been writing in this brown-covered notebook for three months. I’ve almost never left my apartment in the attic. And when I have left, to go to the grocery store or the bakery, or for night walks through Piata Rosetti, Piata University, Strada Batiştei, I’ve always returned with the feeling that something has happened. Not even the world is in its right mind. It’s as if my notebook were a permanent marker tip resting in a cup of water: slowly diaphanous veils emerge, purple and indigo, veils of unreality, diluted like cigarette smoke in the cold April wind. Yesterday morning, in a blinding light, a crowd of Bucharesteans gathered at the intersection of Moşilor and Bulevard, looking at the peaked domes of a house I had noticed long ago, a yellow building with a concave front, crowned with two domes like huge breasts, rising against the chaotic spring sky. Tram 21, passing at a distance of barely a meter, provoked the beautiful building, its window frames painted in pale blue, into a gentle and continuous shimmy, so that it really seemed to be a female torso emerging from the asphalt. Now, helmeted workers were up on the roof, on a circular scaffolding that bent around the brazen breasts and their nipples with black lightning rods poking out. At first, it was hard to tell what they were doing. The building had been restored only last summer. What could that be, foamy and pink, which was covering the abundant chest, bit by bit? The workers unpacked it from bales they carried on their shoulders to the top. In the end, everything became clear: they were giving the building a bra! Within two hours, the cupolas, which were at least five meters high, were completely covered by veils and lace of pink pearl, a flowery style with small holes. The two large cups connected in the middle by a turquoise brooch, and fastened onto an elastic band. The city, we were told, had been receiving reports of the building’s impropriety for several years, and it had waited patiently to find funds to remedy the situation. Although it looked like silk, the cover was actually made of waterproof plastic, able to withstand all types of weather.

And monsters. More and more of them came out, you could see them everywhere — cripples, hunchbacks, unbelievably stinky bums, bald-headed hags with cheeks as hollow as a Goya, the crazy and mad, and imbeciles with snot running into their mouths. In front of the Baraţiei Tower, an old beggar thumped onto the pavement, a venerable man with a gray and yellowed beard down to his waist. He had a serious face, but his pants were open like a hernia, and his penis and balls were hanging out, as pink as a teenager’s. And others, and others, filling the streets, waking the subway stations, a subterranean humanity rising like menacing water.

At first it was fun to look at her, although I realized how unusual her appearance was. She filled the subway seat nicely, her wonderful heft even continuing beyond its edges. She stood out mostly as a large patch of pink, since she was wearing a shirt and trouser ensemble made of pink satin, a thin material with flowers, like pajamas. She was considerably wider than she was high, stocky, puffy as a mandarin (and even the curve of her body had something about it of a Chinese person with a touch of obesity) and her unnaturally white arms, fat, with very thin skin, emerged from short sleeves. Her large head, wire-haired, very gray, was somehow paradoxical: its skin seemed coarser than her body’s, and her features appeared to have been artificially aged. Her metal-framed glasses contributed to this impression. And yet there was something terribly naïve and helpless about her face: like a ten-year-old girl’s, a mixture of fear and shyness. Sometimes she crinkled her nose like a little panda bear, and her fleshy mouth hung open in gentle perplexity. She looked so clean, so neat (you could almost smell the expensive soap) that you might have said she was from another country, or she was an Asian doll. After my eyes had cropped her out of the sweaty mob dozing in the train, I realized she was not alone. Beside her, standing, was another woman. Her hair was just as gray. She seemed, judging from her body, older than the first woman (but by how many years?), and her appearance attracted no attention at all. She was an ordinary woman, in an ordinary dress. Her face, bitter: pressed lips, wrinkles between her eyebrows — she was a woman without joy, probably damaged by life. She had a sturdy body, stout, but without the flabby appearance of the other. Watching the two of them trade looks, you could think at first that you were wrong. The one standing regarded the other with a love all the more touching on a face that harsh, and the seated one responded with small, shy smiles, looking up with the most childish eyes you could imagine. When they approached the station, the older woman motioned to the younger one. They became much more explicitly a couple than the language of their gestures had shown, and more mysterious at the same time. The two, with the same haircut, wiry and half gray, touched each other, regarded each other, and a love moved between them that was difficult to interpret, at once moving and odd. The older one sometimes held the other’s shoulder, with looks of quiet assurance, and other times she took her gently by her plump arm or caressed her forearm. The first responded awkwardly, slightly bent, her hands always hanging at her sides, always with the same small, lost smile. When the door opened, sliding to one side, the older reminded the younger to watch her step, like you would a child, and they moved across the tiled platform through the crowd. The younger one walked unnaturally, weighted, as though she had to lift her thick feet with her hands, wide and strange as pink balloons, and then suddenly she seemed alone again, a Chinese doll, or a teddy bear.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to describe him. One unbearably light day, I climbed onto a crowded bus. Someone stood up right in front of me and I got a seat by the window. I took out a book. Among the last to get on were two men, tall, bony, in crumpled long-sleeved shirts. They weren’t much older than forty, and they were good-looking, in a provincial way. A dwarf was traveling with them, and one of them helped him get on board before the doors closed and the bus started. When we came to the next station, the woman next to me got up and one of the two men, who had been talking constantly about soccer, resting his arms on the dwarf’s shoulders, sat down and took him on his knee, like a child. The poor guy was relatively well proportioned. He was at least fifty, judging by his damp hair, half gray, by the wrinkles on his face, and by his corpulence. He was not more than one meter high. He wore dark glasses, his mouth was red and pocked, and his unshaven face was quite bright and pinkish. His arms, exposed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves, were also pink and stubby, with tender skin, and hairless except on his fingers. He held on to the back of the seat in front of him, with his legs hanging into the abyss under the chair. What was disturbing was the way this man was shaking, like a frightened animal. He didn’t look at anyone. He just sat in the arms of the young man, shaking continuously. Sweat ran down the hair on his cheeks. The two men were paying no attention to him, as though he were a monkey or a dog on its way to the vet. I stood up when it was time for me to get off, and only then did the dwarf look at me, from head to toe, in fear. But he made no gesture. The young man turned to one side to let me pass.

Two or three days ago, on my way home at night, alone, I went into Stairway 1. I went into the entryway and looked up through the endless square well shaft lined with windows and gathering a speck of stars at the top. I went past the stairway that smelled like insecticide, its paint peeling from the walls in wide strips, and I went out again and continued, like a somnambulist, to the concrete courtyard. A single dim bulb, orange-red, shone a ghostly light over the yard. Everything was like a dream. I saw that throne with the rusty pot above it, and the depression with a little cement bridge over it, leading toward the walled-over doorway. Everything was narrow, gray, and oppressive, with sharply cut shadows, in silence, and a kind of hidden, latent, mythical power. A fire escape held in iron rings cast a lacy shadow onto the wall of the police station. A poplar leaf batted gently against a whitewashed wall. I was moving, fascinated and careful, inside a photograph. I looked fixedly toward the bridge, one end held by the huge, bare wall, the railing on the left casting a pitch-black shadow in a triangle over the tiles.

Out of that corner came Silvia, her eyes sparkling, her lips wet. Her tiny nipples peered through the flesh of her crossed arms. Her thin, naked body, her hairless pubis, and her limpid legs white as chalk were drawn against the rough background of the wall, where nocturnal insects scuttled. I recognized Silvia as one of those transparent beings who visited me ever more frequently, who would sit on my bedstead and watch me carefully, without disappearing when I opened my eyes in terror. She would come down the steps gently and stop in front of me. Then, confused, I realized we were the same height, we stood eye to eye. I hadn’t grown since I was ten, but the walls had grown tremendously and the mill behind the fence was an obtuse castle, as big as a continent, crowding the square of night sky above. Brown moths turned through the spectral air in electric light and landed on the lumpy lime, forming a mosaic of triangles. Silvia climbed onto the tall throne and sat over the metal bowl, and I stood with my head tilted back, looking into her eyes, following her glassy, whitish body, enlaced by the smell of ladybugs and milked flour. Looking me in the eyes and smiling, her girl face suddenly started to urinate a yellow sparkling stream, which bounced in drops of diamonds over the pavement at my feet. She was a frozen enigma. She looked like a baroque fountain of elliptical beauty.

There were days when the only people I saw on the streets were blind. The first one I saw gave me a feeling of foreboding. And then they began to stream in from all sides. Other times I only noticed the deformed beggars, their shirts undone to display a tumor as big as an infant’s head coming out of their stomachs, a grinning tracheotomy, an abscess spread from neck to collarbone, or hands and feet crudely cut off and the stumps tied with strings, like sausages. It was as if the entire population of Bucharest had been mutilated. Afterward, I would come back here, to my attic, the top of the scarlet block on Uranus, a block I’ve known since I was a teenager. I would hang out in this attic apartment with a chair, a table, and a bed, never guessing that I would drop everything one day to live my dream: to live in the halo of solitude, an unearthly life. It was a place to attempt (as I’ve done continuously for the last three months) to go back where no one has, to remember what no one remembers, to understand what no person can understand: who I am, what I am.

Last fall I rented this studio. I moved in bit by bit, first for a few hours in the morning, just to write, then to nap in the afternoon, and finally, I slept here, writhing through nocturnal nightmares. It’s a small room, with a ceiling that slopes from the front door to the window. One strange feature is that the window is oval — outside there is a garland supported by two plaster Cupids so that it frames Bucharest into a conglomeration of buildings and vegetation under a shifting sky, like a bad painting. The table is right by the window and bathed in light, while the bed is shaded in a dark corner. My bed is the deepest pit of my spider nest. The desk is only a projection of my bed. This text, which devours more and more white pages, like mold or rust, is the sweat, semen, and tears that soak the sheet of a single man. Spread like a damp piece of parchment, just skinned, over a wooden frame, the sheet could be the map of our secret life, with large areas of white and yellow, wrinkled and burned parts, nothing but countries and dominions with allegorical names, deltas and rivers and deserts: the Land of Love and the Land of Atrocities, the Laguna of Fear, the Fjord of Dizziness … Surfaces smeared by all the manure of the world, the cortex crammed under the skull like a dirty old shirt in a washing machine, sheets crumpled in the bed and pages in the notebook, trailed with ink marks — these three texts wrap themselves in and interpenetrate in my madness. If I were to stretch my cortex over the bed, it would cover it completely, like a gray blanket with six layers, crossed with veins. If I cut it into pieces and glued them between the covers, it would be this text, spoiled with lysergic acid, the fabric that holds my fearful, concupiscent sweat. Rising from the bed, I sit at the desk. Then I fall back into bed again, dragging the lace of inky letters, like a spiderweb, in my pulverized mind, and melting into the vast network of dreams.

Who am I? Who was I? How is it possible? Why did I come into the world? What does all this madness mean, this circus, this illusion? Why did I pop out of a woman’s uterus onto a speck in a constellation of dust? And why do I understand this dementia? Alongside the banal nocturnal thought that you will soon disappear forever, when you sit bolt upright and you say, “No, Lord, I won’t, please, please, Lord …” and you are sure you will never think or feel anything ever again — alongside these hideous banalities, I have often experienced others, maybe even more disturbing to me: I could have been born an earthworm or a bug or a mite or a bacterium, I could have experienced existence and then disappeared without gaining anything, diving into mud at the bottom of a lake, advancing with peristaltic movements, waving my vibrating cilia in a drop of water, digging canals with my mandibles through a foul hunk of cheese that would have been my universe for my entire life. I could have been a fungus that gave thrush to a stray dog, or who the hell knows what, anything else. I could have been not only without conscience, but even without consciousness, even without feeling. God, a life without feeling, how horrible! To have the sacred opportunity to live in the world, and all you get to be is a chip from a tree trunk, or a pinworm smeared with feces in the rectum that is your whole universe. This is when the madness hits me, when I jump out of bed and pace with my hands on my head, muttering something quickly so I won’t hear myself think. My suddenly clear and perverse mind tells me that this is actually what I am, that I really am a pinworm, that the world really is a nasty anus, and that I will never know the true world, or the true consciousness, or the true light that makes this world, in contrast, look like a cesspool. My mind tells me I’m nothing more than a pool of flesh, veins and arteries, cartilage and mucus, and that itself is a miserable consciousness, barely able to understand its own misery.

Now, while I am writing these sentences, these pages are turning so dim I can barely see them. It’s a twilight you don’t often see in spring. The sky has suddenly turned yellow and threatening, leaving dregs of gold in the craggy apartment blocks — a yellow-green sky, like cobra venom. The sky is growing darker, while light still hangs on the houses and the windows, heating their pale skin, giving them the ravaged color of memory. I myself am as white as a pillar of salt in the shadowy room. I stand up by my desk to gaze at Bucharest, my city, my alter ego. This strange block on Strada Uranus, where I have decided to live, has always looked to me like the city’s penis, red and erect, with veins and cables flowing under its skin. My skull, transparent in the twilight, my thin, fluttering body, pink in the glowing window — I am a spermatozoon, ready to shoot toward the sky. As far away as the Intercontinental Hotel, the city raises its forms and branches, its roofs and clouds. My oval window is too small for me to notice the scene’s lack of edges, as I did as a teenager on Ştefan cel Mar, before they built the block across the street. Now I am on the other side of the block, within a symmetrical and far-off chakra. I am grown up, that is, I am an idiot, that is, I am tired, I’m decidedly finished with my life, I’m doing the only thing I have left to do, that is, I’m sending lusty and feverish glances through the block-curtain, through the shutter of my body, like a voyeur peeking at his own life, as though, like a shellfish, I was female until the middle of my life and then I became male, as though I could fertilize myself through the perineal wall. I am a voyeur of my own childhood and youth, trying to understand what is happening behind the blinds, running from one window to another, misreading what I see in the shadows, mistaking an elbow for a breast, mistaking a dress thrown over the back of a chair for exposed buttocks, mistaking black branches against the window for lovers flopping onto the bed. I cannot be there, I will never be there, but still I must get there, I must try to understand.

The buildings on the horizon have turned pitch black, smeared at the edges with a gloomy orange. I don’t want to turn the light on, even though now all I can see is the oval window, the dark orange page, and a trace of the same dirty color from the tip of my pen. In the (maybe) quarter-hour of visibility left, I turn back to the word engraved in brass. PÎNCOTA. “Paunch,” I’d said immediately, moving further through the harsh and burning light, turning onto a cross street. On both sides of the street were lines of square, yellow buildings with their plaster shattered, like Etruscan tombs. Some sort of house-wagon, two stories high, with all its windows broken, sprang directly from a pile of broken toilets, flattened cans, and paper. Old gypsies poked their heads out the windows. It all seemed familiar to me, and it hurt like a wound, as if the entire neighborhood were a crust of dried blood on a child’s knee, and I, the child, picked at the scab until beads of blood appeared. I could not place anything precisely, however. I don’t know how many corners I turned, or how many strange, triangular piaţas I found, each one with a statue of a soldier surrounded by puddles as green as bile, brimming with pollywogs. How many times did I retrace those streets, how many times did I pass the house (or castle) built by a crazy old man, who decorated it with turrets, niches with statues, and mysterious emblems … In the yard, there were glass globes in pink, blue, lilac, and saffron staked on poles, pembá, like a landscape of Christmas ornaments, plaster gnomes, and tomato trellises. Pîncota. I knew it had to be the name of a street, and that it couldn’t be anywhere but this tangled neighborhood. Pîncota. Paunch. When I was looking at the ruins — and actually all the houses were ruins, ruins that smelled like laundry soap and dirty water — the poem I had written a few years before came to me, written when I saw in a dream (as I would so many times) the house where I was born. I recited it out loud to the rubble of concrete fences, to the tiny flowers growing through the stones in the pavement, to the clouds built overhead like another labyrinthine district, overwhelmingly sad:

i remember: beads of sweat growing through pavement stones

i recall: the grocery in the slums knocked over by clouds

and clouds running to my mother’s stomach, crashing into a billion snail horns

huddled there in the billions of pores.

i know: kindergartens, nurseries, roads of lamp gas

i understand: night, night with a goiter

stars, chopped chrysanthemum stuffing

chopped arteries, ponds …

i see again: i see you kneeling again, sagging breasts, black hair whirling

white arm outstretched, fingers crinkling my face

huge, terrific, bomb exploding in slow motion

big black fly buzzing in the net of my nerves.

my dear mother who never bore me!

i write these lines to you, lines that will never be born.

i still know diamond street and house number zero

where you knit my veins into a sweater for dad

i still know, i know those clouds chained like rabid dogs

rushing towards your stomach, rending it — taking me out

taking me out of there, i remember, mamma,

and wrapping me in the blanket of your hair.

how you screamed out, how bruised you were when the clouds, your men

and gynecologist fertilized you, delivered me,

when i, pure as milk and polite

left the shadow of my fingers upon your face.

The windows on one side of the streets had already begun to sparkle in the dusk when I found it. “PÎNCOTA (formerly Silistra)” was written on a small blue placard, nailed to a fence greased with petroleum. I cannot understand to this day why they changed the name of the street. But I know when I entered that tunnel of unsettling houses, walking with small steps, I was trying as hard as I could to recognize, to reconstruct, and to relive. I’d only glimpsed this completely walled-off part of my life in my deepest dreams, and even then as something ambiguous and surreal, something combined with disparate objects from other layers of my mind. I walked with the feeling that nothing was real, that I was entering my own brain, or entering a realm attached to reality like a denture over toothless stumps. There was an overlapping stage décor, something fabled and psychic, enchanted. I saw the balcony with oleanders, propped on the pink clay backs of the two Atlases with hairy pubises. On the balcony, so eaten away by termites that the holes could be seen from the street, a wicker rocking chair swayed gently in front of a door with rectangular windows. I passed the old grocery store, with its low entryway beneath a stone arch. I put my head into the basement where, in my mother’s arms, I must have stared with round, dumb eyes, and touched the fire-red poppies in the showcase (still there after twenty-eight years) near the primitive cash register, with rolls of paper for tickets, and the receipts and shelves of canned food and pasta glimmering in the shadows. The shopkeeper was still there, mummified, her nose eaten away, her teeth bare, wrapped in the rags that remained of her apron. Spiders scurried everywhere, caught between old wormy sacks of flour and petrified sugar, in webs so thick that they looked like pieces of felt or batting. Across the black and withered hands of the shopkeeper (with a faded bow in her hair) crawled oily cockroaches, touching their antennae in an abstract alphabet. Everything was rotten, everything stank, everything in the old grocery store was infested. I left with cobwebs in my hair, as if I had turned gray from grief, and I went on through the neural tunnel until I saw before seeing, I intuited, located or maybe constructed, digging through the day’s soap with my own eyes, the House. The old and dear house, forgotten and remembered so often, the house in the middle of my mind.

When I actually saw it, behind the wrought-iron railings, in the U-shaped courtyard, it seemed surprisingly narrow. In my memory, in dream and dream-memory, it was different, vast and teeming with people. In fact, it was not more than six or seven meters wide. Half of its flat and sunny façade was taken up by a blue pathetic-looking Mercedes from the 70s, battered and repaired. I shook with excitement. I was seeing what I thought I never would. The building that shared the yard was irregular, as if its three parts, each with a second floor, had been erected at different times. The right side, where Madame Catana and the old man lived, was like a country house, painted blue, with wood-framed windows, while the one in back was a middle-class house, yellow and flaking, with a wooden hallway upstairs (where the ship was, and Elvira and Uncle Nicu Bă). The dirty-white painted hall also went along the left side of the building, supporting the roof with its wooden pillars. Through the pillars I saw windows with deep-blue wooden shutters. The shutters were torn from their hinges, and the windows were broken, some walled over, and others covered with newspapers yellow with age. Below, a burgundy door opened in the blue wall, the scarlet door of my nightmares, present like a seal of blood over everything I have ever written, and everything my mind describes in sleepless afternoons.

Shaken, with my hair standing on end, I opened the wrought-iron gate and entered the yard. There was no one there. Bright clouds were motionless in the sky. In one corner, a pink oleander, the only living thing in the empty courtyard, exuded a wild smell. I stopped in front of the deep-red door. I leaned my head against it for a moment. I felt like I was draining out of myself, flowing over the courtyard tiles like a shadow. The door was not locked, so I opened it halfway and went in. I was no longer in reality. I knew, I recognized everything. I knew the stairway, also scarlet, that smelled like detergent and Clorox. I walked upstairs slowly, ready at every step to faint. Emotion eclipsed me like an overwhelming pain, one so vast that it became a kind of joy. I reached the next story, the gallery with plank floors, worn by time. I opened another door between shattered windows. I entered a vestibule I knew, one I remembered with a new wave of adrenaline in my arteries. There were three doors here, in a thick green light, where gnats swarmed. I did not hesitate for a moment, because it was the front door, also scarlet, it was the wallpaper with flower baskets, moldy and ripped from the walls, but still recognizable. I opened the door and entered the room. I stopped on the threshold, squinting from so much light.

A blinding morning sun poured into the room, and in the intolerable light, at its center, I saw my mother, young and naked, sitting on the bed, the lupus mark on her hip, her hair tossed onto her shoulders, looking at me with a welcoming smile.

Part Two

12

THE peacock and the peahen, as though scared for their lives, pecked grains of barley from Maria’s hand, to the indignation of Marinache, the turkey, who, watching them with one eye, turned the beads that hung over his beak purple. From time to time he stared, with the same one eye, at the summer sky packed with white clouds, and then his sluggish red eye sparkled like a drop of water. The three birds lived together, because there was no other option, in the slums on the edge of town, in the few U-shaped square meters covered with bird droppings. And if the pair of peacocks, plated in metallic green and deep blue, were the local favorites, the pride of the courtyard, the turkey, in contrast, was heckled and mocked for his belligerent attitude. With a coquettish crown of feathers on her crest, Pompilia walked delicately on her coral feet. She was constantly watching Păunaş, waiting to contemplate, again and again, the cosmogonic spectacle of his spread tail, sprinkled with blue eyes. The courtyard locals were of limited imagination when it came to baptizing the imperial egg makers. Pompilia was a hooker from a neighboring yard, who went out every day at dusk with a purse on her shoulder to hunt for men; as for Păunaş, there were dishcloths on almost everyone’s stoves, so crude you’d think blind people had sewn them, with shepherds playing the pipes or a little peasant girl singing at the stove, around which crooked letters misspelled: “Wherefer theirs pees, God is pleased” or “Păunaş in tha forist, tell me who I love best.” The turkey was pot-bellied and as dirty as Marinache, the gypsy accordion player who rode the tram, pretending to be blind and deafening the travelers, repeating the same saccharine waltzes from the Colentina River to Dristor. He kept his eyes rolled back, so two yellow stripes, like ivory, showed between his eyelids swollen with conjunctivitis. When he left the tram, he didn’t open his eyes again until he had gone around the corner.

The birds watched Maria with their jewel-colored eyes — emerald (the peahen), sapphire, and ruby. She laughed and called to them, or let a “goddamn it” slip out when one pecked her plump, girly fingers. With her permed hair and bold eyes, wearing a white blouse with a lace collar and no cleavage showing, a pleated knee-length skirt, coarse threaded stockings and poor kid’s shoes, and carrying an oval, scarlet bag, held at the hip by a strap that crossed her breasts diagonally, there was something virginal and decent about her. She was like a character from a 1950’s movie (and this was actually anno domini 1955), a black-and-white girl performing on a screen with scratched lines, in a theater that smelled like sunflower seeds and petrosin. Her smile and her earnest, strong eyes lit up the theater, with its broken chairs, unshaven hicks, rats, and the stench of urine from the toilets near the screen.

Maria had just gone into town. On weekdays, the roar of the Donca Simo rug factory followed her day and night, but on Sundays it was quiet. She slept in, upstairs in her bedroom where she cooked and washed. She looked at the sky through the curtain embroidered here and there with red flowers, and, if the sun was strong in her room, she would stand up to stretch and laugh, dazed by dreams and loneliness. She listened a while to the noises in the courtyard — Gioni’s barking, the screaming peacocks, the gypsies squabbling, the boors fighting and the creaking water pump — and then she got ready to go out. She washed her face, armpits, and breasts in the sink, put on her one nice shirt, and dug around in her bag for the cardboard package of cheap lipstick the color of a box of chocolates. She put it on her lips, holding them in the shape of a heart, then spreading it well by rubbing her lips together. The powder looked even more pathetic, and smelled even more like cat urine, but Maria liked it — all of the women she worked with put on this popular powder when they went out, so they all thought it was normal. With a little toilet water from a bottle shaped like a toy car, Maria could step into summer splendor. But she’d only waste the perfume for a date or a movie. When she went to the market or the factory, she remembered what Victoriţa the pickpocket had told her, when she poked her hollow cheeks into her room and wrinkled her nose at the little half-full car on the sill: “What in God’s name, forgive me, is this crap you’re always putting on? Listen to me, soap and water is the best perfume. You know why those ladies and countesses all wore perfume? Because they didn’t wash. Because they stank. Because they had to hide the smell of sweat.” Victoriţa had one cheek that was okay and plump, but the other was just skin stretched over her jaw bone, withered by some disease. Maria wanted to vomit just looking at her. She’d be out a few years, and they’d catch her with her hand in someone’s pocket, and they’d throw her back in prison. She had no husband and no kids, but she was extraordinarily happy. Through the thin walls, Maria could hear her singing with the radio all day, songs by Angela Moldovan:

I made my parka new again, oh ho,

I have my coat for snow or rain …

Not everyone had a receiver for the state station back then. There were only two radios in the courtyard at 67 Silistra. One moaned with workers’ songs from morning until night, upstairs in the house in back, in the room of the one who became Nenea Nicu Bă, but for now was only Nea Nicu, master carpenter, a scheming lush who wore a beret pulled down over his eyes. The other belonged to Victoriţa, and played more discreetly, well tempered by the urchin with a matchstick.

Right as she came out her door (this is when she lived on the ground floor), Maria met a variegated and contentious world, as if the whole house were a hive of parrots. Dorel the electrician shaved outside, leaning his mirror against the birds’ fence. He was naked to the waist with hairy shoulders, and his sweatpants fell in folds, showing his thick legs and his penis shoved down one side. But Maria paid no attention. Instead, she glanced at him happily, saying “Morning, Dorel,” and then dodging and giggling because he always tried to grab her and cover her face with foam. With the shaving cream on his face, his mouth looked as red as blood. “Kiss the hand, Aunt Angela,” Maria smiled to a woman upstairs, bent over the blue railing. “How’s Ionel?” “To hell with him, he just poops and pisses all day, how is he supposed to be? I change the diaper and he craps in the new one, like he was saving it special. Don’t ever have kids.” Angela also had the requisite cabbage-roll hairdo on top of her head, and a coat that spread the smell of kifte meatballs across the yard. “Are you going to the movies? Is there a good one on?” “No, I’m going into town, auntie. Isn’t it a shame about this sun?” “Go on, Maria. I’m going to see what’s up with the little one.”

The smells of the kitchens and toilets of the slums mixed with the heavy aroma of the rotten box of oleander with pointed leaves, full of lice and fluorescent grubby-pink flowers. A row of tulips glowed divinely in yellow and red flames. The warm breeze was bad for Maria’s hair. She took a kerchief from her purse and tied it under her chin. Chestnut strands, curled with an iron, were still swirling behind her, slipping out from the rayon cloth printed with images of Sinaia. Maria smiled — and Nenea Gigi, the lathe operator with streaked hair and a bad eye from an accident with a piece of scrap — watched her hips and inhaled the scent of her cologne. “She’s not pretty, but she’s still young,” he said to himself. “She’s got a guy in the city, the way she swings it.” Maria was actually smiling because she remembered a scene in “The Valley Echoes,” when the boy of ready money, dressed in a funny white suit, goes to the Bumbesti-Livezeni construction site, where young people work cheerfully, and flirts with the ordinary girls, calling them — it’s so funny — “Mademoiselle,” and they put the rich boy in his place and tell the world and even make a play about him, where the boy from ready money comes up behind a working girl in an apron, smiling and saucy, with big breasts out to here, and says:

Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle

Didn’t we meet last summer at the spa?

Actually, he doesn’t say it, he sings it, because it’s kind of a musical, and she answers him like an echo, and makes all the boys and girls in the theater fall over laughing:

What spa,

Maybe a spaz?

Come here and I’ll show you a spa!

And she snaps something with a rag. And the real rich boy is in the theater, and the tears come, and he starts sobbing in a really funny way … Maria can’t control herself and begins to laugh out loud. Two gypsy girls at the gate, Lina and Făftica, watch her with their mouths hanging open. They’re real gypsy-gypsies, with puffy skirts and coins in their braids, the gold coins, cocoşeii, that had been confiscated by the police a while ago. They were left with the copper ones. They were short, dark, and very young, about fifteen, but they had already been with men, guys older than they were, and Săftica already had two children hiding behind her skirts. They spit sunflower seeds all day and talked about their gypsy men, who “wandered from cunt to cunt” and never came back home. Three quarters of their vocabulary consisted of “eat me” and “up yours.” You wondered why they never got tired of the same stupidity. They didn’t have anything against Maria, but they’d hassle the other girls. For example, they were always criticizing Coca, the courtyard whore, who didn’t wear a scarf on her head but a pink cap, exactly the color of the oleander, which for some reason bothered them to no end. But at least Coca never brought men to her room, which was as clean and modest as Maria’s; she just walked the streets and went with the men to their places. She would come back at dawn, when the other residents picked up boxes of sausage and boiled eggs and went to work. There was shouting and fighting all the time in in the courtyard, but it had nothing to do with Coca. Most often the landlady, Madame Catana, began the arguments herself. Madam Catana was abnormally fat and mustachioed, with wicked, slanting eyes and frightening veins crawling like purple hunching worms on her manly feet. She would prop herself in front of a tenant and start to scream her head off at him, because she saw him smoking in bed and he was going to set the house on fire, or because he didn’t say hello to her, or because she didn’t like his face … For her, all the men were “assholes” and all the women “sluts” and “hussies,” tramps. She had the habit of coming to the yard to have a bowl of soup, and then there had to be absolute quiet, because while she sat outside chomping, Madame Catana did her books. The courtyard was still full of dirty kids in cheap underpants, black from rolling around in the dirt, and she had to get up from her stool to run at them, with a curse of “damn your mamma.” As much of a bitch as Ma’am Catana was, her husband was kind, an old man who looked like the good Lord himself, lazing all day around the yard, smoking cheap cigarettes on his doorstep. Behind him, through the cracked door, you could just see the landlord’s room of wonders, the thing the whole court talked about with timidity and admiration, like it was a realm of enchantment. Maria had once been in the room of miracles, and she had been dumbfounded by all of its beauty. The old man Catana, you could tell, had done well as a merchant — he had been somebody in his time. The room was filled with old furniture, its wood decorated with garlands, roses, and Cupids. On the stained, plush bedclothes, there was a huge doll with a plaster head, wearing a dress with a pink veil. Other, smaller dolls in long pink and blue dresses, lined the nightstand and bedstead, alongside Chinese dolls made of gypsum and translucent green stone. A large rug covered the entire wall alongside the bed. It took Maria’s breath away. It showed a blue lake with water lilies, and a wide field of flowers along its shore. In the middle of the flowers and lemongrass bushes, there was a golden pavilion full of Spaniards. Two were dancing, a woman with frothy skirts and castanets, and a stiff man in a very short jacket, with knee-length trousers and white socks, with his curly hair held by the typical braid and hat of the torero. The others sat around them, on chairs, the boys flirting with the girls, some playing guitars … A flock of pigeons scurried around their feet. The other walls had paintings in heavy, worm-eaten frames. Maria liked the painting of the gray kitten best, but also the one with swans and conical mountains made of curly wool. On the table laden with macramé, vases painted different colors held dried plant tufts that seemed to float. The tablecloth had heavy silk tassels. The air was brown and smelled like cherry wine. Hundreds of icicles descended from the ceiling plaster, making the place seem like a cave of treasures. There was an old candelabrum with crepe paper shades. In the evening, a pink and palpitating light filtered through the landlords’ windows, like in a dream.

But Catana didn’t seem to care about the beautiful room he shared with his shrewish wife. He had been building, for a lifetime, another room, one that would ferry him into eternity like an ark of ivory. The tenants found out about his obsession from Madame Catana herself, who, in one of her ferocious drunken rampages, had dumped dishwater on the old man and screamed her head off at him for stealing her youth and wasting her parents’ fortune. “He thinks he needs a tomb! A tomb! When we are barely getting by! You go around in rags from Dămăroaia, ay, saving money for a tomb? You rigged the scales in your shop and you’re thinking about the world to come? Haoleu, when the demons get you and shoot hot oil up your ass, the worms will eat you up and your tomb, too. You sinning bastard! Good people, do you know what this murderer has done with his life? Him, the little lamb right here? He killed a girl he was living with, when he had a shop in Buzău, he set her on fire and kept the ashes, and every morning he ate her with a spoon, from a bowl as big as this, and after this bastard finished he went to the police, and they beat him stupid for a week, even though he’d confessed, and he did twelve years in prison, look, this bastard, the one you see right here in the doorway. You say I’m crazy, but if you knew what this man did to my life, it’s a wonder he didn’t put me in the grave, too. And you need a tomb? Pink marble? Stone angels? People, it would have been better if he was a drunk, if he drank all the money, then we’d know what to do, but no, he’s spent forty years saving up for a tomb. For the past twenty years the masons have been feasting on his coins. Do you know what this pig has on his plot at Bellu? It’s no tomb, people, it’s a palace. You could drive a cart through there. And the statues! and the doilies! and the rooms! so many! A whole nation of people could stay there until the last judgment. Couldn’t you have built a row of houses, so we could live like regular people, put clothes on your children, the mob you made, that you were so good at, you with the goods, me with the bads. Why couldn’t you do that? Why heat your tomb if you’re going to croak? If they’ll throw you in the street for dogs to eat? If you’re in a marble tomb, what’s the difference? What are you going to know about it? That you died, idiot, you’ll be dead, that’s all you’ll know. Kicked the bucket! Thank God I’m younger than you. Tomorrow, the day after, I’m going to lay you out on the table in the dining room, stiff and cold, and man I’m gonna laugh. I’m going to dance a jig around you, just like this! Hup hup! And I’m going to grab your nose and pull your cock out for everyone to see, you better believe it. Murderer! Idiot! Do you really think you’ll ever see the inside of your marble tomb? When I see my own neck. Count yourself lucky if I bury you under the elderberries. You, my whole life you poisoned my soul, motherfucker!” The tenants watched them like a freak show and laughed, and the venerable old man nodded with clenched eyes and said gently: “That’s right, what she says is right, good people. Forgive me, good people,” but his words were drowned out by other insults from his wife.

A few years later, Maria found out that the delirious old woman wasn’t lying — on the contrary, when she reduced Catana’s tomb to a palace, her obtuse mind had not been fully able to grasp reality. When the old man died, in 1962, as a Christian, with a priest and candles in the final triumph, he was mourned by the entire courtyard as a neighborhood saint. He left nothing behind except the houses and a 50 bani coin in a felted box, on the table with the fabulous fringe. Despite her ferocious promises to the contrary, the landlady held the funeral with full pomp and circumstance, following the most impressive slum traditions. A procession of six gypsies playing funeral marches on bent and dented brass instruments and a big drum walked behind the elaborately carved wooden hearse with windows that were thin from being polished so much, drawn by horses in black masks. Some of the gypsies wore funeral banners discolored by weather, and another was hanging at the courtyard entrance. Then came Madame Catana and the rest of the family, in heavy, black clothes, holding on to the back of the hearse and wailing, followed by the whole crowd from the yard and the street, eating sunflower seeds and chattering. Maria had heard from Crazy Leana, who sometimes stopped by the new house on Ştefan cel Mare, that Catana had died, and she came to see him off on his final journey, and to see her former neighbors. She was already thin and sour on life. She saw Catana in his white, satin-lined coffin, among the crowns of crepe-paper roses: it was like God himself was being buried. The funeral train took Colentina to Obor, then Moşilor, passed through the center of the city and, five hours later, reached the alleyways stuffed with final resting places, the Bellu cemetery. The stone houses decorated with marble and tarnished bronze, statues and oval pictures, their windows and doors barred, gave the place the impression of a city where a different species dwelled, with different needs and different bodies than human beings. Sad cypresses offered up their leaves toward the sky. The hearse twisted and turned through the graves and tombs, and arrived in front of a strange construction.

It was a pink house, glistening nostalgically in the twilight. In that wet November, evening had come quickly, aided by gloomy, yellow clouds. The tomb had an austere triangular pediment, with a round window in the center. The door was framed by two niches, with two statues of polished brass. What human beings did those bronzes represent? What humility before the mystery of death? The statues were silently screaming, mad with horror or a terrible laceration of the bowels. You could see the roofs of their mouths and the molars at the backs of their throats, and there, behind their uvulae, they turned pink (in the twilight, perhaps) as though their throats and gullets were made of flesh, as if the terrible bronze encased still-living human bodies, with soft, palpitating organs, blood beating through the ducts of their veins, and minds feeling endless agony in every neuron. The bronze statues were frozen in defensive, blocking gestures, their fingers sprawled, their ribs visible, and their paunches clenched, desperate to break off their pedestals and run away through the endless cemetery. Only once, when the priest sprinkled everything with holy water did the strange building lose its enchantment. Rubbing their eyes, the people saw that, in fact, the two bronze Adonises were angels. Their mouths were open in song, and their eyes were lifted toward heaven. The service was long and tedious, and afterward (darkness had fallen completely, irradiated by the temple’s rosy crystal) the coffin was lowered down the steps of the tomb. A blackened iron door, very heavy and well oiled, opened into an empty room and a stone staircase leading to a basement. The pallbearers carefully shuffled the coffin on their shoulders, and the relatives followed. Maria thought that there would not be room for anyone else. She, in any case, did not want to go in. She had never liked funerals, or priests. She did not believe in the afterlife, or rather, she never thought about it. “Did anyone ever come back and say what it’s like? If you’re okay with yourself in your soul, there’s no reason to be afraid. Whatever will be will be.” But little by little, the crowd around her thinned out, everyone else climbed down, and there seemed to still be room inside. Soon, she was alone, in the creepy darkness and cold. The irregular architecture of the surrounding tombs, now pitch black, bit into the sky like the teeth of a saw. Here and there a statue (an angel blowing a trumpet with its wings outstretched) made a brown profile against the yellow dregs of the horizon. The cypresses looked like they were painted with bitumen, and their sinister branches shook. Maria, frozen with fear, climbed down the stairs.

At a great depth, far ahead of her, she saw two or three silhouettes advancing in the dark green, and merging into it. The steps seemed to have no end. Maria descended them for hours and almost forgot where she was, when she saw at the extreme end of the stairs’ diagonal a small rectangle of light. No taller than insects, the last people in the funeral train flashed for a moment in the slowly advancing light and disappeared through the clear portal. Maria followed them and found herself in a huge hall, moving forward in miniscule steps over a polished, imperial mosaic floor. The hall seemed to be round, but its sides were so far away that they almost disappeared into a pearly mist. Supported by colossal porphyry columns, a golden dome stood too high for words to describe, higher than the dome of the heavens for one who labored on the earth, and higher than the quartz sphere of the constellations. Monstrous sculptures were set into niches all around the room, alternating with red-brown columns. They were male and female nudes, painted the color of flesh, the women pink, the men olive, all with the same azure eyes and the same terror on their faces. Each of their toenails was as thick as a human body, and lost in the gold fog of the vaults, their faces shone only by the lights in their dilated eyes. Each giant exhibited a different, tragic debility: one woman’s left breast was afflicted with elephantiasis, hanging like a hideous sack down to her pubis. Another sculpture’s head was sunk into her neck, her sternum stuck forward like a bird’s. The man closest to her had a poliomyelitic leg, missing the thigh and hip, with only his femur, tibia and perineum sagging in pockets of wrinkled skin. The hernia of the next one filled his testicle, its sack hanging to the ground. Cripples, dwarfs, cachexics, coxalgics, myelomeningoceliacs, the monstrously obese, cyclopedes, those with cleft lips, eleven fingers and eleven toes, bruised skin from a cardiac deformity, lepers, those scarred by anthrax, by scrofula, by vitiligo … the curved line of giant statues embraced the room with a ring of mutilations, and the funeral train advanced across its endless surface, like a parade of mites.

Maria, her mouth agape, crossed the great colored surfaces, imagining, of course, that the floor of semiprecious stone (malachite? obsidian?) contained an enormous drawing, geometric or figurative, that she was too close to see. High above, near the apex of the vault, one must be able to glimpse the fabulous mosaic in its full meaning. The tentative steps of her cheap shoes were like the untrained fingers of someone who’d been recently blinded, or of a teenager touching a woman for the first time. Slowly, the pallbearers came to the center of the hall. As the funeral train progressed, they saw other views of the mausoleum. They could see symmetrical openings in the curved wall, between the niches and columns, portals with bronze inscriptions and intricate decorations, which led to never-ending galleries. Sweet and colorful light, like in a cathedral, filled the mausoleum from nowhere with a diaphanous jelly. In the withered silence, the only sound was the tap of shoes, punctuated and harmonious as the music of a carillon.

Maria passed through the group of relatives in mourning black. She could not look away from the coffin, which was now a shell of prismatic, tinted glass that the six pallbearers struggled to carry. How the dead body had changed! His features were decomposing, his eyes looked like two huge balls under the thick skin of his face, as if his eyeballs had merged with his cerebral hemispheres, and his nose and mouth had merged into a proboscis that ran down to his chest. His hands and feet had been reabsorbed into his belly and chest, which swelled into repulsive shapes. His clothes broke apart, his beard and hair were tossed around like fluff shaken off of a dandelion, and the whitish worm of his penis, gently palpitating, now lay, passive but alive, in the coffin’s elytrons. Maria touched the hard shell of translucent chitin. Her eyes dilated and goosebumps rose on her arms.

In the center of the hall, so far away from the circular wall that the statues and columns could barely be seen through the blue haze, no more imposing than a forest on the horizon, there was a crystal tomb whose lid was pushed to one side. The pallbearers lowered their burden, people gathered in a circle, and the priest began to swing the censer and sing. Everyone crossed himself exaggeratedly and responded from time to time with an “amen.” Strange echoes returned from all sides, minutes later, creating a rose of sonic interference that seemed almost visible in the air of the hall. The pupa, wet with gelatinous secretions, was placed in the crystal house, and the lid, covered with a minute and illegible inscription, was placed over it and sealed. The crystal was so clear and transparent that without the rainbow lightening of the quartz prisms, it would have looked as if the larva floated over the floor. Maria was lost in contemplation of the slow, twisted, peristaltic movements under the skin of the chrysalis, which looked like an eyeball twitching under a sleeper’s eyelid …

When Maria finally pulled her eyes from the enormous cocoon, she found herself alone. The bereaved relatives, the hooded gypsies, the musicians and the priest had perished — they seemed to have dissolved into that corrosive air. It would take days to reach the nearest exit. Had they been reabsorbed into the light of the endless mosaic on the ground? Had they descended even deeper through a hidden trap door? Maria neither understood nor wanted to. You cannot think under vaults that are wider than the bones of your skull. Frozen in the center of the dream, alongside the tomb dug out of crystal, she suddenly felt her entire being collapse, as though she were rotting completely in a few seconds, just before her mind would die. Terror ran over her like a frozen sweat. She knew, in that precise moment, that she would never tear herself away from the fascination and the unreality of the cavern-mausoleum, that she would stay there forever, like a paralyzed grub, living prey for the monster that thumped beside her in its egg. She made the effort of her life to move away, slowly, from the grave and then to run, screaming without hearing her screams, across the multicolored tiles.

She ran at random, for hours and hours, stopping occasionally to breathe, but the walls did not seem to come any closer, or it was happening so slowly that the columns and deformed statues seemed like icebergs on the edge of the universe. Little by little, however, they emerged from the blue haze of distance, and soon she realized that she was approaching a monstrous acromegalic, his thorax surrounded by clouds, his feet so large that between the toes there were vaulted entrances to galleries that dwindled to a point in the distance. Maria entered the arched tunnel between the statue’s right little toe and the next, and she found herself inside a phantasmal brick viaduct. On the spiderweb-covered walls, here and there, hung the yellow horns of the hunting trophies. Paintings in heavy frames, bronze with floral patterns, were so blackened with time you could no longer tell what they were supposed to be. Marble hearths, with cold bronze screens and shovels, alternated with spittoons of the same slippery metal. The gallery was lighted by torches in black metal stands, high along the walls thick with spiders and moths. The silence rang louder and the light seemed to dim as Maria, who suddenly remembered she had left little Mircea alone in the house for the first time, moved forward ever more quickly between lines that united in the distance. Maria began to run again, terrified that she would never escape the phantasmal catacomb. She broke a heel and ran on, limping, until her body more than she herself perceived a gradual change. The air turned pinker, and almost imperceptibly, the gallery seemed to turn meter by meter into that same painful, crepuscular rose. Just as gently, the floor became elastic, and the tiles that had been as clearly defined as a chessboard began to spread their colors into each other, their borders dissolving, and the pictures, hearths, and trophies on the walls also slowly lost their forms, leaning into the reabsorbing pearl rose of the walls, turning flatter and more monotonous. Soon, Maria was walking through a proboscis of wet flesh that, at the edge of her sight, curved into a widening spiral. The walls were running with a yellow liquid and teeming with gelatinous creatures. They vibrated continually, snorting magical, velvet sounds into the air, braided with voices and clanging, louder and louder, until she felt like she was walking through solidified noise. She felt the dizzying spin in her liver, even though the large curves, the ninth or tenth emanating from the center, could be no smaller than Bucharest. After she had passed through the entire snail, walking crookedly across a floor as viscous as the walls, she found herself in front of a sculpture or a colossal mechanism, occupying a bony, irregular cave, on a scale to match the monstrous edifice. It consisted of three pieces, which hung above the crown of Maria’s head like summer clouds oddly knotted together in the sky. Joined by gelatinous pieces of cartilage, the bone pieces vibrated in a continuous roar, like the mechanical looms, she remembered with horror. The first and the last — strangely reminiscent of stirrups — supported the ends of two enormous, round windows, hidden by a transparent, trembling membrane, while the middle one arched between them, like the entrance to a temple, giving the whole a depth and grandeur. Maria, crushed by the inhuman dimensions of the limestone building, approached the window at the other end of the room, climbed the chalky protrusions and excrescences, and crushed the amoebic creatures underfoot, until she reached the thick, moon-colored membrane, with shining lights and fluttering shadows behind it that seemed to be from another world. She pressed her brow against the warm tendon, she pressed her palms against the temples, which were also membranes, or screens, and she tried to see something through the cloudy, hyaline substance. The howl of the exterior world became excruciating, as unbearable as a waterfall. When an indescribable form emerged suddenly from the abyss, rising all at once, green and yellow and gray, moving its — what? face? cephalothorax? tail stinger? — toward the window of flesh, Maria began to scream and ran back without hearing her own scream, just feeling the pain in her throat, losing both of her shoes — back through the hall of enigmatic sculptures, back through the wet snail and back through the viaduct, which after several hours had regained its sweet coral tiles, its brick walls, its fireplaces and its brass spittoons, its hunting trophies and its blackened paintings, finally opening again into the huge, foggy hall of statues. She crossed it again end-for-end, stopping often to sleep through the night on the polished floor. After passing the quartz tomb in the center, where the larva had already wrapped itself in a cocoon of multicolored fibers, she spotted the countless steps that led to the exit. When she saw daylight again through the melancholy cypresses in the Bellu Cemetery, Maria crossed herself. In the tram, she had to brave the crowd staring at her bare feet. She changed trams at Buzesti and took the 24 to the Circus. She passed the florist and reached the entryway of the block with the furniture store, where she had lived for over a year. Already from the entryway she could hear little Mircea screaming. At the door to apartment five, she found her neighbors gathered, trying to calm the boy who was crying as loud as he could behind the door, “My-my-mom-eee! What will I do without my-my-mom-ee!” She dashed over, unlocked the door and took the boy in her arms. He laughed while he cried, drenched in sweat and flushed with the strain.

13

MARIA left the U-shaped courtyard and walked into autumn. Above the yard, the sky was an intense azure with milky clouds frozen in curls. The green and pink oleanders painted their blue shadows on the whitewashed wall of the left-hand house, and further away, the semi-gypsy population sweated in the smell of roux, like fleshy growths on a coral reef. Once the courtyard gate closed, however, all of it stopped — the boiling, the smells, even the sounds — and Maria found herself on Silistra, walking through dead leaves and puddles that reflected the stormy sky. A wet, cold wind blew, seeming to blur the houses and passersby. But she was not cold. She continued walking in her summer dress among people with umbrellas and raincoats. An old woman with an empty bag over her head and shoulders (since cruel, ice-cold drops had begun to drizzle on the pavement) glanced at her strangely and went into a nearby courtyard. A glazier stopped at another gate, setting down his green burden, which reflected the sadness and desolation of the day.

How strange, how bright that cheap lipstick was, candy-flavored, on her young lips, below her chestnut eyes! Under the sky racing overhead like unraveling black smoke, she was the only thing with any color or life. Two eyes without mascara and a mouth in the shape of a heart. A few curls done with an iron fluttering under a scarf. Maria smiled. Her smile was good and honest, like the white collar on her pleated, polka-dot summer dress, the one we know, the only summer dress she could afford as a young working woman. She didn’t want to think about Costel yet, so she thought (and smiled) about her sister, Vasilica, and their old godmother, how one day the godmother, who couldn’t see well any more, put scouring powder on the cakes instead of powdered sugar (she had made some “Aunt Mimis,” her specialty, with a delicious cream center that smelled like lemon), and Vasilica had bitten a scented rhombus, and the powder scratched her teeth, but she didn’t dare say anything until her godmother took a bite and said, “Oh no, Vasilica! how silly, I put Comet on the squares instead of powdered sugar!” — and the two of them laughed until they fell over. A laugh slipped out of Maria, too, in the middle of the street. What a nut, the old godmother! But so was her whole family. Her godfather, Nenea Butunoiu, had been a merchant in his time. He’d had a haberdashery in Bucharest Noi. Now he repaired accordions and fumed about the Russians — only at home, of course, and in a whisper. As for the young godmother and her daughter Aura, Maria couldn’t stand them. She had never met more disgusting people, or seen more perfidious looks than those from their cloudy-green eyes, mother and daughter alike, two girls from the wrong side of the tracks primped up like they were something special. Marian, Vasilica’s boy, always wound up with a scratch under his eye when his godparents brought Aura over. A picture in her sister’s house showed the two children standing, holding hands in an odd way (Marian’s right hand in Aura’s left, meeting diagonally between them), Marian smiling foolishly and Aura frowning, with a face of unspeakable evil for a girl only five years old. Aura’s other hand held a hoop and her hair had a silly pompom, and Marian clutched a striped rubber ball to his chest.

How had she managed to end up with this brood of relatives? When had she had the time to surround herself with these people, who lived in Bucharest long before she came? Maria had arrived in the city during the war, when she found a tailoring apprenticeship with the Verona shop, at the same time as Vasilica. She had left behind her native Tântava. The shop was behind the ARO block, beside the white house with the veranda and multicolored marquee that belonged to the famous variety actress, Mioara Mironescu. The two little peasant girls, fifteen-year-old Maria and seventeen-year-old Vasilica, slept together upstairs in a single bed. They were shattered after hours and hours at the machines, and they dreamed all night of Singer machines and elegant young men, civil servants with panama hats and bamboo canes. They would wake up embracing each other, cheek to cheek, eager to go back into the bustling big city. They had Sundays off, and then they walked the streets, among apartment blocks framed by boulevards and lines of cars and carriages. They gazed, amazed and enchanted, at the stores, with their windows full of furniture and jewelry, at the dizzying heights of the Telephone Palace (how they wanted to be telephone operators! — in American movies the operator always met a young millionaire), at the offices where dusty youths at Yost typewriters hammered out letters and all kinds of documents, at the elegant old ladies who wore minks around their throats and looked like vamps from the movies. In the evenings, garlands of lights adorned the entryways to beer gardens, movie houses, and theaters. The girls toured these wonders with wide eyes. They were not part of their world, nor did the girls wish they were, since they could go to the cheap movie theaters in the neighborhood, full of workers who spit sunflower seeds and whistled when the boy kissed the girl on screen and sometimes, as though by accident, laid a heavy hand, smelling of lathe grease, on the thigh of the girl next to them. Often these idiots made the sisters change places in the dark hall, creaking across the wooden floor washed with petrosin. They also went to fairs, on the edge of town, crossing the rusty railway tracks and the fields of chamomile, to squeeze into a sea of people in front of childishly painted billboards, with wild animals and snake swallowers, spider-women, dwarves, and shameless girls who showed men their white, bare breasts, covered with moles … Children wore fezzes made of glossy cardboard, and blew colored trumpets. The sisters would buy themselves a bag of popcorn or a candy necklace, and like children, they enjoyed the whole motley day — their own youth, the freshness of the world. What did everyone back in the country know of these wonders? Nothing. Work and more work was all they had known their entire lives. Not even a year had passed since the sisters had become Bucharesteans, and they already despised the peasants, those who had “their head in a sack,” and they felt sorry for their sister, Anica, who had married in Tântava and would have to stay there all her life, with her cow and pig, working rows of tomatoes and green peppers. Once they’d had enough of wandering through the fair, the girls would ride the chain carousel, screaming until their throats gave out, spinning the world around them until they thought they would collapse. A boy on a chair nearby would catch the chair as they passed, then let it go, making them sway wildly, while they laughed until they cried and everything around them turned into a whirl of colors. In the evenings, they’d go to a cheap beer garden, one with different kinds of happy people, and they’d eat steaming mititei sausages in the hint of a distant accordion brought by the wind. They’d come home arm-in-arm, giggle up the spiral staircase and return to their bed with iron slats and the corner basin, their empty but intimate room, with a window to let the moon in. The girls would stay up late, talking under the sheet, in the blue, moonlit air that made their faces strange and pale, like in the movies. Maria was not pretty, but she was prettier than Vasilica. Her sister had the keen and cunning face of a squirrel, which no amount of effort would have made resemble the movie idols of the 40s, whom the two of them saw every day, on billboards over the theaters and in the newspaper ad pages. Maria decided in secret that Vasilica would never be more than a cute seamstress who charmed her upscale clients.

Now she looked through the back window of tram number 4’s last car as it rang through the smoke-filled intersection at Obor. A railway man who held a bundle of stove pipes in the middle of the crowd kept pushing her and blew the stench of sausages into her face. Because the tram was so full, people argued and whined like carnival barkers, but Maria — looking absently at the bars full of peasants with woven bags and braids of garlic, and at the stores selling windows and mirrors, or keys, or hardware, or fabric — paid them no attention. Stoically, she bore the patterned iron pipe stuck in her shoulder, and in the roar of horse-drawn trucks and trams crisscrossing and stopping sometimes nose to nose, throwing pale sparks into the dark air, she jumped from one thought to another, chilled by the raindrops pelting the window.

Maria and Vasilica were wearing braids down to their waists, woven with red ribbon, when they came to Bucharest. Their father, “Tătica,” brought them in a horse-cart and left them in the care of “Nenea,” their older brother, who would soon cross the Dniester and disappear somewhere on the banks of the Don. He wouldn’t come back until ’51. The girls labored in the workshop from morning until evening. At dawn, the rows of Singer sewing machines with glossy black wheels and pedals looked like giant insects with poisonous stingers, ready to receive their prey: young, living girls. Their boss was strict, with evil eyes and jaw muscles constantly twitching. She wouldn’t let the girls in the workshop leave before time, even to use the bathroom.

Despite her heavily rouged muzzle and eyelashes thick with mascara, there was something masculine about Maria Georgescu’s face. The older apprentices told the newbies what they had heard from those before them: that Madam Georgescu was not a woman in every sense of the word, that under her skirt she had what a man has. Some also said she had to shave her chin and her neck and between her breasts, so she wouldn’t grow hair like a bandit. But a thick powder covered everything, if there was any truth to it. Whatever the case, she never married. She lived in a shared room somewhere in Rahova with a schoolteacher, who was tiny and faint, with eyes surrounded by pink skin and teeth as small as a cat’s. Because Madam Georgescu never laughed, she frightened the apprentices, and they obeyed her without a complaint. The sisters never befriended the other girls, most of whom were hussies who talked in ways that girls from the country had never heard. They would have been miserable and cried every night in each other’s arms on their iron-slatted bed, had it not been for the wondrous Mioara Mironescu, the woman who became everything and more than everything to them, a fairy out of fairy tales, a model and a goddess, whose interest in the two little peasant girls seemed like a miracle. How had they come to the actress’s attention? Why — ever since she had seen them in the window of the house next door, laughing cheek to cheek and making faces, throwing crumbs down to the pigeons on the sidewalk — did the actress, stepping out of her massive Packard, stop, tilt back her black hat and veil, and stand there, a tailored silhouette out of a fashion magazine, her saffron-gloved hands clutching a bouquet of violets to her breast? The sun painted her face intense and pastel colors, igniting the thin silk of her veil and placing a large burning star on the wide onyx head of her hairpin. She watched the apprentices on the second floor for several minutes, fascinated, and then entered the dark hallway of her house next door, shedding her colors in the ever denser shadows. The black car left too, leaving the street empty and melancholic, enlivened only by the few tiny, rust-colored plants that grew between the bricks.

They met a few days later, and there followed a whirlwind of endless delight. The lady with short, slate-colored hair, with points framing her cheeks, with circles under her usually half-closed eyes, with brass bracelets jangling on her arms and even one on an ankle, took them out one evening to the Gorgonzola, a cabaret behind the Şelar, where black men sang in striped suits and hard felt hats. She would leave the two girls at a table to stare at the men blowing trumpets and glittering saxophones and at the people around them, and disappear down a staircase behind a red velvet curtain. A waiter brought the girls something to eat and some champagne, while people around them got up from their tables and crowded onto the dance floor. “Foxtrot!” cried the bass player, and everyone started to do such a ridiculous and wild dance that the sisters, no matter how awed they had been before, lost control of themselves and laughed until they cried. When the dancers went back to their tables, a plump, blond singer in a red dress with a strangely deep voice began to sing a sad, dragging song about a crazy love affair, “as never before on earth,” and the cowardly and cruel abandonment of the young “virgin” by “the man with flashing teeth,” who the virgin would still love “To the tomb of cold marble … To the bosom of God.”

Dizzy with champagne, the girls wept in the ever-thicker green smoke of cigars. Vasilica had just wiped her eyes with the back of her hand when she noticed the drummer smiling at her and winking. Her jaw hung open. She looked again. The black man smiled even wider, showing horse-like teeth between lips that looked made up. Vasilica turned around, but there was only a brown column. From then on, she kept from looking at the six jazzmen at all costs.

They were also brought glasses of a pale, crackling drink. The hall darkened slowly, and then a blue light, like that of a full moon, filled it, making the tinsel stars overhead sparkle and suddenly go out. Music began softly, with violins, and the young peasant girls were enraptured by the ravishing show on the night stage. A spotlight shone on the curtains, hesitantly, like it was looking for something that might be anywhere. The violins burst into swirling passion, and then they slowed, smooth and sweet, as a lady’s shoe appeared in the upper corner of the stage, descending slowly, until a stunning leg emerged inside a purple stocking, followed by a foam of lace. It was a dream woman, in a dress that left her powdered shoulders bare, a white satin dress with rich lace at the hem and a white, fluttering veil, a woman with pink and green cheeks glittering with gold dust. She descended gently from the night, and perched gracefully on the horn of a yellow crescent moon, with her eyes, mouth and chin smiling to lovers throughout the universe. The moon winked long, tangled lashes, and the fairy, whom they later recognized as their neighbor, wearing a curly platinum wig with strands falling past her hips, began to sing a song about Bucharest at night, sprinkled with stars, where the lovers listen, hand in hand, to the laments of gypsy fiddlers in cellar bars, and then go under the carpet of stars to embrace beneath flickering lamps, in piaţas with statues. Some blocks of scenery descended too: the Athenaeum, the Arc de Triomphe, and Mihai Viteazul on horseback, all painted strangely, all loops and spirals, as though they were woven in wrought iron. Silhouettes of young men in frocks and top hats and young ladies with skirts above their knees, with round bottoms and narrow waists, danced slowly among the cardboard buildings, in the chiaroscuro, for the only one glowingly illuminated was the languorous woman stretched along the crescent moon.

At the end of one of the stanzas, leaving the violins to take up the theme in an excess of suffering and languor, the singer stepped from the moon, and with a walk that paraded her wondrous hips, she descended the few steps that separated the stage from the club. She sang the rest of the song moving from table to table, resting a satin-gloved hand on the shoulder of a man and looking him long in the eyes, bringing her mouth toward his until everyone’s heart stopped, then pushing him sharply away and moving to another. One of the black men (the one who was smiling at Vasilica?) came toward Mioara and kissed her gracefully outstretched hand, and as the final chords were played, he walked her toward the stage, releasing her to sit once again on the crescent moon, to rise, pulled by invisible wires, and to disappear beyond the starry sky.

They went home in the Packard, so lightheaded that they were barely able to say goodnight to the singer, giggling and wobbling on high heels they weren’t used to. They stumbled up the stairs and fell asleep with their clothes on, with their two-bit pearl necklaces tangled together, so that the next day at dawn, Maria had to struggle to untangle herself from her sister, who was still sound asleep. “Lelică, hey, Lelică,” she said, and shook her, but Vasilica just turned, with her pale, plump arms, to the other side.

Maria was the first to go down to the workshop, to the rows of black machines with their needles, like elaborate buccal mechanisms, glittering in the dirty light. There was an intricate gold leaf filigree on each apparatus. She sat down, put her foot on the pedal, and turned the wheel and rod slightly until the greased needle began to move. It was so thin, and its tip was so sharp! During sleepless nights, she would often imagine she was being pierced by needles — that a long and gently curved tip would penetrate her heart. Then she would rise to her knees and lift one arm across her face, trying to ward off the long needle with the other, screaming with her eyes and lips. But the perverse needle passed through the heel of her hand over her heart, penetrated under her left breast with a quiet pop, passed through her heart, reddened her lungs like two large pinches of wool, and exited through her shoulder blade, pinning her to the headboard. She was fixed, martyred, and unable to escape. She waved her free arm in vain, like a dragonfly in an insect collection. This vision came into her life in the constant torture of working at the sewing machine. She felt increasing revulsion every morning as she approached the venomous vermin, and it was an effort just to survive beside it until dusk fell. That morning, Maria took a shirt collar and slipped it under the nickel sole, then tried to put the needle in motion. The pedal was stuck, and the needle did not want to come down and pierce the material. She turned the wheel by hand, but quickly realized that the mechanism inside the machine was blocked. Usually, when something like this happened, they sent for Nenea Titi, the mechanic, who set to work on the rods, discs, needles and other mysterious pieces of grease-covered metal that filled the curving body of the sewing machine. This time Maria, still feeling the champagne and the spectacles of the night before, opened the little door at the foot of the machine. She had an oil can and a screwdriver, and she hoped she could knock something or squirt a little oil somewhere and solve the problem herself. But when the curved wall opened with a click, she was astonished. And now on the tram, as she tried to look through the trails of rain on the window and see something in the shops that lined the boulevard, glimpsing, through the corner of her eye, a cloudy image of the Greek temple that would mean so much to her life, Maria trembled to recall what she had seen. In the metal window of the sewing machine were throbbing viscera — a kind of kidney, a kind of endocrine gland, flesh and cartilage, veins and arteries and lymphatic canals, ganglia dilating and contracting slowly below dewy blood, nerves branching in fusiform myelin sheaths, hyaline areas and dark areas like clots. It all throbbed and trembled beneath the powerful, audible pounding of an unseen heart. Maria slammed the small door shut and fled, screaming, out of the workshop. She never worked one of those machines again, and for the rest of her life she suffered an overwhelming fear of sewing. Vasilica had to make her dresses, the few there would be, for years after, and during the fittings, kneeling before her with a tape measure, she would always chastise her for not having learned to be a seamstress from Madam Georgescu (where would she be now, if she’s even still alive?) so that at least she’d have a trade.

In the days that followed, Mioara took the girls out for a boat ride in Cişmigiu Park (the driver of her black car rowed, with his sleeves rolled up, smiling at the ladies beneath his waxed mustache), she took them to a store on Cavafii Vechi and bought them trendy dresses and hats, she unbraided their hair herself, then left them in the hands of a master hairdresser, whose curling iron gave them ringlets until they looked like two ridiculous poodles in the salon mirrors, and to cap it off, she reserved for them a permanent table at Gorgonzola, closer to the stage than they had been the first night, and so it was there, for many nights in a row, that the apprentices enjoyed their champagne — sipping a bit more carefully now — and the dazzling numbers on the stage. The drummer, Cedric, would lead Mioara by the arm to their table, politely lifting his stiff hat to the young ladies. The girls looked at him wide-eyed and dumbstruck, as though they had seen Satan himself, but soon, with his eyes rolling and his wound-red mouth smiling, Cedric entertained them so much that from that night on, the girls could hardly wait for the band to go on break and the young man to visit their table. Elegant and charming, with a gold chain on his wrist and shoes with sharp points, Cedric told them stories of the French Quarter in his native New Orleans. He spoke of palm trees and agave, of glowing saxophones that blew in thousands of taverns, of Bourbon Street, where there were Mardi Gras parades each spring, and he described, in detail, the sinister voodoo rituals performed by mobs of black people in the city, casting bloody spells beneath the moon, dressed in masks of parrot feathers. He danced with Vasilica, trying to teach her to foxtrot. The black man danced divinely, moving his joints like a marionette around the poor girl who laughed like a fool in the middle of the dance floor, not daring to take a step. Meanwhile, Mioara took Maria’s hand, and with a strange smile on her lips, she placed her fingers (long and dry, with long, purple-lacquered fingernails) over Maria’s, which were politely resting on the table. The singer had an odd ring on her index finger that Maria, a little embarrassed, couldn’t pull her eyes away from. The loop was not metal, but seemed to be thickly woven from greasy hair, held together by thin spirals of silver wire. It was mammoth hair, Mioara explained. A few years ago, she had met an Austrian who had been to Franz Joseph Land, in the frozen north, where he would have starved to death with his fellow researchers on Siberian shamanism, if he hadn’t found, in a block of ice, an entire, intact mammoth, the meat of which fed them until spring. From the fur, during the fantastical polar nights in their miserable tents, they wove sweaters, blankets and jewelry. Mioara’s ring had a stone from the ivory of the same mammoth, upon which the Austrian had scratched, with a needle, the image of a butterfly, its wings spread and its antennae twisted in two symmetrical spirals. What was strange was that, if you looked more closely, the right wing of the butterfly was drawn with a firm line, while the other was only outlined in points that had turned black with the passing years. As Vasilica and Cedric seemed to have disappeared somewhere (it was long past midnight, couples stood in the thick shadows, at tables, embracing, paying no attention to the illusionist who twirled a fan of playing cards in his hands), Mioara took Maria’s arm, barely touching her, and lifted her from the table into the Bucharest night, flecked here and there by the gold of dim lampposts on Sécession. The singer dismissed her driver, and the two of them went on foot through the echoing, deserted streets, where nothing moved but a cat sneaking under a gate.

They went into Lipscani, by Carada Street, then through the Villa-crosse Passage, entering the Macca gallery. The tinted yellow skylights above, which the daylight turned transparent, now palely reflected the few electric bulbs placed in wrought-iron lanterns. The footsteps of the two women resounded loudly through the tunnel of white, spectral buildings, whose shops on the first floor had their shutters drawn. Rich stucco decorations, masks, gorgons, garlands and Cupids, reliefs and borders framed the upstairs windows. Mioara suddenly stopped under a street lamp and turned to Maria. In the artificial illumination, the singer’s face regained its lunatic appearance, glassy, detached from the world, as it had looked on stage, under the spotlight. Violet marks, green and citron stripes painted her sickly harlequin face, and her wet, sparkling eyes. Her rouged mouth seemed almost black, a soft and sensual flower. She held Maria’s head in her hands, looked in her eyes and, smiling, said she had a little apartment just upstairs, on the second floor. Wouldn’t she like to take a look, on her way home? Maria accepted happily. They entered through a black gate, polished, with a brass house number at eye level. Mioara went first, and gracefully moving the delicious roundness of her behind, climbed a stairway with a metal railing, followed by her young apprentice. A narrow corridor, with only a small sofa and a table with a beaten copper tray, had at its opposite end a single door, locked, with an oval window and pink curtains drawn on the other side. Mioara unlocked it, and they went into an alcove that left Maria breathless.

It was like a cabin on a luxury liner, even with a small window, closed with a nickel handle, shimmering behind a curtain embroidered with white birds. The scent of sweet perfume had faded the velvet curtains and bedspread to a bitter cherry hue. The singer moved forward into the jellylike air and pulled the curtains over the image of the yellow house next door. With the click of a lamp in the penumbra, the dark became red. Small Chinese vases and coffee cups lay in a crystal box, inlaid with walnut, with marquetry depicting warmly glittering lilies. Mioara gently lifted the lid of a gramophone and set a disk on the turntable. The chrome arm grated its needle over the black and red disk until they heard a tango that Maria recognized immediately:

When the depths of your eyes I miss

I sip from their dream rays at night

Little stars call me to you in whispers

They hunger for love’s paradise …

There weren’t any chairs, so after Mioara took off her shoes and lay over the bed, crossways, with a bare arm under her head, Maria sat on the bed, too. “Your place is so beautiful,” she whispered, enchanted. On the wall, a black velvet mask peered at her intensely, with hatred in its obliquely cut eyes. The singer lit a cigarette and, looking at the ceiling, where a coquettish glass majolica lamp was barely visible, slowly exhaled the smoke, which mixed with the transparent garlands on the arms of the lamp. Then she rose on one elbow and looked Maria long in the eyes again, hers half closed, as she had beneath the streetlight. The girl felt that nothing else in the world existed outside of this room where the two of them gazed at each other. Her heart suddenly become heavy, without knowing why, and when Mioara reached out her arm, like a pale snake that had a grown woman’s fingers, she suddenly broke into a sweat.

They remained silent until the end of the song. When the needle began to grate again over the glossy ebonite, the singer hopped up and closed the gramophone. Then she revealed (it had been covered with a flowery cashmere scarf) the toilet mirror in the green darkness, where the two of them appeared, whitish-brown, with sparkling eyes. “Help me take off my dress,” said Mioara, and Maria, obedient as a maid, came up behind her and began to unbutton it, revealing the singer’s neck and back, while she took off her earrings and bracelets, which left red lines over her elbows. Mioara pulled the dress over her head and remained in her slip, girdle and silk stockings, all as sparkling black as her short cropped hair. “That’s much better,” she whispered and lay back across the bed. Although she was skinny, the performer had large, round breasts and a firm bottom, and she seemed more womanly and more attractive the more she undressed. Maria looked shyly at the glistening skin of her protector’s thighs, between the edge of the fringe of her slip and the garter holding her stocking. All of the girls she had ever seen naked, by the river, the Tântava, had, like she did, like her sister, legs full of little lines of hair, but Mioara’s thighs were like ivory. And when the singer took off her stockings, rolling them, tinted like glass, toward the tips of her toes, the girl saw that her entire leg was white and clean, with painted toenails. “Take off your dress, too,” she said to the other in passing, once she dropped the rest of her dessous. Fear and confusion rose in Maria. Why had the singer undressed? Why wasn’t she embarrassed to show everything, everything? She had hair there, too, it was the only place on her body where she was like all girls, like all women. Maria had never seen such a beautiful woman. She lit up the room, and even her darker parts, the cherry-red coins of her nipples and the black triangle between her thighs glowed strangely in the air as thick as syrup. Embarrassed, not knowing what to think, feel, or do, she said: “But I’m not warm, it’s not that warm.” “No, but you’ll feel more relaxed.” As Maria hesitated, the singer stood, took a few steps over to a small, carved walnut sideboard and retrieved a bottle and two stemmed glasses. She poured a glass of an almost-black liquor and handed it to the girl. She turned the gramophone disk over, and they listed to “Zaraza”:

When you, señorita, came to the park that evening

With lily petals in your wake

You had eyes of tender passion, with lights of sin

And the body of a feline snake.

The taste of the drink was deceitful, sweet and fragrant, camouflaging the flame of alcohol which stole into her before long, through her veins, changing her mood, quieting her anxiety and increasing her delight in being there, in the scent-impregnated alcove, beside the unbelievable diva. When she bent for the bottle, Mioara had two deep folds in the soft skin of her belly; the vertebrae of her spine arose like islands of luminous skin, and her vulva, under heavy buttocks, was black as a mare’s in the spiderweb of curly hair. The girl was beginning to feel herself unravel in the stale air of the room, when she saw Mioara approaching. Mioara embraced Maria and kissed her neck passionately, burying her mouth and chin in the hollow of the girl’s collarbone, the way she had only seen men do, in movies, to women they loved. “Don’t be afraid, little one, ah, how I long, how I long for you,” the actress sighed, lying over her and caressing her buttocks with one hand. The girl only stopped her when she tried to kiss her mouth. Then the singer rose, panting, to her knees and began to pull the clothes from the girl’s body, taking out her small breasts almost without nipples, yanking on her blouse until the buttons shot across the room, pulling down her cheap skirt and leaving it crumpled at her feet. She turned her face toward the girl’s hips and pounced on them savagely. Maria no longer defended herself. Something sweet and grave flooded her body — it was the way she felt when one of the more daring apprentices told her a story about love, about what it’s like when you’re being undressed. True, the one undressing was always a man. After he undressed you, he spread your legs and put in the thing that men have where you have nothing. So what would happen now? Could you do it with a woman? (But who was thinking these things, since Maria felt like she was looking down from somewhere above the two women spread across the bed.) Squeezing her hips in her hands, Mioara gazed, with her face contracted in desire, at the girl’s pubis, mounded between her thighs, under her ordinary, proper panties. She took them gently in her teeth, and pulled them down until she glimpsed the line of hair.

Abandoned and giddy with drink, Maria felt the actress stiffen and catch her breath. Her excited breathing stopped, and for a few seconds, only the empty scratching of the needle on the record came from the corner of the room. Disfigured with fear, the actress turned her face toward Maria, her eyes wild, her hair bristling over her ears. Mioara leapt to her feet and pressed against the wall with the black velvet mask, which now grinned menacingly, next to her cheek. “Forgive me,” she screamed, “forgive me! Forgive me!” She wasn’t screaming, in fact, they were short howls crazed with fear, pushed until her vocal cords would break, as though, in her ravished bed, instead of the young apprentice, a spider bigger than a person had appeared. Frightened, the girl stood up too. “No!” cried Mioara. “Stay away! Forgive me!” She curled up in a corner of the room, like a child, and crossed her arms over her face. Then she collapsed onto one side and lay on the rug. Shaking, Maria approached. She bent down and tried to rouse Mioara from her faint. But the singer’s muscles were clenched like stone, her face was ashen, and her eyes were open like a dead woman’s. Only her jugular vein throbbed softly beneath the skin of her neck.

The girl shook off her dizziness and found herself in her underwear in a strange room. Only then did she understand what had happened, and fear, repulsion, and self-hatred combined incomprehensibly in her breast, taking the place of lucid thought, and they drove her to run. Her clothes were a mess, but she put them on, in a kind of frenzy, and she opened the wardrobe to look for a shawl or something to cover the missing buttons of her blouse. But the wardrobe had nothing but uniforms. They were black, SS officer uniforms, the kind she saw every day in the cafes of Bucharest, or driving the streets in black cars. Above them were 5 or 6 tall helmets, each with the emblem of a grinning skull, and below the uniforms shined pairs of polished boots. Only behind the boots were stuffed some women’s clothes, a kind of carnival costume and some masks. Maria wrapped herself in a saffron mantle that could pass, in the city night, for a shawl. She glanced at the woman curled on the floor and departed, leaving the gramophone needle to scratch on the rotating disk.

She went through the passage quickly with loud footsteps and sank into the unlit, miserable streets, under stars that blew an icy air. Barked at by stray dogs, grabbed by drunkards, taken for one of the easy women who leaned here and there around the bars, walls, and light posts, the girl, whose mind throbbed full of unclean thoughts, took more than an hour to get home. Vasilica was not back. Maria put on her nightgown and lay under the sheet. She tried to force herself to sleep but fell into a painful numbness. The ether of the liquor she had drunk was completely evaporated, and now her stomach was heavy with a chemical, decomposed air. She was sweating. She pushed the sheet to one side and writhed and turned, drenching the bedsheets.

From this daze Vasilica woke her, just as the new day approached. She was drunk and giggling like crazy. With their fingers interlaced in the brightening room, while the sparrows began to chirp outside and they could hear vendors hawking their wares on a street nearby, the sisters told each other their strange stories, the disturbing experiences of the night before. Falling onto the sheet with laughter, Vasilica whispered in Maria’s ears that she had been with Cedric, the black man, to a couple of places where they had danced and he’d spent money left and right, that they had eaten crawfish on crushed ice and drunk a flaming liquor. He sipped it and suddenly breathed a flame toward the ceiling, like a dragon, charring the quartz prisms of the chandeliers. And then they went out onto the street and Cedric danced and sang the whole way, tapping the asphalt with his polished shoes, “Maria, he sounded just like a priest hammering the bell,” and she laughed when, after a series of pirouettes, Cedric suddenly fell to his knees at her feet, with his arms outstretched like onstage, hands wiggling and grinning with his ivory teeth, then jumping up to keep tapping and singing in English. He could make the sounds of a trumpet, a saxophone or the brushes on the drums, beating his curiously white palms on the pipes … until Vasilica did not know how late they had come to Cedric’s place, a room off Piaţa Lahovari. But what a room! On the walls, there was a kind of matting with masks scattered, “like ours with the goats, but uglier, real demons from the people he came from,” and in a corner there was a crimson idol “with its thing down to its knees.” In a glass case with countless little cups and glasses there was something dark and ugly. Seeing Vasilica looking in there fearfully, Cedric had laughed, opened the glass door, and grasped the hair of a human head, small as a fist, dried but with expressive features. “This man used to be alive,” he explained, “but now his power is mine.” It was an actual human head, and Cedric held it on his fingertip like a ball. In the same case, there were wide gaping crocodile jaws, full of needle-sharp teeth. Vasilica had known when she went into the room that she would sleep with Cedric. Unlike her younger sister, she was no longer a virgin: in the village she had had a “darling,” and since she had come to Bucharest, she had been, as would any happy and healthy girl, with two others, a clerk at the Department of Alcohol and a medical student, and she didn’t call them “darlings,” like in the country, but cupcakes, as they said in the neighborhood in those days. She wasn’t against having an affair, for her own pleasure, even with a black cupcake as cute as Cedric. But good Lord, listen to what happened next! Vasilica started to laugh so hard her eyes watered. It was so funny! Cedric poured a drink and started to murmur prayers in a satanic language, without looking at her. He clapped his hands and babbled. Sweat began to run down his forehead and cheeks. His shirt was soaked almost immediately, and his strong, well-defined muscles showed through the wet fabric. Then he pulled his shirt off and his striped pants down, almost tearing them, and then he was naked as a beast and smelled like a circus lion. His eyes became round, his corneas saffron. When he jumped up, Vasilica stiffened, thinking he would rush at her, but instead he opened a wardrobe and took out a German uniform, “Nazzies!” and threw it on the bed. He told her, with a wild look, to put it on. “And I pulled those tight pants on and buttoned the vest with iron crosses up to my neck, and then I put on the boots and the cap. I tightened the leather belt and looked in the mirror. And you know what, it looked good! But it all was kind of hanging off me, since it was made for a man …” Then Cedric gave her a thick, round leather crop, and he commanded her to whip his back without mercy while she said all kinds of stuff: dirty darkie, gigolo, sonofabitch … She beat him all night until her hand hurt, and that was it. Cedric came on the sheets several times, but he never touched her.

Maria raised her arm and watched its shadow on the wall. She told her sister about the singer. She scratched her head for a while, trying to guess what had scared Mioara so much. She decided it couldn’t be anything but the rosy butterfly on Maria’s hip, which the singer only saw when she pulled down her panties. But why, what had the mark meant to her? She remembered the ring on her finger, with the butterfly etched in ivory. The sisters thought they would try to find out what was really happening, but the next day the bombing of Bucharest began, and that magical night passed into oblivion.

14

THE next morning, after they’d trembled through the night in a shelter, screaming at every rumble of the earth and deafening explosion, the sisters found their neighborhood in ruins. Above, on the blue sky, transparent, without reality, the Americans had written VICTORY with colored airplane smoke, and the letters were unraveling, turning into just a line of clouds, scattered in the wind. Many homes had just a few walls still standing, like the remnants of cavity-filled teeth. The demolished roofs revealed people struggling with pieces of pipe and cable, salvaging something or other. Shop windows were shattered, and homeless kids plundered the mannequins. A tram lay across the street, toppled to one side, and one rail rose up vertically, two stories high, to point at the sky. Dusty soldiers ran around in disarray, with chairs in their arms, or vases or rolls of carpets. The head of a plaster gorgon, from over an entryway, had a triangular steel splinter stuck directly between its eyes. The splinter cast a pointed shadow, like a sundial, across the gorgon’s cheek, ear, and two ridiculous serpents in the tangled capital of fury.

The closer they came to their street, the greater the disaster. The ruins seemed more hideous and ancient, as though the bombing had happened decades ago. The brick walls were yellow and crumbling, and beyond the façades yawned chambers with nudes hanging on the walls, while dead bodies lay among glass cases displaying intact goblets. The girls passed a knife sharpener carrying his primitive machine on his back. They clambered over piles of rubble mixed with small objects and laundry, and stopped on the corner, embracing, with the same fear in their eyes. They did not dare turn onto the street where the center of their Bucharest lives had stood — but was it still there? — the tailor shop with the apprentices’ rooms upstairs, the other middle-class houses across the way that stood, decaying and clunky, full of silly ornaments, beside the Toval corporation, the factory for orthopedic shoes on the ground floor, along with the Leon Gavrilescu photo studio, and their close friend Nea Titi, who had the great and ferocious Singer sewing machine, decorated with gold floral designs in her window and on her hanging sign. And, of course, next to the Verona tailor shop, the whitewashed building with the butcher on the ground floor, where, three flights up, lived the actress who sang from the crescent moon.

Their hearts beating in their double chest, since fear and foreboding had made them Siamese, the girls entered the street of death. Never had they seen such carnage. Pools of blood glowed in the sunlight. Hands, jaws and smashed bones came out of the rubble and the cracks in buildings. A human brain, intact, moist, with carefully drawn circumvolutions, with tiny blue veins beating under the membrane, bloomed on the pavement, beside a wide-open skull. No house was left intact. Doors were standing, frames and all, while the walls were piles of bricks. An elevator shaft remained, wrapped in its black wire mesh, from the Romanian-German Petroleum Company, while the building around it had melted like sugar. Four floors high, the shaft, with a large wheel on top and its elegant, glass-doored car stopped between the floors, dominated the entire street like a menacing tower. Inside was still, perhaps, sitting on her chair resignedly, the elevator operator, whose power had been cut during the air raid the evening before, trapped in the cage of her eternal daily suffering. She might have struggled and screamed the whole morning, like a bird in her nest, and nobody had bothered to release her. Now she probably looked down from the height of fifteen meters at the disaster of the business district, happy in the end to have survived.

The sisters, with their damp fingers twisted together, stepped over the floor of broken windows, over widely scattered orthopedic shoes — in one a shard had cut a hole the width of a hand, exposing a beautiful lady’s revolver with six chambers and a tiny pearl handle on a wrinkled satin lining; in another was a small ingot of gold; in a third, a chess pawn, made of glittering crystal. They stepped over hats with veils, and photographic plates of frosted glass, liberally coated with silver nitrate. It was as if all the secrets of a seemingly indolent world had come to light at once, and this new world was as transparent and passionate as an engine on display in a science museum, with cut-aways in the thick metal to show how the pistons and valves moved. Who would have thought that Gavrilescu the photographer, with his big paunch and sluggish persona, always with a pint of beer in hand, and whose bloody body now lay across a pile of sepia photos of naked girls, had been a cunning and competent spy? Maria and Vasilica, passing by the former photography studio, stepped over exquisite bird’s-eye photographs of German encampments, filled with letters and arrows scratched into the glass plates. Or Nea Titi: always sullen and covered in sewing machine oil, whose hollow cheeks made him look like he only ate on Wednesdays and Fridays, now appeared to have been a great collector of gastropod cypraea, one of no more than a hundred worldwide — the conches were tossed about crazily, pearly pink and purple and anthracite, spotted like leopard fur, as though painted by Chagall, with spikes and ragged lace, big as a tire or tiny as grains of sand, and scattered and shattered everywhere. Now Nea Titi lay on his back, sliced open like an anatomical model, a pale rat in a jar of alcohol, disassembling himself in the clear liquid, displaying his liver, his heart and lungs, his large and small intestines, his kidneys and bladder. His eyes, open toward the sky, looked like two balls of green glass.

On the left side of the street was only the empty blue sky, held up by pillars of broken buildings. Across a vacant lot with conical pits and piles of rubble, one could see houses, many of them whole, from the next street. “My God, Maria,” Vasilica whispered, standing still in the middle of the street, “there’s nothing left … nothing …” They would have to begin their lives all over again, in some other shop, under some other boss. A bomb had fallen directly on the tailor shop, as though the Yank in his Spitfire, chewing gum and thinking of some down-home Ginger Rogers, had smelled the musky scent of thirty girls with bushy armpits — or the delicate Chanel of Mioara Mironescu? — and pushed the button on his joystick to drop the steel oval, with a yellow fin, the way in another situation he would have ordered open the valves of his shameful nerve, filling the corpus cavernosum with blood, to tumescence. To immerse thirty girls at once within the ravishing orgasm of death! Luckily, only one or two were caught at home, those who, like many others in Bucharest, had become numb to too many air raids, and had been content, in place of any other reaction, to cross themselves with their tongues on the roofs of their mouths and mutter absentmindedly, for the hundredth time: “Good Lord, make them go to Ploieşti!”

The girls, separated now and crying, went over to the old façade of the Verona tailor and up to the butcher’s. The half-skinned cow that had always been hanging on a steel hook was now mixed into the cubes of pavement, mutilated a second time. The indifferent lamb’s heads, covered in blood, stared into the azure sky with the same hallucinatory horror as Nea Titi’s human eyes. Sausages, headcheese, salamis and horseshoe-shaped pastramis lay everywhere, swarming with flies, like an animal’s organs in Arcimboldo. A delicate hand, as though painted by a Renaissance artist, rested, cut off at the wrist, on a slab of bacon tied with string. From the stump, like jellyfish filaments, the ends of veins and nerves emerged. On one finger, a ring with a white stone glistened. Maria’s heart stopped. She ran to the hand, getting her dress caught on a bundle of wires. She bent down, without touching it, choking with emotion. It was the butterfly! It was the mammoth-hair ring, on the withered finger, with its nail lacquered dark red, of Mioara Mironescu. Maria screamed as loud she was able to and Vasilica ran over. “Lelică, Lelică, it’s Mrs. Mioara’s hand!” The young girl’s hysteria grew into a fit, making her howl like an animal wrapped around Vasilica’s shoulders. Her sister tried to pull her away, to stop looking, to forget … But then, with a sharp contraction of her muscles, Maria stopped struggling. With her face ravaged, and something manic in her eyes, she grabbed the pale hand and brought it to her lips. She took the ring off of the finger and slipped it into her shirt, by her breast. A street vendor passed, in traditional apron and pants, with his Oltean hat around his neck, looking for something. A clerk with a white purse paused to look at them and passed on. The girls looked down. They took each other’s hands again, and walked through the ruined houses, trying to glimpse, in the piles of bricks and broken furniture, any vestige of their former lives. When they came to the back, to the service entrance, where the apprentices usually entered the building, they were moved by what they saw. Maria would never forget it, and she would tell the story many times, in the peace of her kitchen invaded by poplar tufts and wasps, cooking potatoes for Mircea and gazing at the dusty crenellations of the mill wall. And now, on the tram, when lazy, soft snowflakes suddenly began to fall, Maria remembered the morning after the bombing and smiled with emotion. The tram turned and rang its bell as it moved from station to station toward the university. Everyone wore heavy coats. Men wore Russian fur hats with the flaps down, or curly hats of wool. One or two had fedoras. The women held on to each other for warmth, laughing and joking, showing their missing teeth through their nauseatingly painted lips. Only Maria wore the same summer dress and the same headscarf with images of Sinaia. The other women were well cocooned, with rubber galoshes over their boots, as was the fashion in ’55. People at the stations froze in the snow, waiting for the tram. Some cars, Pobedas and Warszawas, attempted to lug their heavy carcasses, like beetles, over the white surface of the boulevard. In comparison, the black Volgas looked like limousines. Pushing away any thoughts of Costel, whom she was meeting that night at the International Fraternity Cinema, Maria sank again into the past, while the tram accelerated, creaking in every joint, past the statue of C. A. Rosetti, who reigned from his bronze chair over the leafless trees and snow of his little park.

Only the doorframe of the service entrance was standing. Behind it, the pile of rubble rose taller than a person. And within the wood frame, on the doorstep, his bare gray head in his hands, in his peasant dress and boots from the First World War, sat Tătica. Badislav Dumitru, known as Babuc, believed he had lost both of his daughters in a single night. “The poor man sat there on the doorway, and cried,” Maria would say dozens of times. “Poor Tătica! As mean as he was to you, as stingy as he could be, he wasn’t bad in his heart. He just worked hard and suffered a lot when he was a child. He was left without parents when he was very little and raised by his older brother, who beat him with a stick for any thing he did. When the war came, he was drafted, wounded, and decorated, and he came back to the village a sergeant. After that he married Mămica and took her from Dârvari, both of them dirt poor. They had eight kids. Four lived — Anica, Vasilica, me, and Uncle Florea. The others died from tuberculosis, which is how it was back then. But as simple as they were, country people, I remember how they would talk over any decision, Tătica and Mămica, anything. I would wake up at night, at their feet where I slept, and I’d hear them talking: ‘Maria, look, tomorrow we’re supposed to plow the hill. Don’t you think it’s too early? Should we leave it two or three days?’ And Tătica listened to what Mămica said and didn’t do anything they didn’t both agree on. And he didn’t yell at her, and he never hit her once, like everyone does in the country. And you know he didn’t get married again after my poor mamma died, at 54, and he never even looked at another woman. Instead, he turned bitter and stingy. Lord, how I cried once when he stopped by, you were little then, on the way back from the market, and he gave you a little 25 bani pretzel, small as a pinky ring and so hard you couldn’t eat it, and then when I was looking for the garlic in his bag and I found a big, puffy pretzel, covered in salt and poppy seeds … He had bought the little pretzel with the change he got from a leu and given it to his grandkid, since you had teeth and could chew. And anything you asked for, ‘Tătica, can you give me a bag of nuts?’ ‘I don’t have enough, taică, how am I going to have enough?’ And when we got married, he didn’t even give us a spoon … Well, that’s how he was, but he raised us all, for better or for worse, and we never lacked for anything. He never beat you when you were little and playing in the yard in Tântava. He only spanked you once, when you put the cat on his head and it scratched his face, do you remember? Otherwise, you just had to worry about his mouth: ‘Haoleu, if this kid was mine, I’d love to put a stick on him.’ That time, after the bombing, was the first time I ever saw him cry. He was in despair. When he saw that our house was destroyed, he thought we were dead. He had heard about the bombings in the middle of the night. Up to then, the planes had gone to Ploieşti, where the refineries were. They passed right over the village, over Tântava, you could see them, like silver butterflies … Often they dropped bunches of scrap metal that the kids collected from the fields. But our neighbor across the road, the one who died, Fănel, Ochişor’s kid, he had a radio, he was well set, and other people had them too, and that’s how the whole village heard about the disaster. Most of them had children or relatives in Bucharest. You can imagine what they felt like, what grief was there. Tătica got dressed and left in the middle of the night, walking along the road, to find out what happened to us. He walked 25 kilometers to Bucharest. He got there around six in the morning. He had already been sitting there for two hours when we found him, with his head in his hands and the woven bag beside him. That day made up for a lot.”

The girls had ran toward him, screaming, hopping along on the high heels that made their ankles bend. Tătica, raising his eyes red with tears, did not recognize them. Vasilica and Maria, his little girls in aprons and shirts they had made by hand, after they had woven the fabric themselves, had transformed into two demoiselles with curly hair, straight dresses tight at the hips, and strings of beads around their necks … When he hugged them, thanking God, while they cried, rubbing his prickly beard, overwhelmed by love and tenderness, the old man smelled perfume. A passing, absurd thought darkened his joy for a moment: had his daughters gone astray? In the village, there had been three sisters who went to live at Crucea de Piatră, and sometimes they came home gussied up with ointments and stinking of cologne. All the lads of the village, as many as hadn’t been drafted (before the end of the war, news of their son’s death on the front would reach 187 mothers in Tântava), whistled at them and shouted rude things. But no, Anica had been to Bucharest two days ago and found them toiling in the workshop, at their sewing machines. Embarrassed by the thought, Tataie hugged the girls tighter against his chest. He picked up his bag and the three of them went back to the street, forcing themselves not to look at the misery around them. The old man stopped worrying and cheered up. He walked, as he would until he was 87, until just a few days before he died, with enormous steps, so that the girls had to trot along on either side, barely avoiding being left behind. A man with a cart stopped by them, after they had come out of the bombed neighborhood. He was from Bolintin and knew Tătica somehow or other. They got into the cart and bumped along streets they had never been down before, until the picturesque and familiar scene of Obor, swarming with peasants, gypsies and lowlifes, opened before them. A blue smoke and the smell of grilling sausages filled the whole market. On Moşilor, and Oborul Nou, clots of carts and automobiles passed, advancing like snails in the sea of people. The middle-class houses and mud huts had almost all been made into bars. Among the many taverns full of peasants, there were signs for stores, and squalid workshops with heaps and piles of scythes, lines of shovels, chains and ropes … A Transylvanian man sold glazed bowls for ten meters along a shopfront, and after him there were babas hawking wooden spoons. A gypsy sat on a patch of grass and made rings from silver coins. Some stray children, stinking like corpses, stood around him, watching him blow fire through a bronze pipe.

They went into a bar and squeezed together on a long bench, at a pine table stained from top to bottom with tomato juice and seeds. After a half-hour battle with the mob at the counter, Tătica came back with two pints of beer and a narrow glass of rachiu. The place smelled like sweat, rancid lard, garlic, and above all sheep — the smell of peasants, impregnated into their skin and clothes, in the rush baskets they carried for eternity. Out of his own bag, the old man took some cheese, tomato and a piece of smoked sausage, and then traded a few slices with another person at the table for a heel of bread. The girls were starving, and they ate almost everything without saying a word. The man from Bolintin had disappeared somewhere in the crowd. “How is Mămica?” Vasilica asked later, looking around through the blue smoke from Plowman or National cigarettes, still chewing with her mouth full. She looked like a rodent, like a clever squirrel, tireless, always moving. She should have been called Martha, to contrast with the dreamer Maria, but the name Martha was completely unknown among the Tântavans. “Eh … you know your mamma, she’s fine …” Babuc spoke huskily, as though his voice weren’t coming from his throat, but from somewhere underground. “When I left she was milking the cow and going ‘haoleu, my heart, haoleu, my heart.’ She had heard about the bombing. To hell with you and your heart, with all your whining and sighing, I’m going crazy, that’s what I told her, but you know your mamma what she’s like. She says ‘I dreamed the girls were crossing black water, and Maria didn’t have any hands, and Vasilica was carrying dahlias, and she was laughing, like this, at the moon … What can it be?’ And crosses and crosses, and she spits down her shirt, and then ‘haoleu my heart, haoleu my heart …’ ” They all laughed, since just like chills, hemorrhoids, and jaundice, struggles of the heart weren’t taken seriously in the country. Sickness meant you lay around, wasted away, and never got up. Cholera, consumption, typhus, and pellagra were sickness. Anything else you walked off. Maria would always remember her mother, also named Maria, whom she sat with for a few days and nights before she came to her end, at fifty-seven years old, in 1960. When she was on her deathbed, in her family house, watched over from the walls by archangels and the almighty Lord himself, with his red book open on her lap, Maria Badislav was a saint. She complained about nothing. Her eyes, with tiny blue veins, shone in their sockets under her thin eyebrows. She passed down her thin and kind face to Maria, and Maria passed it to her grandson Mircea, along with the enchanting power of dreaming. All her life, Maria dreamed in the strong and bright colors of icons. She had dreamed of her husband before she met him (she recognized him on the spot, the morning when he wheeled his cart into her father’s yard to repair one of the axles, he was a turner from Bârvari); she had dreamed of all eight of her children, six girls and two boys, before she bore them, and she knew ahead of time which ones would live and which wouldn’t. “Poor Mămica,” all her kids said, among themselves, when they talked about her. Watched over by a candle that shone like gold in the clay darkness of the house, Maria was just as transparent and could be snuffed out just as quickly. Little Mircea was in the room too, playing explorer on an upside-down chair he dragged here and there. The old clock, with a locomotive on its face and two enormous bells on top, ticked loudly in the room’s quiet. Suddenly the old woman groaned, Maria began to scream, and Babuc rushed in from the porch, where he was warming some food. They grabbed her hands and looked, frightened, into her glassy eyes that no longer saw anyone. Tătica said huskily, “Maria, Maria …” and suddenly, as she half rose up, the old woman sighed from her lungs and in the box of her chest, transparent with suffering. Through the thin linen of her shirt, the three of them saw Maria’s heart unfold like a flowering bud. They saw how its jellylike petals unrolled within the box of her chest and how in the end, on the thick vein that served as its stem, a wondrous, pink, luminous flower flowered under her skin and bones. “Rupture of the heart” would be written under “cause of death” on her death certificate. The doctor, who’d just come from Domneşti, had never seen anything like it. “It’s like an x-ray, look, you can clearly see the lungs, three lobes on the right and two on the left, there is the clavicle, behind are the shoulder blades, and the ribs are whiter at the edges and grayer in the middle … And at the end of the aortal artery, her heart is just shredded to bits …” The peasants filling the room crossed themselves reverently. The priest, a young man with only a few tufts of beard, frowned, not knowing what to do. Miracles, of course, were no longer possible in the workers’ and peasants’ republic. They buried Maria quickly, on a rainy day, with the entire village gathered in the cemetery. The three girls cried as though their souls would break open, while Florea and Tătica, clean-shaven and dressed in black, were quiet and leaned their heads toward the ground, and the children, Marian, Mircea, Florea, and Rădiţa’s Doru, played with stones somewhere in the crowd, their jackets transparent with rain over their cheap clothes. Mămica would leave this much behind: a cloudy memory and an even cloudier photo, with a peasant girl in a black headscarf. Her face there had almost no features, it was so white and misty that Mircea, when he saw the picture in an issue of “Work of the Party” (he was five or six, and the family had already moved to the block on Ştefan cel Mare, still unfinished, with scaffolding across the front), drew in pen, on the oval wrapped by the scarf, an ugly face with a crooked nose, and teeth and eyes like a grinning skull. On the back, in marker, was written in that flowery hand that peasant kids learned under the rod of their Doamna before the war: “Mămica at our Wedding 1955, August 4.”

Time passed quickly in the bustle of bars on Obor. No one talked about anything but the bombing, the way that a few years earlier they’d talked for months only about the earthquake and the fall of the Carlton block, which acquired the melodramatic proportions of the sinking of the Titanic, by means of the ridiculous waltz played on every accordion. Little by little, the tall glasses of liquor turned rosy, and the color passed into the whites of the eyes of those on the smoke-blackened benches. As evening began, the trams crisscrossed in the piaţa, clanging deafening bells. Tataie and the girls left the bar at five in the afternoon and walked along Mihai Bravu, winding into the lonely slums, where flocks of children played ball on the street or poked through the mud, until they came to Rădiţa’s house, where they spent the night. Nenea and Uncle Florea were on the Russian front, and Rădiţa, who had a small shop no one entered, in spite of the beautiful cases full of porcelain dolls, had been left alone, scared, crying night after night, waiting from morning to evening for word from the front that her husband was dead. They listened to the radio for a while, but they couldn’t get any information from the propaganda programs. The country was occupied by the Germans, or at least that was the reality behind the beautiful words. They slept piled into two beds, without undressing, and the next day they went back to Tântava, where the girls would stay until the war was over.

In March of the next year, it snowed wet and unusually large flakes over the roughly three hundred houses in the village, “lamb snow,” as they called it. People were annoyed, because they had to wear their heavy clothes and wool hats again, when they had thought they would move on to lighter wear. They were also afraid a frost would catch the budding trees and there would be no fruit in the summer. Maria was standing in the oven, stirring a hanging pot. The oven was made of clay, with a great yellow fire, a wood floor and a sooty window as big as a hand. The back was lined with reeds, which wild bees filled with black honey in the summer. Above was the chimney, where the smoke rose from ashen twigs that were almost always damp and full of caterpillars and spiders. In the oven, with her face hot from the fire and watching the smoky arabesques in shafts of light, Maria felt like she was inside a rounded, tender belly. It smelled like mămăligă and mouthwatering stew. She was just stirring some mămăligă when she heard the dog, Roşu, barking like he was possessed. The dog, swith fur the color of fire, had its own strange and moving story. For a time, there were always Germans in the village. They would come on their motorcycles for a beer at the bar in the center of town, next to the footbridge where Băcanu Village started … People didn’t love them or hate them; they became used to them. Only in the years that followed, when the German soldiers were replaced by Russians, did the villagers begin to miss them and speak of them fondly. The Germans had treated the locals well. They paid for what they drank and ate, down to the last penny, and they played with the children and gave them chocolate. The charm of their blue eyes would stay with the Tântavans, in contrast to the Russians, who behaved like wild beasts. Rapes and robberies came one after another with the Russians, and not even the movies with dumb, evil German characters, nor the propaganda for Soviet heroes, nor the slogans like

Stalin and the Russians

Brought to us our freedom

nor the new national anthem with

Our people will always be the brothers

Of our Soviet liberators

would change their conviction, often repeated, if under their breath: “The Germans, you know, they was what they was, but they was good people. But God save you from an angry Russian …”

A German officer (Maria remembered his name as Klaus) had been billeted for a while with the Badislavs. He stayed in the room on the other side of the hall, lying on the bed almost all day and reading, under the shawls and coats that hung from the beam. One day he came out wearing one of Babuc’s wool hats, and the children fell over laughing. And this same Klaus got into the habit of playing in the yard with Roşu, one of the two dogs — the other was old, Roşu’s mother —; he taught him to fetch a stick he’d throw as far as the shed, to shake, and to do other silly things. When he was leaving for his native Bavaria, the German begged Tătica for the dog. Out of gratitude, Tătica gave the dog to him, and Klaus put Roşu in his sidecar. And wouldn’t you know but the dog came back a year later, trailing a collar with a German inscription, which the villagers much admired, standing surprised around him. When the dog saw Tătica, he went mad with joy, hopping and whimpering, even though he was weak, his ribs showing, and he pawed the ground with aching feet. The village told this story for a long time.

And now the dog was barking more frantically than Maria had ever heard, until he couldn’t breathe. She came out of the oven door, and the snowflakes immediately froze her face, which was red from the fire. At the gate was a poor beggar, who seemed to have come from some hospital, since his head was completely covered in dirty, almost black, bandages. Only his eyes showed, and even they were hazy through the ceaseless snowfall. His clothing was no different from any other beggar’s who had passed through the village. Still, his crooked figure, as much as Maria could see through the snow-capped fence, had something wrong with it, something of a person from somewhere else, or possibly (Maria crossed herself on the roof of her mouth) not even a person. Framed by the dilapidated house across the street, his body looked like one of the demons painted in the village church, the ones from the terrifying Last Judgment, with broken hips and more vertebrae in his neck than seemed natural. His body’s proportions were bizarrely perverted, and he was twitching as if he were being beaten by a gale. The girl clutched her jacket and crossed the yard along the trodden path. Passing the quince trees, she brushed against them and covered herself with frozen puffs, miniscule crystals one over the other, sparkling like sequins.

Now they were face to face, with the fence between them, almost as high as their chins. Maria quickly said the words that usually got rid of beggars: “I don’t have anything. How should I have what to give you? Move on, go ask someone else, get out!” But the person under the bandages began to giggle and said quietly, “Maria, don’t you recognize me?” And then he put his hands to his mouth like a trumpet, leaned back, and moving his fingers quickly on invisible valves, let out a wild solo, imitating the swing of the brass instrument so well that the girl immediately knew who was standing there. The mummy, blinking his yellow eyes, launched into a drum solo, rumbling and hissing with his mouth, doing the bass and the small drums, making the brushes and tom-toms and maracas, speeding up and huffing, until he hit the cymbals with all his power, almost making them real in the crystalline, frozen air, and then he bent suddenly at the waist, in a bow. “Cedric, crazy Cedric,” laughed Maria, “what in God’s name are you doing here? What’s with the get up?” Vasilica appeared from the barn, smelling not at all unpleasantly of bull and warm dung. “My oh my, it’s Cedric …” she rolled her eyes toward the heavens like a martyr, but at the same time she remembered flogging him mercilessly in the musky smell of his hot room. She would have done it again, now and then, she almost admitted to herself, as she had said to herself often enough in bed at night, wrapped in a wet excitation. She had liked wearing the black, svelte uniform, and the complete power she had had over the male who kissed her boots, who writhed and screamed with every lash, intoxicated her now, in memory, as much as she refused to admit it.

Cedric came inside the hall and entered the big room on the right. He was as happy as a puppy and equally ragged. He let his gauze strips fall off, and soon his broad grin flashed just as it had at the Gorgonzola. The girls brought him some ţuica and nuts. He ran his eyes over the icons on the walls, full of dragons and militant angels, the yellowed photos in frames of crushed glass, and the raw silk towels. Tătica and Mămica had gone to Bolintin that morning, and would be back late that night or the next day. They still had their wagon and two horses, fat and beautiful, already old, horses that a few years later would be taken by the collective to the ravine. The girls and Cedric had plenty of time to catch up, then, as much time as the day was long. Maria just had to run to the oven now and then, to check on the mămăligă or to make sure the stew was boiling.

They put a round table on the clay floor and sat around it, on little chairs. Maria put the mămăligă in the middle of the table and began to fill the bowls. While they ate in the dark mystery of the room, it snowed steadily and melancholically on the windows, and Cedric told them a fantastic story.

15

MARIA got off the tram at University, in a scene of deep winter. She couldn’t recognize the main boulevard or the side streets under the thick layer of snow. The familiar statues, Mihai Viteazul, Heliade, Gheorghe Lazăr, and Spiru Haret rose out of the snow like the turrets of gigantic submarines. The gray edifice of the university, stretched along its great length, looked like a basalt cliff by a frozen sea — an irregular cliff with allegorical statues on its face — Science, Art, Agriculture, Trade — that could have been elements of natural fantasy, bizarre stalactites that bad weather would carve into gryphons and trolls and countless other fairy-tale creatures. Trees with black branches, full of crows, knocked against the dry glass windows of the building. Each branch wore a delicate ice crust.

Color had completely disappeared from the city. You felt like you were in a black and white film, wound on a well-used reel. The old celluloid, stored damp, the copy of a copy of a copy, was full of spots and scratches, and when the film was projected they looked like long drops and streams of rain. The only living, flesh-and-blood presence, colorful as a flower, was Maria, who, in her summer dress and high heels, clopped quickly toward the movie theater, lifting her ankles out of the snow as deftly as a cat. In heavy clothes, heads hunched between their shoulders against the cold, the passersby seemed too immersed in their own problems to waste a glance at her, as her plump hips swayed past them. She was carefully dressed, but unfortunately in light clothes, untouched by the deadening air around her. The gale, from the Russian steppes, blew so hard from the side that you expected the trams and cars to roll over. With every gust, people turned their backs, cursing into their scarves.

A Russian GAZ truck stopped along the curb beside her. A young man in a sweatshirt and khaki hat with earflaps pulled down to his eyebrows (military issue, with the emblem ripped off the front) called to her from the driver’s side: “Maria! Maria!” Her heart jumped, as she was still dazed by the intense, spherical light of Cedric’s story, but she smiled when she recognized the man. “Ionel, Ionel, my boy, you have to stop your drinking,” she sang to him as she came over to the blue jeep. “Because all the girls laugh at me? Bottoms up? Hey, where are you going? You have a date? Toniiiight I have a daaaate … I’m so haaaapy, can’t be laaaate …” “Shush, no. I’m just going to a movie.” “What’s on?” “I don’t know what it’s called, one with the guy I like, Gérard Philipe.” Ionel smiled wryly. How the hell did Maria know every actor’s name? If he went to a movie with a girl, with an apprentice, they just chose one at random, and if they liked it, they told other people to see it too. He lived near Maria, on Silistra, but he was thinking about moving, since he was driving a truck for the state, now, for the newspaper Scintea, and there was no reason he had to keep living there with all the gypsies, in the slums. He had knocked on Maria’s door a few times, like boys will do, but without any luck. Once he had picked her up in the truck and they went to Casa Scinteii, when it had just been built, a marble palace that took the girl’s breath away. He took her inside, into the vast hallways and monumental stairways, everything in superhuman dimensions. The countless wooden doors with red plates for the various bureaus and editors looked somehow petty, like the ugly, jaundiced, clear-looking, cheap-suited inhabitants of the white stone castle. It was like the real, legitimate inhabitants, of noble and Olympian lineage, had been kicked out by a tribe of pygmies. Maria had let him take her out another time, for a pastry and a soda, but she wouldn’t let it go any further if you broke her arm. So much for that. She was a bit past her prime, at twenty-five, and if she didn’t hurry, she’d end up living with her cats, like everyone who kept her nose in the air, especially if she didn’t have anything between her ears. Ionel had left her in the pay of the Lord, and now, he was seeing a college student, Estera Hirsch, who, when they had kissed in a dark block stairway, put her tongue in his mouth right away, but to look at her, four-eyed and a little prim, active in the Young Workers Union, you wouldn’t have thought she was so fiery. But she was, and how! If the walls could talk in her studio apartment in Predoleanu, high, in the attic, in the clouds, if only they could talk … Between sessions of mad rolling around on her metal-slat bed, Estera would get up quietly and sit at her desk to study articles by Engels, naked as her mother made her, her chest freckled down to her nipples and her public hair as red as the cover of Lenin’s complete works, which lay in a pile next to her bed. She taught Ionel too, she wanted to raise his consciousness, she told him to go to night school … That’s a girl, with help like that he could be someone, he could work at HQ, doing propaganda, a man with an institute car waiting at the gate. For a country boy made truck driver, that would be something. “Okay, Maria, stay good!” he said while he turned the ignition.

Maria smiled after him condescendingly. Ionel was from Teleorman, his family had received some land after the War for Reunification, and they had spent the last few years resisting collectivization. He was the only one of his brothers to go to the city, where for a while he had worked paving streets, digging ditches for the sewers and other public works in the May 1 District, until, after he had gone into a family bar on Lizeanu to warm himself up, he had happened upon someone he knew, almost unrecognizable in his black leather coat with a nice wool hat sitting comfortably enough on his head. It was Zambilă, from Iliasca, whose father, half gypsy, half Serbian, had once set the village on fire and then cut his own throat with a sickle. They had a little drink together, a rye that was increasingly rare, being replaced almost everywhere by Two Blue Eyes ţuica, and nea Zambilă — now Comrade Ciocan, from the District, offered him a better job. Sculptors, volunteers in the War for Peace and Socialism, who rejected the formalist and intimist aberrations of bourgeois art, had placed thousands of busts in all of the parks in the Capital, busts of men of culture and art from all times and places across the globe, who, although they had not managed to correctly grasp the relationship of classes and the struggle of the proletariat for a better life, still displayed a critical-realist view of the society where they lived and worked. Countless Gorkys, Solohovis, Lermontovs (since pride of place must be given to the fighting heritage of the Russian people, our big brother to the east), Neculuts, Vlachuts, Cosbucs, Eminescus — the poet who, even though he didn’t completely understand … still wrote “The Emperor and the Proletarian” and “Our Youth” —, Shakespeares, Voltaires, and Victor Hugos have sprung up like specters, on vine and lichen-covered pedestals along dark paths, chastising from the heights of their genius the unprincipled couples necking under the moon. The most prolific seemed to be Bălcescu, as though he were multiplying in clones: starting from the hundred lei note, his frozen effigy had spread everywhere, as though the whole of the young people’s republic was a bank note, where a population of mites travelled the tangled lines and dots of blue watermarks, collecting in the beard, eyebrows and sunken eyes of the 1848 partisan. Then there were the statues of people from the Communist underground who had fought the bourgeois-landowner regime, who had pasted manifestos onto walls dimly lit by Bacovian light bulbs while a sweet girl in a white blouse stood lookout, who blew up a German landmine by hitting it with an iron hook, saving the bridge downstream at the price of their lives, who blew the factory whistle to call workers to strike, who were tortured in H-cell in Doftana and never betrayed their comrades — just like you saw in all the Romanian movies: Olga Bancic, Eftimie Croitoru, Basil Roaită, Ilie Pintilie, and others whose actions are not widely known … Not to mention the great socialist and communist leaders, Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin, in bronze or red marble statues on enormous pedestals (but this would not be part of his beat). Of course, nea Zambilă, Ciocan from the District, did not string all these names together at the time. Instead he said only that he was in need of someone to clean the busts in the district parks, to clean off the clay, soot, dust and (pardon) pigeon droppings that stained their heads and shoulders. All Ionel would have to do is take a ladder and a bucket of water, and roam and scrub the park paths systematically, stopping by the citizens of granite and white stone to make them glow with cleanliness and general wellbeing.

The young man got so thoroughly drunk that afternoon that he could barely crawl home to his room in the slums. He got barked at and even bitten by a pack of dogs, wet from where he fell in a puddle … In the morning, after nightmares of statues that spoke or grabbed at him, crushing his bones with stony arms, and after he had remembered, shuddering, that he had kissed nea Zambilă’s hand in the bar many times, in front of everyone, he shaved in his chipped mirror and went off to the new job. The City had given him all according to his need, and for days and weeks, he combed the stone locks of illustrious men, polishing pumice across the wide, convex ovals of their blind eyes, throwing away the cigarette butts that disrespectful people had stuck between their sensual granite lips. For days and weeks, he collected fresh excrement, half black-green, half white, from the birds that crowned the statues, and he crushed the speckled spiders that had woven dense webs from the cheeks’ massive ledges up to the eyebrows. It was spring, and the forsythia bushes made blinding yellow marks on the retina that remained after he looked away, as though he had looked at the sun. In the evenings, he would walk home through the amber fluid that flooded the poor neighborhoods, past girls playing with hoops and fat women on the stairs, or every few days, he would stop by Estera’s and rip her clothes off, almost as soon as he closed the door of her studio apartment on the terrace over the old, crumbling block; he threw her onto the bed with her face down and penetrated her from behind, and she, losing control of herself in excitement, with her braids stuck to her dripping face, would start with perverse and husky whispers, between her ever louder grunts: “Marx is a shithead … say it … say what I’m saying … Gheorghiu-Dej is an asshole … ah!.. aaa … Lenin … motherfucker … Stalin … aaah, aaaaah …” Stalin’s name would always send her into a ravishing orgasm, one that probably alarmed the whole block, after which she would rest — her creamy white skin with constellations of freckles on her buttocks, and even on her labia — for a few minutes and then go back to studying party documents, while Ionel, light as air, his penis resting soft and shiny on his groin, would put his hand behind his head and close his eyes. Beneath his eyelids he saw, much more precisely than in reality, statues, nothing but statues, entire nations of busts with names written below them in black letters, heads and shoulders emerging from each other, superimposing, intersecting … Their features combined: Caragiale wore Eminescu’s locks, Olga Bancic had Tolstoy’s beard, Makarenko was written under Alecsandri … Then he would drowse, lying on his back, and dream fragments of dreams where he saw himself at home in Teleorman; he’d open his eyes and see Estera, late into the night, still at her desk, her shoulder bones and breasts contoured by the lamplight and her dark, copper-colored curls, except for one strand, lit like a flame, beside the lampshade.

One evening in April, climbing his A-shaped ladder, fighting against the cockchafers that attacked Pushkin’s lichen-encrusted temples like tobacco crumbs, Ionel noticed a pitch-black crack at the base of the bust, where it connected to the pedestal. That afternoon he had played a game with himself, trying to guess the names of the stone citizens just by touching their faces. From far away, he would concentrate on the white shine of a group of lilacs, squinting his eyes and forcing himself not to look at the sculpture. He kept his eyes on the ground as he approached, and once he was on the ladder, he closed them completely. He would take the chiseled cheeks in his palms, pass his hands over their wrinkled foreheads, trace his finger over their rough curls, and then say confidently: “Ah, Beethoven, daddy-o, was that you all along? Why the ugly face?” He knew absolutely everyone, they were his colleagues, he patted them protectively on the cheek or pate, he touched the breasts, harder than any woman’s, what’s theirs is theirs, of an underground communist … if they got too dirty he’d tug their ear … With this Pushkin in the Ghica Tei Park, well hidden on a path no one ever took, there was something wrong. Unlike the other busts, firmly cemented onto their poorly painted plinths, this one, who looked Ionel in the eyes the way he once did d’Anthes, during their fatal duel, rocked, almost imperceptibly, with every scrub of the stiff brush on his sideburns. The fissure widened and trembled, dark as a line of ink. It is what it is, Ionel said to himself after he looked over both shoulders, assuring himself that the pathway was deserted. Gathering his courage, as he stood on top of the ladder and pushed hard on the young writer’s left shoulder, on the epaulette, without knowing if he felt joy or fear as he saw the bust pivot on the right shoulder, and a deep well open in the pedestal, with metal rungs down one side.

A beetle hit him in the lip like a brass bullet. The smell of lilacs grew stronger as the night thickened. Already, half of the sky was a deep blue, full of the new moon and a few sparkling stars, while a sweet pearly pink light and bloody clouds outlined the ornamental shrubs on the other side, dressing each branch with a rosy-brown mist. The air darkened into sepia, like in an old picture. Ionel hesitated for a moment, and then the most bizarre ideas entered his mind. It could be an extension of one of the sewers that led into the wastewater network, that branched beneath the entire city and led downstream, toward the Danube and then to the sea, taking away Bucharest’s fermenting turpitude: liquefied feces, newspapers used for toilet paper — the front page, with the smiling beloved Leader, crumpled into a star and smeared with shit — bloody pads of cotton, gray Volcano condoms that always broke, bunching up like painful rings at the base of the vigorous tools of men who hoped they wouldn’t dump a sixth runt into their wives, rotting rats, cats with their guts hanging out in delicate hues of blue and orange … Or it might be a secret drop site for the Securitate, the institution in charge of catching the spies who photographed national targets with ingenious cameras hidden in their glasses frames. Securitate officers were smiling, energetic men who defended revolutionary progress. They each had a delicate wife at home, a wonderful homemaker, and they based their work on subtle logical inferences … Major Frunză and Capitan Lucian were Ionel’s role models, when he read about their adventures, in book after book of the Enigma series that had appeared about a year ago. Or it could be the entrance to a Nazi bunker … but then why didn’t anyone report it when they built the statue? And suddenly the young peasant remembered the story of The Enchanted Flint where fantastic treasure, gemstones and precious scepters inlaid with gold and surrounded with pearls, had been the reward for the bold one who climbed into the hollow. “A treasure,” whispered Ionel with wide eyes. Sometimes, digging out their huts or a well, his fellow villagers would find a rusty bucket full of coins, or an emerald … Ionel took another look up and down the already dark path, and then he lowered himself into the pedestal, holding tight to the throat of the Russian poet, who now looked off to one side, as though he wanted no part of the deeds of these miserable, mortal creatures of flesh, skin, nerves, and blood that would scrub him for all eternity. Propping his hands against the well’s stone walls, the young man sank up to his waist into the pitchy darkness of the interior, where the slanted light of the moon lit only the first two steps. Ionel carefully went another step down and then dragged Pushkin’s bust back over the opening, obliterating the smell of the spring sky and leaving himself in an absolute night.

Later, a week or so after that illuminated night of disturbing hallucinations, the young man would tell Maria the story of his adventure in the belly of the dark. He was still seeing her, because of a certain resentment he felt toward the damned “yid” who in the midst of pleasure slandered the teachers of mankind, and she was seeing him out of loneliness and a desire to go to the movies, which was what she loved most in the world. Time had evaporated along with the light, and the only measure of his descent, metal rung after metal rung, was fear. His eyes went blind, there was screeching in his ears, the calcified chochlea spun crazily in the midst of nonbeing, and the analytical mind of fear broke open. The young man no longer knew whether he was climbing up or down, or along an endless railroad track, grasping the ties; all he could feel with his palms and fingers was the rhythmic interval of the form and the cold of metal bars, the only objects in space. But what if these were only subjective sensations? What if he was just lying under a sheet somewhere, and the nerves in the skin of his palms, projected into his brain’s sensorial-motor zones, constructed the sensation of narrow, cold cylinders, just the length he could feel with his palms or the tips of his fingers? In the middle of the dark, with your body completely liquefied, it was impossible to say whether your pancreas was still inside the somatic bag or sagging outside like a hanged man’s tongue, or to know if your skeleton had turned into a shell like a crustacean’s, or if your neurons had left the original ball under your skull behind, spreading, unraveling like obscene lace to the end of night. The organ of fear did not have a clear shape, like the fungiform papilla or the eyeball, since it was constantly devoured by what it perceived. The organ of fear was crazed with itself in every moment, it contracted and struggled in corrosive liquid, in unforgiving acids of fear. The young man descending no longer knew who he was, nor what area of the world he climbed toward, but he saw the fear, he saw it growing, becoming a fabled scene, painted with the nuances of horror, with desperation, disquiet, anguish, terror, panic … There were startled mountains and petrified cities and forests of cold sweat. Monuments of horror lorded over vast, misty piaţas. Adrenaline sculptures, fluorescent green, portrayed terrible violations, rendings and vivisections, ablations, desquamations, excoriations …

By now, he was no longer descending but levitating like a cloud through the spectral world, in the colossal thickness of fear, over towers of claws and trees that looked like knotted intestines. The dull green and opalescent venom became more frequent, the petrified howling omnipresent … He slid over wide and frightening planets, through empires of desperation that fulminated around him like fog, compact and sparse by turn. Immense towers with tiny windows shining in the green dusk adorned their peaked cupolas with statues of people with their faces in their hands, women overcome with shame, old people begging for death … Through an oval window, there was a girl with an unspeakably romantic form, long curly locks, pearly teeth between her coral lips, a white lace bodice and a blue satin crinoline, and hundreds of bows, with the tips of her lizard-skin shoes peeking out underneath. She was seated at a spinet piano, playing sounds like the clicks of knitting needles. It would have been a charming picture of love, if below her ebony bun, held by a tortoiseshell comb, on her delicate neck with curls of short hair, there wasn’t a hideous tumor, a growth as big as a newborn’s head, bruised and scratched, excreting a yellow pus between its flakes of pink skin … Further on, in a glass, angular hall as big as a train station, along the halls where the young man drifted, dissolved in terror like the steam of hot breath, a procession appeared, moving toward a crystal tomb. He had entered the room through an open transom, with dusty edges, held up by a black wire hook, and he found himself suddenly naked, walking next to the others along checkerboard tiles, bloody squares with marbled designs alternating with white squares, crystalline, like sugar. Every being in the long procession was marked by a monstrous debility: flayed oxen tongues emerged from twisted teeth, vulvas hung down like the whiskers of catfish, gigantic skulls, translucid, filled with violet liquid … He alone, as he suddenly saw in the pure, prismatic façade of the tomb, was whole and beautiful like a god, especially since … he had wings … long, multicolored wings, like a tropical butterfly, with electric blue dots and lilac edges, tips shaped like cobra heads in a yet warmer velvety purple … He looked at himself in the polished mirror of the empty tomb, while he felt six claws as sharp as needles entering his flesh, and he knew then that the enormous wings had not grown between his shoulder blades, like an anatomical anomaly, but that a great butterfly, as long as he was tall, had climbed onto his back and anchored itself firmly onto his ribs, and it watched him with bulging, glowing eyes that had thousands of hexagonal facets. He imagined the inevitable moment when the twisted spiral of its proboscis would unroll, like a curved needle, and slide into his occiput, gently popping through his epidermis, the tip, hard as a diamond, slicing at a slant his skull’s layers of bone, puncturing the duramater and piamater, advancing slowly, greased like gelatin, through the occipital lobe, and stopping in the center of his brain, in the middle of the limbic ring, equidistant from the fornix, mammillary bodies, hippocampus and amygdalae, and sucking out, like a vacuum, one cubic centimeter of cream-caramel matter and replacing it with an egg … The egg is pearly pink, with a soft, pulsing shell, it descends along the proboscis and beds there, between the snowflakes of the axon bodies and the mad labyrinths of the synapses. Then the proboscis withdraws, just as gently, now coated in blood, and spirals back into place, and the butterfly flies off in a zigzag through the air, toward the window open in the roof. The disfigured procession carries the young inseminated god in their arms, places him gently in the hollow of the tomb, and covers him with its heavy, prismatic lid.

He woke up reeling, like he’d suffered a syncope, and to find himself rubbing Pushkin’s right, blind eye with a rag that the soot turned black. He touched his neck, staring into space, pulling the pink atoms of dusk into his chest, just as he did at the table with white and red squares in the beer garden where he had taken Maria for some beer and sausages. For a week, roaming all around Herăstrău Park with a ladder on his shoulder and a bucket in his hand, he didn’t dare touch any of the stone celebrities rising from lilac bushes. When he saw an Ostrovsky or a Sholokhov, it was like he had seen one of those ghouls that the old folks in his village would use to scare kids. His heart jumped in his chest and his feet went cold. Maria laughed, as though he was telling her about a dream, but years later, during Catana’s funeral, lost in the immense tomb of marble, Ionel’s story would come back to her. There was a strange likeness between the stories, as though it was a variation of an old legend, from another province and another rhapsode, who had forgotten some details and included some of his own, until you’d have to compare hundreds of variants, to put one over the other and trace the similarities and differences, to understand what precisely had happened somewhere, sometime, what nucleus of physical objects and confused beings, consumed in the furious flames of time, had risen as transparent smoke into the air, walking simultaneously down thousands of endlessly forking pathways of stories. In any case, even if she were a Mafaldă with her pineal eye emerging between her eyebrows, barely covered by a translucent layer of skin and staring its blue at the faces of tarot cards, Maria could never have guessed the countless ways her family’s life would weave together with “Aunty Hirsch” and her husband Ionel, the peasant boy come to the city to have an unbelievable career. A photograph from the early 70s, black and white with serrated edges, shows Costel and Ionel laughing together against a backdrop of modern buildings and ornamental trees. Costel is in an officer’s coat but black civvy pants, while Ionel, almost unrecognizable, fat and red-faced, is wearing a black jacket and pants from a uniform.

After the GAZ truck started and fell in with the snow-loaded cars with their windshield wipers on, across the area between the university and the imposing constructions of columns across the way, through the destructive gales, spring-dressed Maria passed, crossing the intersection at Children’s Romarta and continuing along the Casa Armatei. Plaster eagles on its roof were now snow-covered scarecrows, showing only their curved beaks, like claws from the paws of a white cat. From here started the movie theaters with names meant to remind everyone of popular democracy: Peace, Work, Brotherhood. From every cashier’s window, the steely eyes of a Soviet soldier watched you, a red star on his forehead and an automatic aimed at the guiltless passersby. Behind him stood a tank with the same starred pentagon on the turret, and the top half of the driver sticking out of his steel chamber. His ears stuck out of his black cap, and he held a red flag unfurled in majesty. However much the flag fluttered in the wind, you could still see, in the upper left corner, the hammer and sickle, sagely crossed. An alchemist like Fulcanelli (alas, the hidden author of The Mystery of Cathedrals was twenty years dead in anno domini 1955, when Maria met Costel again, after their short idyll in Govora, so no window of any workers’ movie theater in his beloved Bucharest would reflect his diminutive figure and drooping mustache) would have seen in these two symbols an unio mystica between sulfur and hydrargarum under the almighty sign of the Pentagram. Only one or two of the movie theaters showed tear-jerkers, where there were, even for the matinee, endless lines, because the young lathe operators and loom workers finished the night shift and went directly to the miserable, rat-poison-filled theaters to see Sara Montinel or Vico Torriani.

More than anything, Maria liked to watch movies. Even later, when she was burdened with life as a housewife, she would delineate her strange triangular world in the heart of Bucharest with three cinemas, located at equal distance from the block on Ştefan cel Mare: the Volga, the Melodia, and the Floreasca. It was rare that she would leave this territory where she felt safe, and when she did, her trips through the city (if she wasn’t going to Vasilica’s or to her godmother’s) were taxing adventures in lands full of danger, barred by oniric fears. It was as though the theaters on the triangle points protected, with their hallucinatory secrets, the only area of reality in the universe, where her house was, and the market, the grocery and the cafeteria, the newsstand and the neighbors, while outside of this wise eye open to the cosmos, the world disintegrated, and filled with pale demons and smoke … Maria went to see a movie the way other people went to church, ready for strong emotions, for tears, streams of tears sparkling in the dark of the hall, for long laughter, for hatred and love. She hated war movies, she only went to those where, as she said, “everyone laughed, and sang, and danced,” or those where a mother’s heart was torn by cruelty. If she thought a movie was “nice,” she saw it ten times with no decrease in pleasure. But, however tempting the movie was, Maria would wait patiently, for weeks on end, “for it to come by us,” on the pretext that the ticket was cheaper at the local theaters than downtown. In fact she was repulsed, especially as she got older, by the thought of leaving her zone. She might tell herself she wasn’t dressed well enough to go downtown, but actually the people seemed strange and hostile to her, and there was something else, an interior resistance, something that prohibited her from confounding herself with her image of herself as a young person, as though her life had been sectioned off at a certain moment and remodeled from the ground up, or as though a sinister (or ecstatic) enigma had rounded in the belly of her mind, like a pearl, adding layer over layer of pearly inhibition around a painful thought.

Now, however, as she was consuming her last stores of youth, Maria, the only point of light in a dull, Siberian city, walked without any trace of disquiet, passing gracefully among the tramps who masticated pretzels in front of the halls, toward the Brotherhood of Nations Theater, where they were showing a Gérard Philipe movie. Victoriţa, the thief, had seen it and thought about it so much, “what that boy did and how he lost the girl,” that Maria practically didn’t know whom she was on a date with, Costel or Gérard himself, the way that sometimes, when a movie was over and she went outside, out the back door, under the sky filled with stars, even though it had been daylight when she went in, she felt like she was living in a movie, one as long as her life, one that who knows who (many people, in any case) watched in a dark hall. And those people were living in another movie, one that others were watching, and so on, and so on.

She spotted Costel and laughed with a snort. He was still in his worn-out sweatsuit, still with those boots with metal on the heels, still poorly shaven, with those eyes that could be gentle or horribly serious, the black and beautiful eyes of a boy from Bănat. And his hair was as black as a crow’s feather, thick as a horse’s tail, combed back smoothly over his head. He seemed spacey, looking for her everywhere, with his hands in his pockets as always (“it’s okay, I’ll change him”), while it snowed like hell on his head and shoulders. But the gusts of eastern winds didn’t make him shiver like everyone else. The young locksmith from the ITB workshop, unbeknownst to him, had noble ancestry. The zipper on his sweatshirt was half open, revealing his undershirt and his completely bare, white chest as though it was a mild, early fall. He wasn’t even wearing his ancient, oil-stained beret, which Maria had made such fun of in Govora. Bored, he took some change out of his deep pants pocket and started to count it, leaning against the window where Gérard Philipe, in the high ruffled collar of his period costume, pointed the tip of his saber at an enormous bearded man’s chest. With a wide smile, Maria walked toward him and took his arm, while Costel, angry he hadn’t seen her coming, quickly stuffed the change into his pocket and said “Good evening” so formally that the girl turned even happier. These stupid boys from Bănat. In Govora, Costel had been one of a group of apprentices from a Lugoj vocational school, all of them dumb as rocks, slow-witted and lazy, and the damned girls from Muntenia, Maria and two others, who had gotten tickets through the Union, had lots of fun at their expense. They would make dates and not go, they’d ask them to bring them who knows what, they’d fool them, two or three times, with the same silly smiles … They went out with them on Saturdays, to a dance (two Saturdays in a row) where the girls danced with each other, like most girls there, while the guys from Bănat, stuck together like a hydra with multiple heads, drank borviz and muttered a word or two in their own silly language. Still, even from the first dance, when she had worn her dress with a sequin belt, which, unfortunately, had scorched on the cast-iron stove while she twirled with Ştefania through the poor dance hall — also known as the cafeteria —, Maria started to watch Costel from the corner of her eye. Maybe because she actually liked the guy, even though he was nearly four years younger, or maybe because she was in that period of eclipse that follows the loss of a beloved in a woman’s life. She often dreamed of a desolate aloneness, like a sad and sweet poison, and to manage the eternal afternoons between the midday meal and supper, she made recourse to the subterfuges that only people overcome by loneliness and nostalgia know. Lying in her iron-slat bed, her eyes closed, she counted to five thousand in her head, then opened her eyes and tried to guess how much of the winter evening had passed by the change of the light, from ash to dark pink, to brown. Then she watched the steady, silent snowfall over the silhouette of the old, crumbling bricks of the sulfuric acid plant, and then she would close her eyes and count again to five thousand, trying to avoid what, in the end, when evening came prematurely and the room fell dark, and only the snowflakes continued to fall, sparkling in the light of a yellow bulb hanging from a post outside, she could no longer avoid: thoughts of Pavel, her Pablo, the student she’d met two years before at a party at the I.O.R. plant, where Vasilica had taken her when she was dating Ştefan, whom she eventually married and had Marian with, Maria’s dear nephew. With her head turned to the wall, stuck to a pillow, and her body feverish under a thin, plaid dorm-room sheet, Maria slid her right palm softly over her breasts, touching her hardened nipples, moved it down her stomach and put her fingers under the elastic band of her underwear, burying them in her thick, wiry pubic hair. She stroked, sweaty, feeling excited and sad at the same time, in a desperate, perverse excitement, rejoicing in the suffering and degradation and destruction. The little round cylinder followed the wet line of her lips, and she extended the tip of her index finger to her anus, repeating, that is, drowning in the pain of love and unhappiness of sex, the motions of the beloved hand of a delicate and strong man, the man under whom, penetrated and drunk with love, holding him tightly by his neck, she had moved for the first time as a lover, as a woman. He had been her only lover, and he had disappeared five months ago. That’s how it was then: young people had dates in the city and went to a hotel or to some woman who kept rooms especially for amor. Going where one or the other lived was impossible, since most of them lived with host families, two or three to a room. If you missed a date, you might never run into the other person again, as happened with Maria and Pablito, the weaver and the philosophy student, who couldn’t find each other one evening in June, when, after a stupid misunderstanding (as the girl believed) she had been waiting in one spot for three hours, pacing, more and more frightened, under the chestnut blossoms along the road, their leaves luminous-transparent in the electric light, while he, probably with a bouquet of flowers — always, for every date — paced under some town clock, somewhere else. Much later, Maria heard that Pablito had found, in fact, a better offer — that he had always been embarrassed to be with a girl from the slums and to have to make love in sordid places, and then walk, late at night, through back alleys, dodging toppled drunks and offering cigarettes to half-asleep policemen.

They entered the theater that was as dirty as a men’s restroom, with petrosin-washed floors full of sunflower seeds and candy wrappers. The chairs, more than a few of which were unusable, were crowded with young people who looked like they had all been made by the same mother and father: boys with unshaven faces, low foreheads, and hair combed back, held by sugar and greased with walnut oil, holding trashy girls with thin, hot-curled hair by the shoulders. During the newsreel the jerks would shout, squeal, and call to their friends rows away, without paying any attention to the wise leaders of the Party and People’s Republic, as they appeared, yellowed, on the cheap film and set on the screen. Things that were impossible to understand happened between serious people, who kept shaking hands or walking through fields and steel mills, narrated by a manly voice, enthusiastic but so hollow, as though he were shouting the words through a tin funnel. Against the background music (which was always the same, a kind of half-folk, half-classical melody), mechanical threshers filed by, electricians climbed high-tension poles, miners came out of shoots grinning through coal dirt like they were in blackface, and people in city suits applauded (and a few in peasant dresses) in a hall as big as a movie theater. Maria, whom Costel dared finally to take by the hand, without looking at her, waited patiently for the silly newsreel to end and the movie to start. Sometimes she recognized the old man figure of Dej, and maybe Ion Gheorghe Maurer, but the others were completely unfamiliar to her. A flood of names and faces. She thought it was a little funny when the Chinese showed up. They were also building socialism, with their Asian eyes and broad laughter, obligatory on every face. The Russians, in turn, were always frowning and determined. The Soviet movies always began with a statue: a man and woman in bronze, with the man holding a hammer and the woman holding a sickle. Where were they supposed to be? And why was she so small beside him? Russian women, you see, were brave and worked shoulder to shoulder with the men. The bronze Russian woman was as delicate as a ballerina.

The violent flickering of the screen tired Maria’s eyes. The theater smelled like wet wool, since everyone had taken off their coats and hats and held them on their laps. Now armies marched over the screen. Tanks ran across snowy fields. They filmed a plane from inside while bombs dropped through its open hatch. Below, in yellowy sepia, clouds blossomed like mushrooms. Costel, still without looking at her, began to gently stroke her fingers. She felt the blackened lines of his mechanic’s hands passing over her knuckles, making a weak sound when they touched her nails or the ring with a butterfly, the ring from Mioara Mironescu. In the semi-dark, the Kirlian effect revealed a moment of supernatural beauty: their hands were surrounded by a lace of blue stars, flames, a fabric as fluffy as snowflakes, and the snaking flashes and darts of green rays. The butterfly on the ring absorbed and glowed with the delicate colors of orange and magenta. Their hands touched tenderly, the only colorful things in the hall where shadow fought with light, both of them dirty and sad.

16

A PATCHWORK of colored frogs and sequins, Cedric’s French Quarter was a story of palm trees and agaves bending in the wind, and light-skinned black women sunning themselves on wrought-iron balconies, protected by the ivory plumage of their fans. Many generations earlier, Africans embedded hallucinatory, picturesque scenes on the flexible yellow lamellae bone — high stacks of dried crocodile skulls, a man sodomizing a ram, an idol with lobster claws devouring a gigantic cockroach. The pearl piercing the ear of the slave who brought a tray of coffee to Cecilia and Melanie, two black women in silk dresses, a gray pearl, the size of a cherry, gathered into its sphere the neighborhood of wooden buildings and multicolored flags, the Mississippi River that curved around it broadly, then perished into glimmering swamps on its way to the Caribbean, the swirling clouds of spring, and the somnambulist faces atop the endless necks of the ladies, who tranquilly discussed, over honey cake, the arrival of Mardi Gras, in a few days … Their Cajun French sounded more like the zithering tones of Roussel, full of insects and pendulums, than the tongue in which, in roughly the same period, General de Gaulle addressed the French on the radio, encouraging them, reminding them of their love of country and duty to hate their foreign rulers, or the concomitant tongue in which his Parisians, thus heartened, wrote a million denunciations to the collaborating authorities.

Cecilia wore a Prussian blue turban. Her thick lips, the color of dark coffee, were carefully tattooed. Her beastly nose contrasted oddly with her large, fairy-like eyes that flashed gold between eyelids lined with black. A thick layer of mascara weighed on her lashes, so long they could not be natural. Over her eyelids, the random dust of gold, blown softly from the slave’s palm, ordered itself (since nothing happens by chance in this world of paranoia and dreams) precisely into a map of the boreal constellations, those made banal by the zodiac, on the right eyelid: while on the left, strange austral revelations, including the Pneumatic Machine and Southern Cross, glowed with a living flame, surpassed only by the grains of the star Canopus which guided sailors through the eddying Straights of Magellan. Cecilia was at most thirteen years old. When she laughed, she pushed the tip of her tongue between her perfect teeth. From the time she was an infant, her tongue had been pierced by a blue glass ring, which made the same clinking sound when she spoke her chirping syllables, as the ice cubes in her martini.

Melanie was old, with elephantine hips, but above her décolletage, her collarbones and neck were just as supple as Cecilia’s. She carefully hid the embarassment of her life, her scalp as bald as the palm of her hand, beneath a wig of ostrich feathers. Under the wig, in the middle of her forehead, fixed on a thin chain, hung Leon, the living beryllium crystal, with its own metabolism and sexuality, which had been placed in her hand by a French Quarter priest. There were few people of the Lord in that region, so Fra Armando was forced to work as a voodoo magician as well, two days a week. On another day he served as an imam for a small but active Muslim community, and on another as the officiant in a Hebrew temple, and he dedicated the other three days entirely to the Savior crucified on the cross of wood. The Leon Crystal was growing. Each year it added something new to reflect the events of Melanie’s life — a prismatic horn, or a delicate needle, something longer or shorter, thicker or thinner, more colorful or transparent. When the old woman lost her second husband (of the four, the only one she really loved) the crystal grew a knot as black as a rotten tooth, which she then removed with pliers, out of spite, the way she had pulled the memory of Desiré from her soul. At night, after she put out a plate with sprouted grains and fried bananas, Melanie sank the crystal into the glass of water where she kept her dentures. In her imagination, the hideous U-shaped object, made of a waxy substance as pink as vomit, spaced by inhuman wires and teeth, was Leon’s secret lover, with whom the virile crystal engaged in monstrous copulations. In the morning, Melanie drank the water from the glass, so the crystal seed would pass into her and live as long as he had waited in the bottom of the earth, among the mine-flower petals, damned to the cavern’s darkness and oblivion.

They lounged on bamboo chairs on the wrought-iron balcony, enjoying the reflection of New Orleans in the mirror of the sky, the face of an angel with feathery wings that unraveled with a breath of wind. Slave Cedric (oh, of course it was a game, Cedric was just Cecilia’s cousin and played the washboard at Monsú, but he liked, on these kinds of afternoons, to put on livery and humbly serve his cousin and great aunt, to produce, in the coffee aroma, the air of another age) let them chatter as he watched his two masters, illuminated by sun and coffee, sweat large, yellow drops. From time to time, he wiped their brows with a handkerchief, brushed the pistachio crumbs from their laps, or drew their attention to a yellow car that inched through the straight and narrow alley. Across the road was another line of identical houses, with two stories and the same wrought-iron balcony, twisted into the most fantastical shapes, where other black women, and red-haired prostitutes, and pretentiously dressed tourists, and sailors with ridiculous hats emerged to watch the wonder of the sunset. He indulged the women and turned the decorated cups onto paper-thin saucers to read letters and filigreed signs in the dregs, telling the past, or the future, or Lord knows what. The women, each with her little cup between her fingers, looked like two plants that bore porcelain flower chalices, turning to follow the setting sun. Then Cedric gave the long-awaited sign, and they rose lazily from their lounge chairs. Propping her hands on her enormous hips, Melanie rubbed her sleeping bones awake and leaned backwards. Each vertebra, beginning with the sacrum and ending with the axis on which the exaggerated prognathism of her skull rotated slowly, popped separately and distinctly, like the cords of a crystal harpsichord. They entered the shadowy cave of their living room, which they crossed quickly. There were heavy lace doilies, thrown over richly ornamented furniture, pale alligator skulls, voodoo masks on the walls, each as delicate as a white clown, and thick carpets with incomprehensible designs. They opened and pulled the veneered doors shut behind them, going into other, cooler rooms where glass carafes glimmered, and paintings rested at an angle to the light, which bleached them into a milky white. These rectangular wooden houses were much more capacious than you would think. Two or three kids (but whose?) huddled in corners, with large brown eyes void of any expression. A small black lady braided a ribbon into her curly, rebellious hair.

They left. Cecilia’s red lace parasol looked now almost purple. They waited for a taxi to pass down the rosy pavement. Svelte men, dressed in the latest zoot suits, would cast a glance at Cecilia, who stared straight ahead, barely blinking her exaggeratedly long lashes. “How long do we have?” the old lady asked. She had hardly been able to control her disquiet all afternoon, as she kept the girl, as directed, in ignorance. Cedric removed his pocket watch, attached by a fob to his buttonhole, opened the gold lid, thin as a leaf, and saw the needles already showing a few minutes before seven. “Less than an hour, Madame.” The shop window across the way displayed medical instruments — syringes so long they must have been for veterinarians, oddly shaped forceps, vases in the form of beans, revolting rubber tubes and back braces. A plaster mannequin — as naked as an ancient statue, but with no trace of sex — wore one of those flexible whalebone girdles that had become almost obligatory for certain women, older than forty and fat as hippos, in the Quarter. Melanie pressed her fingers on Cedric’s arm, indicating the shop window with her eyes. He nodded. She crossed while the other two remained in the labyrinthine twilight, ever more scarlet (but with a strange dirty yellow higher in the sky, much brighter than the air between the houses, a sky crossed high and low by bats), and since they were standing together, heavily made up and swathed in silk, with the moon of coagulated blood as an umbrella, with their black and pointed shadows lengthening over the wall behind, full of cherubs and stucco garlands, Cecilia and Cedric looked like they were cut from an old magazine, bordered with pictures of the music hall.

Cecilia had spent the day preparing for the solemnity of the spring night to come. From the moment she woke, The Albino had arisen before her eyes like a dream image that sometimes appears, for a moment, on the retina — a black man white as milk, with a large, raspberry-colored wart near his right nostril and eyes as yellow as a dog’s. When he bent over her, smiling strangely, his head filled almost the entire space below the gold canopy. Only a thin triangle of smoky air could be seen from the room, where Vevé, the little black girl, poked her bright face. The Albino owned the Monsú jazz club where Cedric played. He had come to the city more than twenty years before, in an odd automobile, carrying, on the back bench seat, with its neck sticking out through the window, a gigantic, fat bass that was once mahogany, but now black and grimy, so that everyone could see its scrolled, termite-pocked ebony neck and thick strings, braided at their ends with red and green threads. On the same back bench was a package, a large rectangle wrapped in coarse paper. The man looked like a being from another realm: wooly hair, a stooped quivering, and skin as white as that of any descendant of the old French gentry. His tuxedo resembled Humphrey Bogart’s and an ever-present Havana cigar drooped from his mouth. He made both whites (sailors and riff-raff) as well as blacks (saxophone players and whores) want to chase him away or cut him down. The one who set the car — rented by Monsieur Monsú (as he happened grotesquely to be called) — on fire, while it was parked in front of the premises, died within the week, from a scorpion sting. After a few months of fruitless vigil at the back door, where, at dawn, The Albino would leave the premises, after his car had been turned into a baroque braid of burnt iron, the hit man mistakenly shot the district police inspector and ended up in the electric chair. The woman who slipped into his bed to discover his secrets, a mulatta as heartless as death itself, one of those who allow scores of men to explore their secret tunnels from the age of seven, let him tie her hands behind her back and make love to her through the night. In the morning, she was ravished and smitten like the most pious of the pious, but Monsieur Monsú brutally threw her out and never again allowed her into his bed. She withered from love as if from a rare cancer. Wrapped in black lace, she spent her days in church, before the icon of the Holy Mother. On her deathbed, surrounded by mounds of roses, she raved: “He has diamonds for testicles … his sack is transparent, and they shine in the night …” Once the mulatta died, the French Quarter dwellers finally accepted the enigmatic man, who had such power and brought (from where?) new rites and customs, about which they didn’t speak, but which thrived, brightly colored, in everyone’s fantasies. His establishment, lined like a brothel with waves of cherry silk, was the first on Bourbon Street to develop the taste for a type of show that, at that time, didn’t have a name. Past two in the morning, on the central stage, in front of patrons snorting opium through filigreed pipes or debasing themselves with azure absinthe, the show featured bare men and women, coupling in knots like human snakes, using items that could be purchased, in order to continue the orgy at home, from a small shop owned by the same Albino: ivory phalluses carved vein by vein to match the god of plenty, black velvet masks, lace lingerie, complicated leashes and collars, crops made of hippopotamus … In time, a chain of similar stores scandalized the neighborhood, competing with and oddly replicating the traditional boutiques of Mardi Gras masks and voodoo accessories.

The great painting that had barely fit in The Albino’s car now dominated the circular hall. It was the only decoration on the back wall, opening like a window onto a scene of fantasy. The picture, after witnessing centuries pass, had acquired a dull sheen, radiating loneliness and melancholy. It showed gigantic palaces of rosy marble, their façades packed with colonnades and statues, rising, shining like mirrors, from the blinding evanescence of green, clear seas that sparkled under the abstract sun of a perfect dawn. Ships, loaded with barrels and anchored at the shore, seemed like part of the same shell of smoky glass as the dementedly ornamented buildings, and they had the most moving sculptures black gall could imagine: hate, ecstasy, evil, stupidity, illumination, Christian piety, scorn … endogenous aggressiveness, grotesquely unleashed, like a monkey with electrodes on his skull triggering the hippocampus … palaces of insanity and wisdom emerging, vertical, fragile, from the green, limitless ocean. There were no human beings anywhere. In the lower right corner, there was a signature in black ink: Desiderio Monsú. The spectral vision seemed to spread beyond the painting’s frame, and the bejowled mestizos, with enormous rings on their fingers, sweaty from their armpits to their waists, could sometimes make themselves believe that this place where they looked at those women’s pink bottoms, shimmying obscenely in front of them, being mounted by hairy men with bovine balls, was nothing other than a pavilion of pleasure or torture, a grotto of hell or heaven, surrounded by that unearthly scene, spread as far as imagination could extend. Then, a sudden nausea washed over their internal organs, and mad with the sadness of being merely human, and not gods or nightmarish demons, they would empty their glasses of whisky, tequila, or absinthe without a breath, hold out their hands and dampen their fingers between the thighs of the redheads and black women, and collapse with their heads onto tables of woven bamboo …

For ten years, The Albino bought up whole streets in the French Quarter: bars, jazz clubs, restaurants where crawfish were prepared in eighty ways, with ten varieties of Béarnaise, bordellos and Mardi Gras souvenir shops, tobacconists and palm-shaded residences … Fashion boutiques and barges in the port and prostitutes with branded buttocks now wore his insignia: a calligraphic M with a certain imperial refinement, barely distinguishable within a spiderweb of volutes. This same sumptuous M, as though in precious stones, was engraved into the side window of his black Packard, chauffeured by an Indonesian who brought him to and from the Monsú.

When The Albino entered one afternoon through the place’s hinged, crystal door, protected from the waves of rain that crashed onto the sidewalk by the black umbrella of his chauffeur, who was soaked instantly by the clouds breaking over New Orleans, the doorman, a prematurely gray black man in a purple livery, kept his eyes on his master’s face, forgetting his words of greeting as much as his customary bow. That cost him his job, and, at dusk, he enriched the alligator feed in the Louisiana swamp. But how could the poor man not stare, when he saw that, alongside his master’s flat, African nostrils, the wart, always dark brown and big as a pea, had become suddenly, overnight, raspberry-colored, clear and bright as a giant sturgeon’s egg. Red, pearly veins, like roots, started at the shining bead (where something throbbed like a wadded-up embryo), spread across the bridge of his nose and under the taut skin of his cheeks, and continued to grow in the days and weeks that followed, enveloping him in a web of capillaries, even in the pupils of his eyes, his gums, and the entirety of his lingual mucous. In The Albino’s eyeballs, the doctor with the silver saucer on his forehead saw, hanging from the fibrous peduncle, a kind of crustacean slowly moving its feathered antennae and odd masticatory apparatuses in the vitreous fluid. Pains like unimaginable atrocities of war accompanied this spread of the bizarre parasite through the body of Monsieur Monsú. Blind and racked with spasms, as though he had tetanus, the owner of twenty-five percent of the French Quarter was been abandoned by his doctors after months of torture, and left to scream like someone being skinned alive. He lay naked on his bed in his ivy-covered house in the select north-city neighborhood, watched over by two frightened nuns from the Catholic Mission. The pearl beside his nostril had grown as big as a grape, and in its hyaline shell were vague webs of blood. The wiry lines, flexible and absorbent, spread under his skin everywhere, to his fingers and testicles and toes, and wrapped them in networks, like tangles of hair.

This is how Fra Armando found him when he arrived in his familiar Cabriolet to give him last rites. The nuns had decided to do their duty to the end, although nobody in the city could have said what god The Albino might worship. The priest, called in such haste that he still had, between his gold-crowned molars and the flabby wall of his cheek, a little, bloody wad of bread, climbed the colonial building’s stairs two at a time. On the landing, he spit the bread into a polished spittoon in the curve of the wood-carved staircase, where the paneling made of four precious woods met a large painting, an imitation of Degas’ dancer tying her shoes. That morning, he had taken part in a shamanic ceremony, in which he had healed a dying man by sucking the illness from his body and presenting it to him in the form of a ball of bread filled with blood. He had just put the revolting maple wood mask back on its hook and was preparing a second group of feathers in his jaw when Sister Fevronia called him to the phone. Now the Friar, who mysteriously had avoided meeting The Albino before this moment, was seized by an illuminated nervousness. The spectrum of belief in New Orleans — which, in the somber penumbra of his room, he had often imagined as a marvelous, multicolor orchid, its petals separate yet united in the sacred ovarian globe — had contracted, suffered fires and mutations, regressions and metastic developments, since the arrival of Monsieur Monsú. Heresies and crimes, conversions and sudden apostasy, apparently spread in seemingly ordinary statistical patterns — these proved something else to the one who sensed the religious ferment of his community in every pore. On the edge of the field of prismatic forces, a great glacial continent had suddenly appeared — a black iceberg, foreign and irreducible, over which, as in Ezekiel’s vision, The Albino reigned, sweating black flames and shrouded to the waist in a metal resembling chrysolite.

When he entered the room, the priest encountered the large, milk-white, starched sails that covered the nuns’ heads. Fevronia was as beautiful as a sculpture in porcelain, and just as fragile. Her brown eyes were like two glassy shells, wide apart and staring into space. Caterina was taller and prim, with azure eyes. When you saw them coming down the path, framed by agaves and enormous cacti and the Louisiana sky, her whitewashed face looked like a mask, and it seemed the same triumphant sky around her face also shone through her eyeholes. Now, though, their eyes looked at the floor, because Monsieur Monsú had died. “Too late, Friar,” whispered Caterina, “you are too late.” But a sensation of power, like a sunrise, grew inside the priest, along with a soulful impatience. The Friar suddenly felt that a god resided within him. “Out,” he said quietly to the nuns, who slid away and shut the door in its mahogany frame. A chorus of angels, sculpted on the back of the door, turned their round mouths and pious eyes toward the sky.

A whistling silence vibrated the crystal chandelier in the stairway for over an hour. The nuns, seated together on a plush bench near the door, looked through the window at the back of the next house, loaded with purple clusters of Japanese lilac. It was a tense, mental silence. There were currents of silence freezing the air in the hallways, just like those sometimes emitted by the ocean, at a frequency of eight cycles per second, which irritate the hypothalamus unbearably and make entire crews of sailors hurl themselves into the sea, leaving their sponge-covered vessels drifting, sails mangled by the winds, prow and stern paced only by seagulls … In the end, after she had knocked several times in vain, Mother Fevronia was bold enough to open the door a tiny crack. She peered into the vast bedroom and yanked the door closed again, in terror. She was overcome by an uncontrollable shaking in her hips and collapsed onto her sister, who held her in her arms. Mother Fevronia never told anyone what she had seen, but in her dreams she saw them again and again, for months on end, the two men in the great bed under a cashmere canopy: Monsieur Monsú lying on his back, his arms crossed and his eyes rolled into his head, and above him, with his body on the other body, with his arms on those arms, his legs on those legs, his eyes on those eyes, his mouth against that mouth, Fra Armando making a continuous, inhuman sound, through his nostrils, and glowing in the dark, with faint needles of light.

In New Orleans, dusk is violent and translucent, the clouds turning to rags of flame over the termite-eaten wooden buildings. Above the clouds, in a Diesis of rays, in a glory and wonder that overwhelm the soul, you can see, with some frequency, visions of the Trinity surrounded by winged creatures, the seraphim, cherubim and angioletti of faith, or indecipherable allegorical scenes, as if the entire sky, ablaze with twilight, was a ceiling painted by a colossus, who drew the crepuscular light through the round window of the sun. Precisely this kind of vesperal cataclysm now arched over the city, changing the waters of the river into blood, when, after hours and hours of tense quiet, Fra Armando emerged from the death or bedchamber of The Albino. The nuns flinched violently and jumped to their feet (having completely forgotten what they’d heard and why they were waiting), and stared at the man in his violet cassock, ashen-faced and red-eyed. Exhaustion had turned the flesh of his face almost transparent, exposing his bare skeleton, and the bald skull in the middle of his tonsure showed the gently pulsing circumvolutions of his brain. The Friar threw himself onto the bench, leaning his back against the fabric walls. “He will live,” he said to himself, in a quiet voice, “I gave him another ten years.” Then he continued, more slowly: “How many I lost, God only knows.”

While the sisters went into the sleeping chamber, the priest rose, trembling, and moved toward the stairs. He descended into a deserted street. He walked like an automaton over the sonorous sidewalk, his cassock snagging the wide, fleshy ornamental plants, dogs barking at him from the yards, until he came to Canal Street and saw, alongside the high, stone buildings of the central business district, the waters of the Mississippi crowded with ships. The old streetlights came on, whose gas from another age had not been replaced with electric bulbs. Elbowed by the black people and the flock of promenading civil servants, the Friar went to the riverfront and stood before its unimaginable width. On the far-off bank he could just see Lilliputian houses, with their dozens of windows sparkling madly. Resting his elbows on a wooden rail, he eagerly breathed in the cool, salty air. It took a few minutes for Fra Armando to notice how odd the southward rushing waters looked. The twilight-colored river had turned to blood. The Friar followed the dizzying rush of lenticular red cells, the size of loaves of bread, the amoeba-like gliding of the white cells, transparent enough to show their darkened nuclei, the snaking spiral worms that must have been malaria germs, the unusual fluorescence of lymph, the currents of glucose and protein. Fascinated and deathly tired, the Friar suddenly sensed that everything was alive, that everything lives, and that the universe does not at all operate like clockwork. Instead, it is a malleable architecture like the human body, a temple of skin, a basilica of scratches, a cenotaph of snot, with no right angles or durable materials, where the person creates his dreams, thoughts, and illusions, his time and his language like a cell secretes a hair or the crystal horn of a nail. And still, the least important cell in the universal body receives, through angel hormones and neural visions, the imperious commandments of God.

Less than a week later, Monsieur Monsú reappeared at his place on Fuck Street, as even then they had started to call Bourbon. The filaments of the jellyfish that had invaded his body were gone, leaving almost unnoticeable lines on his skin, like the flowers and Art Nouveau ornaments that decorated stone buildings uptown, while the wart beside his nostril remained forever limpid and raspberry, with something inside, like a fish embryo floating in an egg, occasionally twitching its virtual tail. At night, however, the Packard would take him to the edge of town, to the lacustrine cottage of Fra Armando, in the middle of the endless swamp. The immense limousine, with chrome hubcaps and its chauffeur rigid in his place at the wheel, sat the entire night among pools of water that reflected the heaps of stars overhead, between carnivorous plants with sticky seeds and human-like tongues, until the windows turned bonbon pink, and daylight, with its gray-yellow fringe, poured over Louisiana. The lamp in the cottage never went out. Sometimes a silhouette of a man in a cassock, or a suit and lavalier, appeared at the window nearest the little bridge. Odd people of different races, hunchbacked and crippled, crossed once every few nights along the sole access to the house perched on stilts, besieged above and below by stars. One of these people might piss from the narrow deck, extendedly, black as pitch against the yellow of the dawn, splashing glittering drops of amber into the lily pond. The stench of urine hovered over the cottage, combining strangely with effluvia of myrrh and incense.

At about that time, the rumor of a demonic plot filtered into the city, first through the ebony-skinned women who sold mangos and avocados in the market, then penetrating, by way of the servants and maids, all of the neighborhoods and social strata. This plot was much stranger and more frightening than voodoo rites. It was a conspiracy between the Teacher of Justice and the Evil Priest capable of shaking the powers of heaven. Allegories as complicated as hopscotch, childishly transparent allusions wrapped in fear and hysteria, and unprovable lies layered in embellishments all took shape like a mirage mirrored in the sky over the colonial city. No one dared to follow his finger along the tangled designs of fantasy to their mundane origin, everyone talked about the fetid (assuming the spirit had nasal passages) cesspool of the cottage on the lake, everyone talked about the perverse meeting of the world’s two halves, Light and Dark, into a Gnostic globe that far exceeded critical mass, everyone moaned to imagine the devastating explosion to come. In a vacant lot full of garbage, they found a human skeleton with each bone a different color (or so claimed the seamstresses whispering into the ears of petticoated ladies). A flea-ridden stray dog was said to have given birth to two puppies, then a blue glass ball, and then two more puppies. It was said that a mulatta woke up one morning with her fingernails and toenails grown a cubit in length and curved like scythes, so that she crawled out of bed buck naked and walked on all fours like a beast, until her mother strangled her with her apron. For almost ten years, on the northern cotton fields and in basements filled with whiskey vapors (after ’33, stills were legal, and the gangster era entered its decline), people would gather — standing or squatting, smoking or downing drinks — around someone who brought news of Those Who Know, the new sect that had begun to spread through the city, following the networks of restaurants, bordellos, and obscene stores of The Albino. Those Who Know could have been anyone, whores or stevedores, high school teachers or train mechanics, so that you might sodomize the fat ass of a prostitute and have no idea what terrible sacrilege you had committed, or you might listen to the blabbering of a short, bald Figaro as his razor wandered over your soapy cheek, without knowing what amazing power his ruddy skull contained. Those Who Know were not marked by any outward sign, and thus the terror and mystery increased; each person suspected the next. The terrible part, people said, was that the old refuges of those besieged by evil — holiness, and the good and moral life — had allied themselves for the first time with the shadows, so that they might inextricably bind the world in a spider web of neither good nor evil, neither ecstasy nor horror, neither everything altogether nor the void, but Something Else, something inhuman, undemonic and undivine, incomprehensible and impalpable. It was said that they were plotting a Change. The vomiting, ejaculating, bleeding, speaking, pissing, breathing through pinched nostrils, salivating, defecating, suppurating or thinking or imagining, in any case the transpiring of a new world, or an Anti-world, or better put, something lacking both existence and a name. A new vibration, from a new instrument, spread from the cottage on stilts where the priest of all beliefs and the monster of all perversions met, night after night. Miracles that looked nothing like miracles, with neither rhyme nor reason, following an Anti-plan that might have been crafted by the frontal lobes of the cosmos, or in any case not from the middle of the skull’s walnut — an Anti-plan that blossomed, if not quite in reality, at least in the effluvia of rumors and fables. It was said that little girls in a tenement by the river had dolls that grew, each one of them, beneath their ordinary canvas dresses, hairy, living vulvae, flesh and skin, anuses and navels. The ring of a respectable matron, who fanned herself on the balcony of her house, tightened suddenly like a sphincter, severing her finger completely and then rolling into a pot of begonias. At dawn, on February 4, 1932, hundreds of people supposedly saw the old east-side cement factory that had been demolished three decades earlier, enthroned over the city on an evanescent foundation of clouds. An old Indian woman was supposed to have defecated a tapeworm with dragonfly eyes and hundreds of wriggling legs, which then scampered away, into the forest, dragging its pouches of egg sacs.

The police frequently stormed the priest’s cottage. They turned it upside-down and interrogated the two inhabitants, binding them in the complicated webbing of the lie detector. They found nothing suspicious, supposedly, but who would vouch on his life for the police? Those Who Know, with their infallible strategies, had surely infiltrated the forensics brigades. The file on the “Change,” thousands of pages long, matched, point by point, Breton’s Surrealist manifesto, published ten years earlier: “L’homme, ce rêveur définitif …” Two young officers, who took turns leading the police literary circle and were poets themselves, one in the style of Auden, the other an e. e. cummings, were put at the disposition of W. W. Schrinke, the well-known psychoanalyst, and they studied the city’s rumors, complaints, and depositions for six months with the feeling, as one of them later said, that they were fishing in the sewers, through rotting rats, bloody bandages, and newspapers with fecal matter … The latent content of this enormous collective dream, the outline, tattered and symmetrical like a fish skeleton, began to appear, through the opercula and scales of hallucination, toward the beginning of the fifth month: during the night of the fifth-sixth of April, 1936, there would be a ritual reconciliation of Light and Dark, the two powers that struggled for supremacy within the mad labyrinth of history and the human body. In the course of the ritual, there would be a death and a rebirth. The newborn being would be beyond good and evil, thus able to penetrate the unknown beyond the tegument of our world, but the tremendous energy required to move beyond illusion would come from an abominable murder. So this was what the police were supposed to stop, the police who took no more account of metaphysics and religion than the dirt on a fingernail. They had a few years to work, during which they would watch the lake house night and day, interfere with The Albino’s clandestine dealings, and above all, try to discover the intended victim in time. The report from Professor Schrinke stated (or “divined”) that the victim would be someone very young, with black skin.

When she woke up, in her canopy bed with its golden brocade image of a unicorn resting its head in a virgin’s lap, Cecilia smiled lazily at her Uncle Monsú, as she had every Wednesday since they first met. Why did the pale man with black features attend weekly the girl’s rising? Why did Melanie and Vevé always show her a peculiar deference and do her bidding? Or that silly Cedric, who indulged her poking thin, gold needles into his buttocks and played the clown day by day, hamming it up, juggling plates and pineapples, stumbling like a drunkard, making a crooked saxophone meow like a cat until he got her to smile, and then, content, left for work? What family relations existed between them, in that world of aunties, uncles, and cousins, but without parents, or any trace of the past? She had been the princess of this little world for as long as she could remember: The Albino, Melanie, Cedric, and, more rarely, Fra Armando (but Cecilia felt strange around him, as though she didn’t have the gaze to meet the prelate when he gazed at her with ashen eyes, the way a museum piece, or a fish in an aquarium, doesn’t stare back at you when you stare at it), then, for a few years, her little maid Vevé … Cecilia was too used to her to worry her with these mysteries. (And she was used to almost no one else, since she didn’t count the black children as human beings. They played in the shadows and around the corners, or appeared, like ghosts, trodding toward the kitchen, and she was never sure how many there were, or who they belonged to.) But in her moments alone, in front of the crystal mirror, looking at her exotic beauty in the fairytale-blue air, she found herself touching her full, tattooed lips and asking, out loud, “Who am I?” At the sound of Cecilia’s voice, accompanied by the clinking of her glass ring against her crystalline teeth, Vevé would immediately appear, poking her little head into the ribbon-covered mirror and putting a comb carved from bone into her hair. The sad question would melt away in the opulent emptiness of the colonial cage, until it became an airy, frivolous aside.

That entire morning, Melanie and Vevé had labored to prepare Cecilia for the Ceremony, the great ceremony that everyone had told her about since she was little, first in the form of fairytales that enchanted and horrified her, and then in parables and allusions that she was not entirely able to follow. When, a few days earlier, the first drops of blood had slid like tears down her ebony thighs, Aunt Melanie, overcome with a strange trembling, had told her, through chattering teeth, that the Ceremony was coming. At that moment, Cecilia was playing with a thin kitten, with big, silly ears, giving it her toes to chew and scratch with its back paws. It stretched its face out and licked the menstrual dew before the girl could stand. Melanie jumped up like a demon, her lioness nostrils dilated and her eyes bloodshot; she grabbed the cat by the head and tore it in two pieces, hurling bits of flesh and fur onto the elaborate peacock design of the Persian carpet. Cecilia felt both ill and pleased at the sight, because she also felt, then, for the first time, from within her sealed shell, the spasms of desire for a man. She was wearing silk underwear, and had scented oils on her face and breasts. Her makeup was refined, and she was wrapped in the most splendid dress, with lamé flames, flashes of anaconda skin, and electric blue waters, wonderfully matching her silk, floral turban. Monsieur Monsú attended, without boredom, the almost eight hours of complicated cosmetic and vestimentary operations. Sunk into a wicker chair, he gazed at Cecilia as though she were a mystical bride, or a goddess.

And now, beside Cedric, fascinated by the medical store window display across the street, obscured occasionally by carts pulled by mules who poked long, nervous ears through their felt hats, by lemon-colored limousines, and even, once, by an empty hearse, with shining windows and flamboyant ebony sculptures, Cecilia waited patiently for her aunt, who had not emerged from the glass door. Finally, the towering Melanie appeared, walking proudly and carrying a giant paper bag with the store’s emblem, a dragon’s head in scarlet crayon, under which — the girl now noticed — was drawn, in calligraphy with fastidious volutes, the same M that marked all the businesses of Monsieur Monsú. Out of the top of the bag, over the corners of coffee-colored paper, strange spindles protruded, like very long screws, with metal butterflies gliding on their helixes, then the delicate edges of test tubes, then nickel devices that resembled elaborate forceps … She crossed quickly, clop-ping her high heels made of Hatteria under the hooves of her wide, bruised feet. “We can go now, we have everything we need. The damned sales clerk kept asking me questions, so I told him to call his boss” — she whispered to Cedric, who was overwhelmed with a deep melancholy. “There’s a taxi! Get it quick!”

“I still hadn’t realized what would happen, and I didn’t understand anything until I saw, there in the catacomb, the yellow butterflies, puffy and bloody, breaking out of the girls’ tongues and drying their wings in the torch flames. Only then did I know what a tangled mess I was a part of, and I knew I could not get out of it, since my flesh and mind were woven from the same tangle. A bird woven into a tapestry could more easily tear a hole in the fabric and fly away.” As Maria and Vasilica stopped eating, in the clay room of their family house in Tântava, and the mămăligă dried out on the wood table, Cedric, with his wide eyes, now full of the reflections of colored ghosts from the icons, took the story slowly and ever more painfully further. The rustic, yellow moon, yowled at by the village dogs, made its appearance in a corner of the window, while the snowfall stopped. The single candle glittered, with rays as thin as copper wire, over the half-shadowed faces of the sisters. Cedric was almost lost in the dark; only his eyes and teeth shone in the increasingly still light of the room. The Virgin and St. George, the archangels and pictures of Tătica in the first war, and the raw silk rags were oddly consonant with the substance of the story, because all the world’s beliefs housed hearths hot with magic, the same way any evil witch eventually finds her way to the one terrifying god, the potter, weaver, genetic engineer, mad savant, or rabbi that gave us life.

“The taxi took us to the edge of the great swamp. We stepped out into water up to our ankles, and if we hadn’t had special galoshes with wide soles, we would have sunk to our knees in the mud swarming with worms.” The women lifted their dresses and tied them with leather cords, the way you tie an umbrella closed. The Albino, who had left their house abruptly a few hours earlier, was waiting for them on a little rise of earth. A leech, through whose fatty skin you could see sacks of blood, was lazily crawling over his boot. With a torch in his hand (because night had fallen, billions of stars appeared, and only the west of the sky was colored by an eyelash of intense purple), brave and lordly in his colonial suit of beige linen, he came down slowly and offered his arm to Cecilia. Melanie walked behind them, sighing, and Cedric, after he’d sent the taxi away, paying the driver five times the fare, caught up to them, shaking his shoulders and distractedly humming “Dixie.” They wound themselves down a path with many turns, slightly above the level of the swamp. The stench was overwhelming, entering not through the nostrils, but through the skin. The grotesque croaking of frogs rose like vines around the pillars of stench, opening a florescent cacophony onto the folded vault of night. The cold became piercing. On the leaves of wild irises, rushes, and carnivorous plants, gigantic firefly larvae flashed their horrible masks, with mobile and blind maxillaries snatching at threads on the hips of those who moved through the endless swamp, desperately warding away mosquitoes.

The moon appeared, enormous and round, and rose to occupy the center of the sky. Suddenly it emitted so much frozen fire that Monsieur Monsú’s torch was not needed. Under the yellow light, billions of pools burned as furiously as gasoline, and strange ruins, covered in engravings, appeared. ‘That must be a painting of a palace,’ I first thought when I saw them, feeling a chill spread across my skin. I had only been playing once a week at Monsú’s, spending the rest of my time at the Tequila and Red Fox, but whenever I had sat on stage in the round, cherry-red salon, light like a witch’s cave, I imagined what it would be like to wander through those ghostly, shining buildings, full of statues. Here, in the swamp, in the middle of the paths with hundreds of turns, there rose — it was the first I had heard of them — buildings just like those in the painting, pale, with statues that looked like they were made of flesh, in daylight they must have had vivid colors, but now they seemed dispossessed of color and, at the same time, their life. You know, Derry Fawcet, my friend who played bass, he had a hobby of going onto the rooftop on clear nights and taking pictures of the stars through a telescope. And in his pictures, the stars were not yellow or white, like they were in the night sky, but shimmering in thousands of colors: violet, pink, jade-green, cyclamen, mahogany … He told me that’s what they were really like, but at night, our eyes could not perceive the colors, so we saw them as anemic, pathetic, stripped of their beauty. That’s how I explained to myself the sad pallor of the ruins that appeared before us. It was as though centuries had passed over the buildings in the painting. Their walls were as thin and fragile as paper, and not one was still whole. The windows were only empty holes in walls of dislocated marble. On the edges of the ruined parapets grew pitch-black trees, outlined against the moon. Transparent swamp lilies opened their receptacles like jellyfish, from inside the hip of a crumbled statue. The chimeras on the walls howled soundlessly toward equally mute stars. Here and there, a column of porphyry supported a corner of pediment, on which a hero’s foot, sculpted in high relief, still stepped toward the void, shoed in stone sandals. And all, but all, the desperate faces of the statues, columns and capitals, escarpments and embrasures and abutments — all were covered with the same type of engravings, seeming at each step to organize themselves into nuclei of images and nodes of meaning, but undoing themselves in continuous evasion and evanescence, like an allusive writing, like the writing in dreams. I squinted to decipher it, and it seemed that, between the breasts of a marble woman, I could see a butterfly with its wings spread, and on a heavy pediment a hand without an index finger. The statues, mutilated when they fell from their niches, lay scattered around, and I stumbled over one that floated, without arms, face down in the mud. I shooed a giant toad off the back of the statue’s frozen neck and turned its face toward the moon. Although it was stained with mud, I would swear, Maria, I could swear it was your face! And that’s why I noticed your face in the club, the Gorgonzola!

In short, the ruins we saw were like the pitiful remnants of a once-superb mouth with superb teeth now decayed and broken from which only the crooked and black teeth were still visible, in a reeking, repulsive smile. An immense stone portico, in the ogive, had miraculously remained standing, at the entry to a zone of even taller ruins. Shaggy vegetation grew over its crown of countless fallen blocks. We all passed under the portico, led by The Albino, and, through a rectangular opening in the pallid marble walls, soft to the touch, we sank into the moldy belly of the ruins. Before we were completey lost in the shadows I looked back. The moon, setting over the sky (it had been on our right, then our left, as we walked the convoluted path), sat directly on the portico’s apex, creating a strange symbol together, which the marrow of my spine and the nerves of my stomach understood better than I did myself.

And we went, in the end, into the belly of darkness, through the porphyry lips and the obsidian nymphs of the night. The stars disappeared, but in the torchlight, fairy-like crystals and agates caught fire. All around the walls of the granite vagina where we traveled, the crystalline façades flamed up and died out. We descended further and further, careful not to crush the translucent newts in the puddles where we stepped, and not to snag our hair on the horrible blind cave spiders of the caverns. We passed through a hall shaped like a cistern, half full of green water, through a hall with walls completely covered in fur, through a hall like a freezer, of thin, white crystals, through a rectangular hall of tile, with broken urinals on one side and, on the other side, pipes with the vestiges of calcium-crusted faucets. The Albino would sometimes say something out loud, and every time he spoke in the dripping silence, his voice sounded so brutal and obscene that it stabbed our stomachs with a sour flood of adrenalin. His colorless skin, pale eyes, and cotton hair made him seem like one of those depigmented beings in the depths of the earth, of the same lineage as the wingless insects, the crustaceans fanning their tactile organs over wet stone, and the ragged, famished bats …

We knew we were approaching the center when, suddenly in front of us, in a corridor as narrow as an animal’s trunk, and wearing the long vestments of a Catholic priest, Fra Armando appeared. When the torchlight brought him from the darkness, he was so motionless that he seemed to have been waiting for centuries, occupying and suffocating the whole corridor. On his head over his tonsure he wore a strange, steel miter, unlike anything a priest had ever worn. Out of this disturbing machinery two tubes emerged, curved and nickel-plated like syringe needles, and penetrated his skull, perforating it in the hollows behind his ear canals, as we would see when he turned around. Before he turned, and without paying any attention to Monsieur Monsú, Fra Armando approached the very young woman with large, velvety eyes under golden eyelids, touched his fingertips to her tattooed lips, and made the sign of the cross over her forehead. She smiled timidly and started to say something, but the priest stopped her. “Come,” he murmured, “Those Who Know are expecting you.”

17

REEEALLY good movie! That guy Jerarfilip was on a beautiful white horse, coming down a path in the forest and then far away, on a hill, there’s this castle. Then you see him go in the castle through an iron gate and then somewhere else, in a little piaţa there in the castle. And he starts fighting with this fat guy, a guard who ran the peasants selling stuff. Boy let me tell you how they fought, what he did to him. Ha-ha-ha! He dropped a basket on his head, then they cut a rope and a board fell on his head, and they knocked him in the pig slop … Then the other guards were coming, and the guy fights like three or four at once and then he sticks his sword and they all fall over in the mud. Boy, what a fight! And the girl, the count of the castle’s daughter, she comes down too, on her own horse, and she’s got her servant with her. And she sees the battle and how many times the guy spanks the other one’s butt and throws the other one like … like five meters, and the girl smiles … She was blond and beautiful, a damn princess, with her eyebrows plucked out: you could see that even back then (nonsense! that’s just the movie) that the girls did themselves up like they do now. But when a lot of soldiers came at him, he wasn’t going to get anywhere if he kept fighting, and the girl frowned and turned her horse around and left …

Lord, how she loved it! She had completely forgotten where she was; she’d stopped noticing Costel’s hand in hers long ago, her whole body and the world around her had disappeared, like hallucinations, like universes where no one had ever been born, where no one would ever understand, ever … She was inside the movie. Her facial muscles mirrored the emotions of those who fought and loved (but never made love, blew their noses, farted, hiccupped, belched, or left their flies open) there, beyond the glass between reality and dream. Paralyzed, unconscious, she experienced the movie so intensely that it was as if it wasn’t projected onto the screen (a torn, dirty sheet) but the smooth bones of her skull, in her frontal lobes, in whose white flesh the associative areas blinked on and off like neon signs. Her being, turned as fluid as milk, poured into the glass shell, the dirty-gray of the body of the princess with blonde braids and shining eyes, it filled the finest glass contours and wrinkles, and, in the enchanted armor of panniers and crinolines, she started to perform the scenes she knew by heart. No one knew, no one would imagine the truth, that now Ivon von Somethingorother was in fact Maria, she had invaded her like The Horla, or like the possessed are invaded by their demons. With her face alternating between light and dark, and her eyes reflecting the rectangle of the screen, Maria whispered the words she knew by heart: “O, Sharl, Sharl, I thought you would never come …” forcing Ivon to say it too, at the same time. Through the thin glass of Ivon, Maria felt the powerful chest of Gérard Philipe every time he and the princess embraced. And, when he fell into the hands of the count’s men, and the girl’s father the count didn’t know that Gerard wasn’t the spy, but that the spy was actually that ugly fellah, Marmandac or whatever, who wanted to steal the girl away, suddenly the audience heard her say, “Pablo! blah-blah-blah” (that is, in the language of the movie), but in the script it was supposed to be, “Sharl, will I never see you again?” But she said Pablo, I heard it with my own ears. And that’s when it hit me. And after that the girl kept lookin’ up at him with her mouth open, totally confused, and after that she said Sharl. Yep, after that she said Sharl, I heard her. But first she said Pablo.

It was the first time Maria had been able to enter the form of a character so well that she could change what it did on screen. She was shaken, dazed, when she realized that, breathing Ivon’s lines, she had changed her lover’s name. Later, in other films, she was able to change entire scenes, alter the plot, get rid of bad characters, or have her favorites marry even when it made no sense, to the consternation of the audience in the miserable theater, one of the three which staked out her territory: the Volga, the Floreasca, and the Melodia. Watching television in the evening, and staring out of boredom at some soap opera, Mircea would see his mother, balled up on the chair with a faded blanket over her legs, burst into tears during farewell scenes, the loss of a child (in all the Indian movies), or the unhappiness of a beautiful, ill-starred girl. She cried beneath the blanket, because Costel, sprawled on the sofa in his underwear, would tease her cruelly if he heard her, he would mock her until she ran into the other room, where she was free to sigh and moan. “That’s a woman, always ready to piss her eyes out …” Often though, when Maria could control herself, clenching her fists, and the tears on her cheeks were only shining trails in the light of the television, Mircea would see the fate of the show’s heroes suddenly change. Things would take a turn for the better, and films that started out as tragedies would end up in happy weddings and baptisms, the reconciliation of stalwart enemies, or the conversion of atheistic blasphemers. Then Maria’s tears would dry and her face would settle back into the enchanted, hypnotized expression that gave her happy dreams.

After the word FIN appeared and the dirty, yellow lights came on, Maria and Costel stood up without a glance at each other. She smiled, he squinted in the light, and they turned — moving with slow and mechanical steps, like slaves in chains, behind the dozens of kids with fat faces and girls who were attractive only by virtue of their youth — toward the door, over which was written in white on a blue rectangle: EXIT. With the same stumbling gait, careful not to step on anyone’s feet and especially not to get stepped on, they dragged toward the narrow hallway that led outside, withering under the garlic stink from one person’s salami to another, and the smell of sheepskin from everyone. Even before they saw the light outside, Maria, with a happy heart leaping up, knew that spring had come, because a purple butterfly perched on a pipe in the wall, folding its wings and occasionally moving its little filiform feet. Maria stared after it for a long time, keeping her discovery for herself. She didn’t even show Costel. She was holding his arm tightly to keep the crowd from separating them. It seemed that no one else saw the velvety wonder, the spot of blood on the dirty green of the pipe. It was like the butterfly was not sitting there on the pipe at all, but on Maria’s retina, where, writhing in the swirling optical chasm, it wanted to spread its wings into the two hemispheres of her brain. Only once she passed did it lift off, its wings fluttering like a wind-up toy over the heads of the flock crowded in the tunnel, to escape into the whirling light outside.

Bucharest was now enveloped within the heat of a scented spring, with puddles reflecting the blue sky, budding black branches on trees that lined the boulevards, and windows sparkling in the steady, intense, white light, raising pulses and stirring memories. The hair and umbrellas of pedestrians crossing the street were caught by warm gusts. The wind popped the red flags mounted on storefronts (since May First was approaching), and often an elegant woman would lose her hat, to the laughter of groups of machine-shop apprentices. Squinting and pursing their upper lips in so much sun, the troglodytes who emerged from the somber grotto of the theater moved over the sidewalks or straight into the mostly empty boulevard, cut only by a Volga or a ringing tram. The police, who had not changed into their fair-weather uniforms, moved around without doing anything, layered in coats and Russian hats, squabbling with a gypsy in a cart, whose horse had shat in the center of the Capital. Where were the snowdrifts that had lined the streets? Where was the milky sky, so low you could have touched it? Now the sky’s color rose, limitless, outlining the statues outside the university, the cubist apartment blocks, with dozens of balconies, big and small, glowing pink in the luminous air, and the pitch-black hornbeams and poplars with leafless branches. Around these sharp shapes, the strong blue diminished until it was almost the pure color of light, and then straight overhead it became deep and intense, in places ultraviolet, a color you could not see without feeling woozy and exalted, as though you could peer through the translucent skin between your eyebrows with the great and lost pineal eye, now withdrawn to the base of the skull, on its tiny Turkish saddle, attentive only to the bestial light of the interior world.

Released, finally, from the plodding narrows, Maria and Costel walked down toward University, happy and without a thought, they mixed into the scenery, drowned in the whirls and fractals of history, without distinguishing themselves from their world, and without understanding that they lived on a grain of sand on a beach wider than the universe, spread out and sifted, melancholically, by a mind that chose the two of them and decided their destinies. They were unfazed by the debt of their existence owed to their separation and imagination, down to the most hallucinatory details, by a monstrous cabal of neurons, by the fact that only for this sect are they significant, alive and bright-eyed, as they moved arm-in-arm, within the moment “now” in a world lacking time, over the sidewalk from Casa Armatei on the theater boulevard, into a Bucharest in which every building was only a wood and paper façade, propped up in back with rough-hewn boards, a city built with tweezers inside a green, paunchy glass.

But the clouds seemed so real! — blown along the sky by a dark, passionate wind, broken by the warm metal of the trams and the bay windows on the roof of the university. The white light was so comforting, sliding over the cheeks, and so nourishing for the arterial system, in the clammy air of young flesh, replete with desire, dreams, and adrenaline! In the breath of spring, Maria, the simple girl from the edge of town, almost past marrying age, felt she could love the awkward boy beside her, whose arm she gently pressed. She watched him from the corner of her eye, as he walked beside her through the fluid honey of the sun. He was very, very much a child, thin as a banjo and sickly pale, with pitch-black eyes. His flat hair, combed back and glued to his scalp with walnut oil, was a black mirror of shifting waters, a style that would have been completely ridiculous if it wasn’t the look of all the young men in the factories and workshops; when they were leaning over a wrench or lathe, a curl might fall loose, might fall in their eyes and they’d push it, irritably, back on top time and again. Costel was not that tall, not too handsome; he wasn’t “fine,” as the girls in the rug factory said, but at least he was gentle and serious, and his eyes (although Maria would later complain constantly that her husband was “jumpy” and “weird,” that she never knew what was inside his head) sometimes had a warm, meditative expression, as though, from time to time, someone else, a far superior person, had inhabited his mind, and Costel himself had gone to some other place. That look of noble contemplation — the deep and true melancholy that sometimes crossed his face, especially in the evening, even when he was wearing just torn pajamas and smoking smelly Mărăşeşti cigarettes — looked like it wasn’t his, and it wasn’t, actually, because in those moments Costel was completely without a self or a thought, the way an actor who plays a noble person may be, in his normal life, a middling blockhead. Without liking the boy from Banat too much, Maria loved, actually loved, even then, the deceitful sadness on his face, when his unknown ancestor, a great Polish poet of the XVIII century, arose within his tangled viscera, like puffs of steam over a coffee cup, to regard the world once more, through Costel’s black eyes, which were identical to his own.

High on the sweet amphetamine of springtime, the two young people went arm-in-arm through the yellow air, cold as glass, talking about nothing and laughing. Maria wondered how he was able to keep frowning even when he laughed, and Costel felt he was made entirely from scented air. He was trying as best he could to find Maria’s algorithm, to intuit (like in those almanac puzzles where, knowing which direction the first gear turned in a complicated system, you try to work out which way the last one turns) the ineffable functioning of her mind, to extract its secret, how it produced those happy smiles, equivocal, bitter, hesitant, those little grimaces of dissatisfaction that frightened him, those vague declarations of the eyes and eyebrows, those evanescent inflections of the voice, those tiny quivers of the wings of her nose. Thus did the young apprentice imagine the psychology of the girl he loved: the projections and diagrams of technical drawings, cycloids and hyperbolae, a rubber geometry, extensible and yet precise, from which, if you knew the laws and mastered the technology, you could obtain each of the thousands of possible effects and combinations. And if in saying something else or pressing her arm a little harder, Costel saw her react completely differently than he expected, his explanations were not mystical or poetic, nor did he credit them to the ineffable caprices of women; he blamed instead the imperfections in his technique, not following all the gears, bolts, pinions, clutches, and Maltese crosses closely enough. Looking at the stars sometimes, dreamily, in his underwear, on the small, rusty balcony of the house where he lodged, humming a little song from Banat:

Sure, I’d join the army too

Hai tri-li-li-li-li

If they used corn stalks to shoot

Hai tri-li-li-li-li

Costel thought the constellations were another kind of machinery, and he tried to examine their surfaces for shining traces of grease and lathe oil. The entire world was a mesh of gears, where the rotation of the most miniscule grains of sand at one end of the ocean produced, at the other, a devastating earthquake; the wing of a butterfly in the Antilles caused a tornado in Kansas; and a small concupiscent thought of a bum on Rahovei shifted the wrath of God toward a billion inhabited worlds. In his dreamer’s paranoid mind, and under the feminine lashes of his eyes, everything connected to everything else in a vast, crystalline conspiracy.

Turning from the boulevard, they sank into the spectral and sonorous streets behind the Hotel Ambassador. Maria took off her batik scarf and let her rings of hair, curled with an iron, flutter over her back. The day began to descend toward evening, but the air was still just as hot and windy as before, knocking against the glass edges of the buildings, which were eviscerated by emptiness and silence. Their steps took them, strange but somehow foreseeable, toward the street where Maria once lived over the tailor’s shop. More than ten years had passed since the terrible bombing of ’43, and the neighborhood had been completely rebuilt. Where the Verona tailor shop had been was now a square building, anonymous, green, with a white glass plaque at the entryway: “Phthisiology Laboratory, District 23 August.” Most buildings had a red or blue plaque like this one. Flapping red flags were not missing from the girders over the entryway, and a sickle crossed with a hammer inside a wreath of grain was sewn onto the flags with yellow fabric.

Maria frowned, and beneath the skin of her face, countless muscular fibers contracted at the command of a fine system of levers and threads under her skull, contributing (as Costel believed) to the outline of an expression full of emotion and hard to define. The shadow of her former adolescence now brought exaggerated relief to the hills of her cheek bones and chin, her philtrum, and the slight depressions in her cheeks, as clouds, running over hills, will suddenly block the sparkling sun and bring cold and chill — almost another season. Maria remembered, or something rose from her memory through a passive and painful process: Mioara. Cedric. Tătica sitting on the rock in the doorframe, holding his gray head in his hands. Her splendid adolescence never to return. A tiny, tapered tube, its lower end in the corner of her eye, secreted a teardrop. They walked past the former location of the workshop without her telling Costel that she once had lived there. She only, at the end of the street, leaned her head on his shoulder and continued walking like that, her face diagonal and her eyes a Modigliani, filled with watery ink.

They hadn’t taken ten steps more through the transparent afternoon air, which jiggled gently at every movement, when Maria lifted her head again, surprised and confused. Over the houses (reconstructed in the same middlebrow style), just as Maria had seen it after the bombing twelve years before, rising pitch black against the motionless, clear sky between the tips of the poplar trees, rose the elevator shaft. It had remained upright after the block surrounding it turned to rubble, its wire mesh covered in grease. There was a large wheel on top of the black parallelepiped, holding a thick, greasy cable, a braid of thousands of steel wires, attached to the elevator car on the top floor and a massive, rectangular counterweight below, now hidden by houses and shrubbery. Maria could not believe her eyes: how was it possible that this chimera had survived, when everything, everything around it had been demolished and rebuilt? Maria had no knowledge then of the nuclear dome in the center of Hiroshima or of the Church of Memories in Berlin, ruins carefully maintained (as though they were relics of distant ancestors or the skulls of sanctified martyrs) in the post-industrial, steel and glass centers of great cities. And even if she had known, she wouldn’t have made the connection, because an incredible fact wiped out any analogy and intensified Maria’s impression that she was hallucinating, her awkward feeling — one that got stronger as she got older — that her mind did not belong to her, that it was only the theater for a play that was completely beyond her control or understanding, which granted her an unequaled importance in the world.

She nearly dragged Costel down two or three winding streets. They crossed a piaţa with an agoraphobic statue and found themselves, suddenly, at the base of the great monument, in front of the dark-green elevator doors. A piece of matte glass, black with years of dirt, was placed in the massive sheets of metal. To the right of the door, a brass, unctuous plate, besieged by a kind of green lichen, held an ancient and weathered ebony button. Over the button, written in curls and flourishes, was a name: MARIA. The grooves of the curls were filled with dirt and barely visible. However strange it seemed, it was not this plaque, bolted beside the elevator door, that made her heart beat and Costel’s cheeks lose their blood (he had also seen the elevator shaft, he was also perplexed, but his passion for technical design was stronger, and thus he had been admiring more the mechanical precision of works from long ago, from the “bourgeois-landowner regime,” of an elevator no longer built in factories of the present day). It was what they had seen from far away and which now, craning their necks, they saw again: a vague motion on the top of the tower, in the wood and glass car suspended twenty meters from the ground. There was someone inside, there was a glimmer and a flash, in the center of and above the abandoned neighborhood’s bloody, ghostly architecture. It was a trembling, blue light, a light that reminded Maria of the azure waters over the breast of Păunaş, the peacock in the courtyard on Silistra.

The light went around the corner of the grass by the petroleum-greased tower. Costel walked away, leaving Maria frozen, wide-eyed, in front of the door. In back of the mesh and iron rod building was a lot with stacks of car tires, and at the far end, the back wall of a yellow house with a window in the middle, right at the top. In the window was an old woman’s head. Her eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and she sucked a round, sugary candy on a pink plastic ring. Nodding her head cheerfully, she motioned to the young man, who had turned away with disgust. Moving slightly away, in the lot, from the foot of the elevator shaft, Costel could see into the car at the top. He was sure there was a human being inside, but also something like a bird, something with wings. He went back beside Maria and put a hand behind her shoulders (she moved close to him, warm and frightened), he asked her with his eyes, and then, with her permission, he held out his other hand and pushed the elevator button. The ebony cylinder sank with a squeak into its housing, but, as though there was no electricity in the ancient shaft (and there probably wasn’t), nothing happened. The silence continued to be complete and whistling. Not even the wind, rushing toward them in warm and scented gusts, fluttering their clothes and revealing Maria’s thighs, which looked like they were made of transparent honey or liquid amber, rustled the soft leaves of the surrounding trees, as though it was only a change of light in the petrified neighborhood. Maria, her face almost red in the evening illumination, had known ahead of time that the elevator would not move. The plaque, which smelled of tarnish, had her name on it. Her finger had to touch the button, leaving a fine filigreed network of papillary ridges. She held out her hand with such grace that it seemed to cascade from her body, like a pseudopodium full of florescent corpuscles, flowing gently, undulating, pouring toward the brass plaque through the flickering delta of her five fingers (over one of the canals filled with ships, barges, and picturesque water houses, the ring of mammoth hair arched like a bridge). Her index finger — with her painted nail reflecting for a second the enormous, orange sky, with the surrounding buildings and, in the center, her face as thin as Mircea’s face bent over this page of the book, as though it were the golden space of an aquarium — delicately touched the concave surface of the button, pressing it down to the level of the yellowed plaque. Someone with the perspective of an angel (or Laplacian demon) — someone whose eyes could perceive not only the refraction of corpuscles or photonic waves across the surfaces of objects, but also the objects themselves, as they really are, suddenly given in all their details, at every level that our minds artificially separate: mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology, philosophy, poetry, as though the entire mind became an eye, one of the billion eyes of God — someone who could come closer and closer to the image of Maria’s glassy-skinned finger, branded with the design of her fingerprint, until he practically became one with it (and also with every molecule of the ebony elevator button) — he would have witnessed the strange and unexpected meeting of two universes. He would have seen that in between the two surfaces, one of flesh, the other of former flesh, there was, however strong the pressure, a miniscule space, and there, in a no man’s land, like between neuronal synapses, there were negotiations, deals were made, prisoners were traded, and sophisticated passwords were exchanged not in words, but in spatial whirls and torsions. The neurotransmitters fire in thin fountains, green-yellow like venom or florescent blue, moving chemotactically toward the receptors in the button. There, like keys in a lock, they match, displace, or block other substances, palaver endlessly in the catecholaminergic code, and in the end, are reabsorbed, dismantled, and transformed into other and yet other substances, later absorbed by the kidneys of the cosmos and eliminated from existence. Meanwhile, their oriental chattering inserts itself, through long neural pathways, into the elevator’s nervous system, transmitted from axon to axon through ring-form, demyelinated delays, the ring finger, reappearing from place to place, reaching the motor area after countless intermediaries, reconversions, distortions and retardations, to operate, for the first time after years of impasse, the petrified organism of the electric motor.

Maria jerked her finger back as though the button were hot when she saw how quickly the wheel on top turned over and began rattling and rotating, making the entire black mesh tower tremble. Sliding down rails greased with petroleum jelly and hoisting the great rectangular counterweight, the elevator started, with a magisterial slowness, to approach the ground. The lower part of the car was attached to a cable that curled like an intestine and snagged on the dusty mechanism. Passing along each of the three floors, the elevator dinged like a train reaching the end of the line. Gliding almost silently, it measured the space slowly down to the last floor. The two young people stepped back, clutching each other and afraid, when at the end of an endless descent, lasting hours or millennia, the elevator stopped, finally, behind the massive doors on the ground floor. Through the matte glass, nothing in the car was visible but a vague flickering. Whatever was inside did not want to come out, or was not able to come out under its own power. Her hair suddenly sprayed across her face by a wave of orange light, Maria released herself from the mechanic, approached the elevator again, and touched the once-shiny nickel handle in the shape of a T. She turned it toward the left and opened, with a frightening screech, the door frozen on its hinges. Not yet wanting to understand the fabulous image she saw, divided by the rhombuses of the rusty gate, she folded it to one side, and only then really looked, with her eyes widened in amazement.

Inside the walnut-paneled car, between the crystal windows that doused the area with prisms and rainbow iridescences, seated on a little chair, was a rubicund, naked woman, blinding in the milky maturity of her skin, who held in her arms, like a swan and just as heavy, an immense butterfly with a thick, velvety body, six nervous legs that ended in claws propped on the woman’s breasts and stomach, a round head with enigmatic eyes, and a proboscis rolled up like a clock spring. The wings, unable to unfurl completely in the tight space, lined the car with an electric blue that hurt your eyes to look at, like the flame of a welding torch. The woman was at least forty years old. She had rings under her glassy, intelligent eyes, her breasts turned slightly toward the ground and their bluish curves were marked with small blue veins, and her stomach was creased with several deep folds. Her hair had grown down to the ragged floor of the elevator and the last tendrils were spread on the ground, wrapping her right thigh in curls and distinct locks. A subtle scent, dissolving rapidly in the sweet spinning of spring, wafted from her icon-like pose. A large, melancholic Omega was gouged between her eyebrows.

For a long time, she barely moved, staring at the two young people surrounded by the crepuscular light. When she stood, they sensed the fully female power of her hips. Her delicate webs of dry, curly hair did not quite cover the curved whiteness of her pubis, marked by a vertical velvet fissure. Released from the confining walls, where it left blue smudges like eye shadow, the butterfly beat its wings several times. Unfurled, they were more than three meters across. Although the woman held on to it as strongly as she could, hugging her arms around its ringed body, it still managed to pull itself free, to circle like a bird of prey over the vacant lot and rest, finally, on the warm wall of the house at the end. With its wings spread almost as wide as the yellow wall, it basked a few moments in the already rubicund rays of the sun, and then it brought its wings together and rested like the tail of a gnomon, casting a peaked shadow over the dandelions and chamomiles growing at the foot of the cracked wall. The underside of its wings took relief in the light that fell on their veins and nerves, a much paler blue below than the one above. Over the house’s pointed roof and chimneys, on the still-afternoon sky, blue, just visible, was the thin fingernail of the moon.

“You are Maria,” the woman said, stepping outside the box where she had waited for twelve years, feeding the strange infant from her breast, and dreaming, maybe, or gazing in a trance into the mirror on the elevator car wall. Because the mammary glands and tear glands are skin modified by the same hormone, the butterfly had fed alternately on tears and milk. Now the woman walked gracefully on the warm sidewalk, enveloped in spring. Costel and Maria walked very slowly, on either side of her, down the empty street. “Charlie told me about you. We only met for a moment, but he was able, in that moment, to tell me everything. The years from that time until I met you have passed so quickly, it’s like I was in a book and the author wrote ‘and then twelve years passed’ … Just that much, as long as a phrase, an endless phrase that enclosed my child and me in a vial of liquid time. When I was young, I read the fairy tale about the djinn trapped in his bottle for millennia, and I quaked wondering how it was possible to experience something like that, the silence and endless stillness, your mind devouring itself in convulsions, nails growing into the heel of your hand, until they came out the other side, teeth plunging savagely into your tongue just to feel something, and from time to time, powerful hysteria rising inside you, dissolving you in its poisoned acid … So much better to choose the nameless tortures of a true, honest, inferno, with concrete objects that smash your mouth and crack your eyes and rip your kneecaps from your flesh! Even screaming, even writhing, you know you exist, that you are in history coming from somewhere and going somewhere, albeit another horrible suffering.

“It was different with me, it’s different with women. I lay in my chrysalis like a hard-shelled louse, degenerate, just a stomach full of fat and eggs, without eyes, without nerves, without hopes or expectations. Not like a consciousness that follows a thought to its end, then remains empty until the end of time, but like a thought from another, much greater someone, like a letter in a book, like a dot of color in a painting. I did not suffer, because I am woven from suffering; I did not think, because I am part of another thought, the fantastic intellection at the root of the world. My message is encoded in me, it is me, the way the host is the Savior, and the words of this message, meant only for you, are my fingers, lips, hips, spleen and vertebrae and large intestine. How odd, to live through someone else’s history, as though you were a dream creature, created entirely by the mind and yet complete, with personalities and desires, and with brown eyes with green flecks, without interiority, and which does not think, see, hear, or know it is alive. To be a secondary character in someone else’s novel rather than the enormous world of your full complexity, to be only one who brings a tray with a letter. To Hell with your heart and vulva and beliefs! Did you deliver the message? You will never appear again, not in this book or any other. And still, how pleasant it is to bear a message of good news … To be the Angel, kneeling with folded wings, speaking with a different kind of vocal apparatus than humans have, amidst the sounds of a triangle and carillon: ‘Rejoice, Maria!’ And then dissolving, not to disappear forever, but to return to the Intelligence whose fold you were, as though the fold would flatten or the smile depart, leaving the face serious, smiling only in its celestial eyes …

“I, this crumple in the sheet, this pleat of the Divine. This imperfection, this shard. This negativeness, which, much more blinding than beautiful, exceeds the flesh and mind in monstrousness. Ringworms, scorpions with translucent tails, octopi, abyssal fish that are all teeth, spiders and scabies, hunchbacks, lepers, cretins and newborns with only one eye in their foreheads are all less hideous than a beautiful woman in the splendor of her youth. For she is a piece plucked from God, a biopsy of his organ of light, a painful lumbar puncture that squirts a jet of liquid. She leaves a cavern in perfection, and she travels a much greater distance than monsters or any nightmare. It is terrible to possess beauty. Over twelve years I often looked at myself in the mirror, until my sin, my greatest and most unforgivable sin — because arrogance is another name for beauty — became clear and unbearable. Such joy I felt to find, now and then, a ring or wrinkle! Such a relief when my forehead was blotched with freckles! And when a pimple appeared on my lip, I was happy for days; it was as though a supernova had exploded in the abysses of constellations, destroying shameless matter, filling entire parsecs with blood. Aging, I offended the Flame less and less, my spark gained more and more of the delicate texture of ash. That’s all, all I wanted to be: a letter in a book, a snowflake of ash … Blessed, then and welcome may my double chin be, my sagging breasts, stretch marks, and varicose veins. I feel my beauty ebbing out of me like plasma, illuminating my contour and returning to the Beauty of the limitless one …”

Costel and Maria came to the end of the street, with the grand odalisque between them, her nipples turning wine-scarlet in the declining light. They stopped, contemplating the vanishing point of the nearly deserted boulevard. Some groups of young people passed occasionally, high school students with caps and briefcases, college kids with their hair combed flat over their heads, girls with their hair all in curls and eyebrows oddly plucked, their “eyebrows abroad,” as Tomazian teased on the radio; you might see a gentleman with a lavalier, a cane in hand, and a suit so elegant you wondered if time had gone backwards and the “Befores” ridiculed in magazines had become the “Afters.” Even though people passing by smiled at the three of them — they’d stopped at the corner, by the storefront of a funeral home, with a coffin leaned against the wall — nobody seemed to notice anything unusual. Walking on tip-toe, with her hair down to the backs of her knees, the last ringlets tickling the soft flesh there, oval like a closed eye, the woman from the elevator seemed to be made of honey-colored air. Maria suspected, despite their passivity, that everyone else could see the woman just as well as they did, but she matched so well the odd, nostalgic corner of Bucharest and the nightfall that she didn’t register in their minds. Her image descended directly into the obscure depths of their emotions and dreams.

They turned back, passing the unmoving houses again. Behind the curtains and windows covered with blue paper, a light would appear here and there. Maria remembered, charmed, the wonders in her landlord’s room on Silistra: dolls with pink and blue dresses, vases with painted feathers, pictures of wooly kittens … There could be so much of this kind of beauty behind every one of those curtains! She would never lose the taste for knick-knacks, macramé doilies, little framed photos: and in ten or fifteen years, on Ştefan cel Mare, she would fill her house with little angels, squirrels or kaolin ducklings, at two or three lei apiece, bracing herself resignedly for her husband’s sarcasm: “You brought another hen? If you won’t throw them all out, I will, just wait!”

“I had no childhood or youth. I page through my memory pointlessly, the way you pointlessly try to remember the eternity before you were born. Yet, there is a gray light there, a nuance somewhat lighter than the black we use for nothingness, and which, without representing, without showing something, signifies that the apparatus exists through which something might show itself. There are blind people who know they used to see, but, through an accident of fate, do not, and there are others who have no knowledge of any lack, for whom sight is unimaginable, the way we cannot imagine what we would feel if a sensory organ opened in our forehead like a flower, or if we grew bushy antennae like a moth. I always knew I was made to exist, full in body and mind, like the large, limpid eyes of the blind or dead, but also that I could not perceive existence. What does a millipede perceive, hanging in a slow spiral beneath a rotting leaf? What can a paramecium, writhing in a cup of tea, sense of the world’s spectacle? I experienced and sensed only that much for more than twenty years, as though I lived within the vague and mediocre dream of a railway clerk. I probably whimpered all night, wrapped up tight in wet diapers, struggling to get my hands out. I think I later went to school and shoved my classmates during recess, and I dirtied my nails with ink, and my cheeks and even my tongue … Or maybe I was sweet and awkward at thirteen, when anyone could do anything, embarrassed and revolted by the painful growth of my breasts … putting my first pad in my shorts and feeling, with more and more irritation, the wetness there … Maybe I was courted by a carbuncular apprentice who carried my books home and clowned around … I have no idea. None of this even weighs as much as a film that my mind confuses with all the others when I emerge from the dark theater, squinting my eyes against the August light, the sparking windshields and shop windows full of colored inscriptions. I only know this much: until the bombing I was, for a year, the elevator operator in this office building of a Romanian-German petroleum corporation. For a whole year, eight hours a day, I sat on my little chair, opening and closing the elevator door, sliding the iron gate over, pushing buttons, carrying the clerks and their perfumed secretaries up and down, without any thought beyond doing this my whole life and then retiring from this less-than-two-square-meter box. Day after day within the four walls, thinking that I could have been a worker in a fertilizer factory, spitting out my lungs after a couple of months, or a waitress carrying ten plates or eight pints of beer at once with my butt bruised from pinching, or a whore bearing all the pigs and drunks on earth … So, at least I had a chair to sit on, at least, sometimes, the polite gentlemen smiled (even though they would try to touch me almost every day when, to my horror, one would enter the elevator alone and I had to take him to the top; sometimes I even had happen what any operator will tell you is normal: a gentleman shows you something before you can close your eyes, and you end up — you, a virgin with romantic dreams — with that pink stalk on your retina, unable to get it out of your mind, crying through the night on your lonely bed), at least the air smelled of cologne and Havana cigars … I had my proud moments and small satisfactions: I thought everyone admired the way I could stop the elevator, with a quick, decisive motion, right at the floor, not a millimeter too high or low … In the evenings, after the corporation closed, I would go, with my stiff back, through the ash of the streets, and, after a dreamlike hour of walking, reach my room, where I curled up on the bed like a kitten. I never saw anyone, never went out. Sundays it always rained, and all I did was sit by the wet window and look outside, at the yard behind the house, and watch the single tree there shake under gusts of rain. But I would not get lost in reveries or lamentations like other unmarried girls. Too great was my lack of experience, too obvious that all I touched turned to ash. It became ever clearer, precisely because no one chose me, that I was a chosen one. Not the Chosen One, because I sensed how small and weak I was. But still, something was going to happen, there would be significant moments, or hours. I would exist within a story, even if it wasn’t my story. It would give me coherence and dignity within a world, even if it was the most illusory world of all. Because you get reality from a story, not a substance. You could be carved in stone and not exist, lost somewhere inside endless dunes. But if you are a phantom in a dream, then the great light of the dream justifies you, constructs you. And there, in the story twisting in the mind of a person sleeping, you are truer than a billion inhabited worlds.

“And when, one evening in spring-summer-fall-winter (I had lost, if I ever had it, the thread of days and seasons) I found myself stuck in the top floor of the elevator shaft, with the electricity suddenly cut and a diffuse smell of fear floating around me like an arabesque of cigarette smoke, I knew at once that my astral moment had arrived. The sirens howled deafeningly outside, it was like you could hear, in a metaphysical sense, the engines of the approaching bombers, and when the quakes and explosions began, like a summer storm when the scary lightning flashes and you taste metal on your tongue and the children scream with their heads under blankets. This kind of blinding flash of lightning disassembled, in a single blow, the brick and lime flesh of the building, leaving only a skeleton of beams and black mesh. Up on the top floor, in my box of wood and crystal, with nighttime Bucharest around me, violently illuminated, from time to time, by the anti-aircraft guns and the ravishing explosions of carpet bombing. In contrast to the disaster below, a massive crystal moon, in its first quarter, wove itself around me like a motionless spider’s web.

“Then I took off my clothes, and I stood completely naked to await my winged groom, there, in the narrow nuptial chamber. He knew I was there, before he saw me from his cabin, he sensed the pheromones emanating from below my stomach (he felt with his brain, not his nostrils, because the brain is no more than the monstrous blossom of the olfactory bulb), and he dove toward my ziggurat of grease and metal. Suddenly he was in my cabin, blond and naked, with butterfly wings between his shoulder blades, his penis erect, powerful and golden, his dog tags on a silver chain around his neck. I clung to him and everything became luminous, fabulously colored, as though we had entered the mystical aura of a chakra with dozens of petals. When he broke my seal, he inserted in the center of my abdomen not only an ivory liquid, but also complete knowledge, as though his cannula of supple flesh had become a cord of communication between our two minds, through which, in a flash, we said everything to each other, we knew everything about each other, from the chemistry of our metabolisms to our complexes, preferences, experiences, and fantasies. He was Charlie Klosowsky from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He was accompanying the bombers that took off almost daily from an airbase in Malta. A lieutenant with almost a thousand hours of flight time in the supple Spitfire which, through an ingenious mechanism, fired through propeller blades that rotated so fast they became invisible, he had flown many times over the Balkans and Romania. He had watched the steel cylinders of the Ploieşti refineries explode and the stations at Câmpina crumble to bits as though made of matchsticks. He had run through the sky, like he was playing tag, with IARs and Stukas; he had seen flak tear balls of fire and black smoke from a bomber’s stomach, and the mushrooms of dust grow, three thousand meters below, on scratches as abstract as a map of the earth. It was like he had done nothing his whole life: held the joystick, pushed the triggers of his guns, and looked at the indicator panel, alone in his cabin, for hours and hours, just as I, in the elevator cabin, pushed buttons and watched the succession of floors. We both rose and fell, and neither of us had memories or a life of our own. We had come into the world (but which one?) only for the moment of our coupling, like two insects, in a halo of concentric circles of light. And that was how we would always be: standing, stuck together, united above in our gazes and below by that seminal cable, through which we felt millions of bits of information invading me. We stayed like that, in that closed circuit, in that wheel through which the man flowed into the woman through her sex and the woman into the man through his eyes, even when we released each other, even when he stepped backwards and took a moment to gaze at my belly and breasts, both wet with sweat. I looked once more at the curly hair on his chest, also wet, and his soft sex, and then he was in his ashen cabin again, and he was completely ashen, like in a black-and-white film from wartime, racing on through the calm or cloudy skies with the planes of enemy hunters, shot down the same day or surviving until the depths of old age, bouncing grandchildren on their knees and telling them how they fought in the war. Who cares?

“As for me, I stayed in the cabin, aging for twelve years, and raising my child. From the beginning, I felt it in my uterus, first like a revolting larva, with, fortunately, soft mandibles, frightening to look at. I saw it, as though my stomach had turned to crystal. It ate my placenta like a worm eats a cabbage leaf. Then it grew limbs and its wings budded in its armpits. And from one day to another it became a butterfly. It spread through my uterine canal like the showcase of an insect collection, its proboscis sucking at the gelatin plug that separated it from our world. It was born completely wrapped in its wings; it came out dirty with blood and placental liquid and its own feces, that I had to clean afterward, for days on end, with my saliva, tears, and milk. After a week it was puffy and fresh, with sparkling eyes, and it spread its wings, which had room then to curve freely through the space between the mirror and the grill. At first, the tips of its wings were not more than two hand-widths apart, and their blue didn’t flash like it does now. It was a female which must, someday, reach maturity. I combed my fingers daily through the soft fur on its belly, and I felt, near the last rings, how the tubes were growing that would fill the air, for hundreds of kilometers, with scents only their antennae can perceive. Pheromones: a single molecule suffices for one cubic kilometer of air. Yes, soon I will have suitors for my little girl …”

The suitors appeared, but they looked so pitiful! Passing the last five-story apartment block before the lot, the three people watched, amazed, behind the tower of black mesh, a scene from a fantasy. At the far end of the lot, the entire wall of the house was covered with butterflies. In the center, its enormous wings wide and sparkling, rested the elevator woman’s grand butterfly. Its knob-capped antennae symmetrically framed the window where the old woman with a sucker in her mouth reappeared. Around its immense wings, placed symmetrically and in an orderly fashion, were countless other butterflies, each one unique, of all shapes, sizes, and colors, making up a carpet of ravishing beauty. Even in the distillated twilight, the colors glowed like glass, yet velvety, in soft nuances that merged and separated, making waves, turning toward a unanimous brown and flashing again in green, azure, lemon, mahogany, and carnation, so pure that you would have thought that they were the flames of a quartz prism, or that they were the light of dawn, like a needlepoint of drops of dew, on a violet crocus. The moon above showed its strong, sharp peaks.

The golden, naked woman opened her mouth wide, until the curved tip of her tongue became visible, held from below by a flap of skin, and she let out a piercing sound. The great butterfly abruptly lifted from the wall, blowing away the others with the beat of its azure wings. It turned again over the vacant lot and threw itself, like a hawk diving at a field mouse, onto its mother’s breast. The velvety body was almost as long as she was. The woman held it in her arms and turned to Maria: “It will be soon,” she said, smiling so sadly and strangely, that, years later, that smile would reappear to Maria in her nightmares. And, before the young people could recover, the woman pushed the butterfly into the elevator. She knelt before the girl, large and heavy, wrapped in her fibrous hair, and kissed her right hand. The lips on the back of her hand appeared to release a volatile substance that rose into Maria’s brain and, for a moment, made it sparkle. Costel saw clearly (but he would soon forget) a crown of light around the temples of his beloved. The woman rose and turned, showing her imperious hips, with her dark, almost animal, vulva beneath them, and went into the elevator cabin, sat again on the chair and took the butterfly back into her arms. In all this time, the air was so dense with the other thousands of lepidopterae that the two of them simply breathed them in, pulling them into their nostrils and lungs, feeling how they fluttered in the alveoli, and exhaling them again into the dusk. But in the end, together with the almost complete nightfall and the apparition of the first stars on the summer sky (since it had become, without doubt, summer, and the night was hot and scented), all the butterflies flew into the elevator, as though into a luminous trap, filling the space completely. Behind the grill, the woman and the great butterfly were no longer visible. Maria closed the metal door, and the elevator slowly started upwards, making the tower of pitch tremble. At the top, it stopped beneath the great wheel, and it would have become completely invisible if the moon hadn’t beat blue light on its crystal windows.

Maria took her dark young man by the hand and set off, overcome with sadness, through the spectral streets, toward home. They crossed the city in little more than an hour, hardly speaking. Costel was completely focused on the small, damp palm of his girl, whose fingers twitched at the caresses of his own. The heat intensified and the trees along the streets smelled of fleshy leaves and sap. A tram would pass on its way to the train yard at Vatra Luminoasă, rattling and shaking on the rails. Garbage men filled bins beside scavengers, and the street cleaners stood in twos and threes, leaning on their brooms and smoking. Some factories had their workshops illuminated and inside pieces of machinery twitched: the night shift. They came, finally, to Colentina. From the soap factory came an unbearable smell of rancid fat. They went two more stops on the tram, passing the short and dilapidated houses, covered with tarred cardboard like garages. Costel, who had been enveloped by the endless afternoon, almost without his knowing, in an egg of translucid yet impenetrable amber — because to intuit a miracle you need a different synaptic make-up than the step-by-step macramé of short strings in the left hemisphere, and Costel was a true believer in the left hemisphere, the logician of melancholy — hummed a song to himself that at the time was on everyone’s lips:

And one, and two, and nine, and ninety-nine,

Tell me, Gardenia, tell me,

and he wondered again what spring or lever to push to make Maria’s neck muscles contract and turn her gaze toward him, so that later, through another adroit maneuver, the way he worked the metal sheer in the ITB plant, he could provoke at least a little smile, at least one gentle lift of the cheek bones, or that complex and ineffable coordination of peribuccal and periorbital sphincters that produced an expression of tranquility. He was four years younger than Maria, and in his still-virginal mind, he pictured a large table, like the one for logarithms, sines and cosines in the musty book he had in his room, a table of the thousands of gestures, words, corporeal shifts, facial expressions, hairstyles, clothes, shoes, cigarettes, cirrus patterns, cloud cover, constellations, political events, sidewalk chips, flashes of memory — matching all the possible reactions of the female youth, in a direct, unequivocal, and immutable relation. But it took hundreds of parts of this mechanism, activated at once and in synchronization, for her to graze his poorly shaved cheek with her hand, hundreds of thousands of meshing gears and transmitting belts for her to embrace him, and (here, Costel had no doubt that all his mechanical aptitude would not help him at all) a mechanism vaster and more complex than the universe, with more components than there were photons running through space, for Maria ever to say to him, “I love you.” The table, as yet, included very few certainties, many hypotheses, and a host of erasures and revisions. It stretched, step by step, in unforeseeable and heteroclite directions.

They entered a tangle of streets on the right of the main road, through the darkness that smelled like dirty wash-water. Crickets chirped, dogs barked, and from time to time an old man in a beret poked his head out of his gate, looked up the street and mumbled something. Then he closed the gate and disappeared into a vault of grape vines. In other yards, people were eating outside, around a table covered with a cloth, under a light bulb hung over a branch. Thousands of flies and mosquitoes glinted as they flew around the bulb. But most houses were silent and dark already, covered with a powder of stars.

A triangular piaţa, dimly lit by a streetlight, had a round place in the center with flowers and a cheap statue of a plaster soldier, smaller than life-size, with his gun raised. One hand had fallen off long ago, leaving a stub of rusty iron, the kind used to reinforce concrete. It was an unspeakably sad place. Entering it, you grew just as pale and immaterial as everything around you. But exactly there, Maria stopped, turned toward Costel and said seriously, almost angrily, “Kiss me.” The Bănăţean felt his mind make a popping sound and the world order shake. The effect came before the cause and time ran backwards. In a moment, he tossed the limitless table into the fire, since it foretold nothing, and he abandoned himself as living prey, to the other hemisphere, where contradictions disappear within a tender light, a universal solvent. He awkwardly took the girl by her waist, the way he’d seen in movies, and he tried to open her mouth with his lips and tongue, but she resisted, and their kiss was a typical 1950s kiss, romantic and almost chaste, the way everyone imagined their mother and father kissing before they came into the world. And that’s what it was: a Hollywood kiss, with mimed passion and no drop of eroticism. Even the light on Maria when they let each other go and Costel could see her face directed up at him, seemed studied, like a lighting effect meant to emphasize her sparkling eyes and her teeth as perfect as yesteryear’s divas’. Maria had not put her arms around Costel’s neck but held him lightly on the shoulders, as though they were dancing. She didn’t know why she had told him to kiss her. Maybe it was fear. She had thought again and again about the woman with the butterflies and her terrible message. She was chosen, she didn’t doubt it — but for what? And why her exactly? Lord, she thought, it’s frightening to be chosen, to feel the angel’s finger point toward you like a dagger. To feel that you have left the obscurity of your freedom behind, that you are in the light, that you are observed, every moment of your life, and that nothing belongs to you, not even your own soul. It is so extraordinary for the gaze of Someone so powerful and incomprehensible to stop on you, that it doesn’t matter whether you are chosen for beatitude or torture. We should pray, daily, in hope and despair, “Lord, do not choose me, Lord, never let me know you, do not keep me in your book …” Maria trembled with fascination and horror, because from now on, she could not escape. Yes, out of fear she had kissed the apprentice, fear she would love him and marry him and stay with him her entire life. How clear it was! She looked at the young man carefully, as though for the first time: was he even worth loving? Was he going to be the man of her life? She saw black eyes and pale cheeks and sad lips. Suddenly, she was indifferent to it all. “Why her exactly? Why her?”

They parted, after they had talked a little more, holding both hands, at the gate by her house on Silistra. It seemed like they were deep at the bottom of an ocean, that the stars were just the reflections of waves under the moon of another world. The oleander in the yard was sweet and dizzying. They kissed again, their lips barely touching, and Maria went inside. In their wire cage, the peacock and the peahen pecked a stump of wood. Marinache ruffled his wings in sleep, sensing the girl pass, but his squawk stopped in his throat, and his comb rested pale and soft, hanging over his beak. A few windows, covered with blue paper, were lit, and there were men’s and women’s voices, talking quietly or arguing. The girl went up the narrow stairs, in an almost total darkness, down the hall that creaked terribly with every step, and unlocked the door to her room.

Through the window comes the moon,

It comes into our room,

she murmured, because, actually, the scythe of moon threw a bluish light on the floor and side of her bed. She felt, all at once, terribly alone. She curled up on her mattress, pulled her sheet over her head, and fell asleep, after weeping like a child for a long time.

Costel had stayed a bit by the gate, inhaling the suffocating air of the slums, where the peppery smell of the stars mixed bizarrely, nostalgically, with barking from far-away dogs. His hands in his pockets toyed with a few coins, turning them between threads and crumbs. Maria. For him, Maria was the woman with the butterflies, even her lips were the butterflies every man waited for mystically, and which he had tasted there, beneath the piaţa’s dim lightbulb. Like through spark-filled stillness, the image of his beloved, completely psychic (because even though he had held her, Costel would never have dared to imagine that he would one day master the empire of tissues, glands, and memories that carried the name Maria, and to whose ports he would send galleons loaded to the masts with hopes, gazes, caresses, sperm, dusks, a desperate flotilla of impossible communication), ran drop by drop through his venous system. It reached his heart, now surrounded by the rays of the moon. From the auricles it rippled into the ventricles, and then it was shot by a powerful contraction into the jugular arteries, where it separated into thousands of filaments and tubes that pushed their tiny fingers into his brain and wandered through the axonic pipes. Billions of identical Marias in glucose tunics housed themselves like parasites in every starry cell and every glial cell like enchanted spirochetes, they met in halls and corridors and merged one with another, like beads of mercury, into the greatest and most hieratic Sea, until, in the supreme hall, on the brain’s supreme throne, framed by griffons, a single, immense Maria shook again, reflecting the pleasant bas-relief of the skull, under which she barely fit, and where she was venerated by a deceased Polish poet from two centuries ago. After the light went out in the girl’s window, Costel lit a cigarette and went back through the sweltering labyrinth, starting at every shadow. With each step, he felt his skull wobble gently, like a gyroscope.

Soon, the night became suspect. The muddy streets multiplied, and the stars above were not the same. They were dull and close like naïvely painted scenery. The fences, where he ran his fingers, absentmindedly, began to shine like cardboard. The houses blurred their barely visible outlines, becoming unformed mounds of earth, and the dogs’ barking rarified and spread over scales in ever slower glissandi. “What the hell?” said the young man, passing a hand through his hair. His hair was now as dense as a piece of rubber. When his hand fell over his face, he felt dull, softened features, as though modeled in porcelain. Even the visual space seemed full of cobwebs. Costel looked, like a sleepwalker, at his left hand: his fingers were shrinking into his palm. In a flash, he realized that he had left the Story, that he had reached the wings, where everything was crosshatched, a world barely formed, its space and time still budding. He continued moving forward, until there was nothing left of him but the forward movement. The world now was dirty and diaphanous, like modeling clay when you’ve mixed all the colors together, all the figurines, all the trees. Soon, any property would be reabsorbed into the final matrix: the night. Which also dissipated into the unthought, the unwritten, the nonexistent. Into the white page, above which I lean, and which I will no longer desecrate with the obscene seed of my pen.

Part Three

18

I LOOK at my hands, in this silent afternoon at the end of summer, and sit, in my undershirt, in front of a notebook with a brown plastic cover. My hands are silhouetted, pale with dark outlines, against the red-gold of the window. I look at the skin that covers them, flaked and semi-transparent, like soft glass, hardening only at the fingertips, there, the ogival protuberances from the ragged skin I chew until it’s bloody, where my nails have grown, the way rigid elytrum grows over the stomachs of some insects. Under my skin, tensioned and fresh, run tendons that activate the levers of my fingers. And my fingers move, because we do not doubt ourselves. Because what flows within the borders of our skin is not only blood, lymph, hormones, and sugar: more importantly, our belief flows. “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove”: we say unto our fingers to touch, our eyes to see, our feet to walk, and these pieces of material submit, because they fall within our empires, and at the moment we command them, we are sure they will submit, because in a manner of speaking, this certainty itself is the command. Within our bodies, woven of arteries and veins, knotted in nerves and motor endplates, whetted by osmotic liquids, is a circulatory system of belief without doubt, the certainty of our angelic nature. For this is what an angel has always been: that intermediary who, vested in belief, starts from the spirit and moves matter, molds it, makes it submit. In the brain there is a pump that moves the metaphysical void, a neural heart which sends graceful messengers, swimming in the serum of belief, through long tubes of golden light, to all the provinces, departments, and cantons of our bodies. And they, the androgynous, with zirconium testicles and amethyst breasts, speed toward layers of striated fiber, contracting and relaxing them, pointing them toward what we desire in the depths of our beings, and the finger moves, and the mountains remove themselves to the sea. Oh, Lord, if only our skin were not so scaly, so opaque, if only its interior were not so polished that belief, when it reached the frontier, didn’t feel it had to turn back, like light in a concave mirror! If only the light of our hope would surround our bodies with an aura of azure and sodium! If only the filigree rays would spray through our eyebrows like bridges of fire, and touching a matchstick on the table would bid it to move! How often have I sat for hours on end, until I lost my mind, until I dissolved into fear and sweat, with my gaze trained on a grain of sand, a barely visible speck on the wooden table, mentally repeating, with all the force I felt I had: “Move! Move!” — and imagining it did, that the miracle came … I would put my finger right beside it, so the astral spectrum would reach, there, to the aloneness of its being. I strained, my heart thumping harder, the veins in my temples swelling, my eyes bulging from their sockets as though I was trying to lift an enormous boulder, but no, the angels only touched the dermis on the inside, trying to slip out along with beads of sweat, but they fell back toward my heart, as though pulled by a celestial force. I didn’t have enough belief, and the amount that I secreted barely filled my body’s bag of bones and guts.

I sometimes imagined that my belief extended me at least to the edges of Bucharest, to the railway lines and ringed roads that surrounded it like the hard membrane around a cell. With its demented and chaotic traffic, its industrial platforms, where every piece of every machine was long ago used up, both physically and morally, its universities and libraries where lichen blossomed in a thousand colors and species, its statues (ah, its statues!) that stop you cold, its Dâmboviţa and Colentina like capillaries knitted from cholesterol, its center of cubist apartment blocks crystallized around melancholy-soaked residents, its women with tattooed hips wandering the streets at random, shaded by flowering lindens — the city would become my own artificial body. I would name it with my name and dampen it with my desires. I would control the crawling of scorpions and vampires through its river-rock wells, I would calculate the trajectories of every drop of urine sprayed from the drunkard’s meatus onto a wall, his head against its frozen bricks, I would passionately play with the forms of the clouds, broken by the parabolic antennae of the Telephone Palace, I would mold them into matchsticks, spiders, Jehovahs, thumbtacks, I would make their puffiness write awful insults across the evening sky … I would immediately prohibit the production of estrogen hormones in all genital apparatuses, in people, rats, flies, and all other beings, and over the years, I would follow the course of the world’s deconstruction through angelification … I would transform Orthodox churches into semitransparent jellyfish, their flesh would show their icons like diffuse granules of gold and azure, priests in cassocks would be vacuoles and organelles slowly pulsing around the altar, and the parishioners would be filiform like an El Greco — with ragged fringes, pale, carrying batteries of murderous cells on their white vestments. And hundreds of churches would rise slowly over the ocean floor, among the blocks, their cupolas throbbing, their rainbow lace fluttering, ever higher through the pure air, scraping the skin of the city’s living flesh, until, with the unseen hands of belief, I would gather the group of felt-lined bells into one place, I would combine the fungi into each other, I would crush them gently, like grapes, until in the cup of my hand there would be a single, great bell of blue gelatin, smelling of myrrh, incense, and narcissus, with which I would wash my flashing eyes.

Oh Lord, solitude is just another name for insanity. I know full well that I will never be able to change, with my will, even the decay of my teeth. I know that I will never have dominion over even a tenth of my own body. As for what is outside of it — but what is outside? Without the photons that fall on objects and ricochet into the crystal of my eyes — ugly spheres stuck in the bone of my brain — the world would be an obscure heap of reverberations, like the spider’s world, where only whatever shakes their derisory web exists. What is frightening for me, in the image of death, is not non-being, but being without being, the terror of the life of a mosquito larva, an earthworm, a snail at the bottom of the abyss, the living and unconscious flesh with which we are all cobbled together. We perceive light with scaly eggs full of gelatin, we transform it into electrical impulses and transfer them to a mound of wet mucilage in a calcium shell. We will never know how a wavelength becomes a subjective sensation, how we see (Lord, how do we see?) the petal of a snapdragon. We can never understand how something may exist and yet we never see, hear, taste, smell, or touch it even once in our life. Our life — within the limits of our universe, wearing our corpse like a headscarf, like the starry bandages on a mummy. Our world — the field of our sensations. A puffy fungus of light that covers our pupils, the sonorous felt that grows on our temples. A lover’s nipples recalled by our fingertips. Our tongue like an orchid’s peduncle, our tongue painted not red, but sweet, sour, bitter, and salty. And the trees, made of madrepore, splattered with mucus, unleashing their crowns into our nasal passages. And rocks of limestone in the cells of the inner ears. And the peduncles that know cold and hot, all scattered like transparent drops of glue onto the network of our nerves. Sometimes I imagine I have been bathed in a corrosive liquid, one that dissolved my flesh, my skeleton, and my internal organs, sparing only my nervous system. Then I would be taken out and stretched over a glass lamella, with every little fiber of nerve stretched, with billions of branches unrolled around me like a thin undershirt, white and impossible to tear. What else would I be but a neuron, with a brain as my cellular body, spinal marrow as my axons, and nerves as my numberless dendrites? A spiderweb that feels only what touches it. Yes, each of us have a single neuron within us, and humanity is a dissipated brain that strives desperately to come together. And I wonder, quaking inside, whether the Last Judgment and the resurrection of the dead are nothing more than this: the extraction of this neuron from every person that ever lived, their evaluation, and the rejection of the unviable into the wailing and gnashing of teeth, and construction of an amazing brain — new, universal, blinding — from the perfect neurons, and with this brain we will climb, unconscious and happy, onto a higher level of the fractal of eternal Being. But what about the “unviable”? But what about the minds, souls, and sensations of murderers and sinners? Won’t they form, in Gehenna, an infinitely perverse brain, a monster, something that could make Leonardo’s combination of all the most hideous parts of the beings of the dark seem as beautiful as an archangel? And won’t this process continue, even in the superior world — the old quarrel, the eternal quarrel? Because eternal torture, the unending pain that is evil, the wailing and gnashing of teeth caused by the inability to be good, aren’t these still a form of existence, and as existence, aren’t they also endlessly beautiful? Separated by centrifugal force, in the great turbine of Dante, or through fractional distillation in the Deisis of Byzantine icons, Inferno and Paradiso, layer of perfumed oil over layer of stinking pitch, all these in the end are all wisdom. Paradise — the wisdom of the right hand, right hemisphere, feminine, gentle and puffy, endless, still waters, illuminated in their depths by the phosphorescence of terrifying abyssal fish … Hell — wisdom of the left hand, left hemisphere, sudden paracletian fire, the mask that covers, in the crux of destruction, the soul of a dove. Good and evil, two enormous Buddhas erupting over our lives from two volcanoes over our lives, opposing and yet similar principles like magnetic poles, in the end they couple, over a footbridge of nervous fibers, to make the motionless and complicated hemispheres of the great, incomparable Brain that dreams us all.

We will get there. Videmus nunc per speculum in aenigmate, tunc autem facie ad faciem … And we will get there because we are there already, because we have a toehold, because we are amphibious, because, paradoxically and miraculously, we are already part of the machinery that invents us from moment by moment, we participate second by second in our own drawing, sculpting, conception, and knitting together. If this wasn’t so, we wouldn’t be able to move a finger, since the finger’s flesh, cartilage, and bone would not be obliged to heed our command. Because we already participate in the Divine, from everywhere, from the tufts of our armpits, from the fat of our hips, and especially from the shell on our shoulders, we emanate a scented light that envelops us like a weaver’s shuttle. It is the mandorla that will someday lift us toward the sky, the shell that seats a living embryo. Yes, we are neural embryos, tadpoles caught in atavistic organs, belonging to two environments at once, two zones of being at once. How strange we will be when, like cetaceans, we complete our departure from the firm earth of inert flesh and adapt to the new kingdom, where we will bathe in the mental fluid of an enormous knowing, completely one with it and lost within it, like transparent animalcules of plankton, or like a single animalcule filling the entire ocean, indiscernible from it, a marine flea with trawlers and fishing boats sailing on its back …

It is almost six in the evening of a late and suffocating summer … One thousand, nine hundred, eighty-six years ago a prophet came from Judea. After thirty-three years he was crucified, and after another three days he rose and ascended to heaven, not before he promised to return. So far, though, he hasn’t. I attribute this delay to the fact that, as you have seen, I still have perplexing hands. I have not yet been transformed, in the wink of an eye, and I have not yet seen a new earth and new heaven …

19

I SIT in my chair for a little while longer, in my attic with the oval window, on the edge of a galaxy. A quiet grows rosier as evening falls, interwoven with volatile and benign noises: the continuous song of the doves (they often stop on the ledge and peer a round eye into the cave behind my window), toilets flushing in other apartments, the limpid cries of the boys playing soccer between cars parked in front of the block … Now I am writing in the heart of the night. The little lamp on my desk is no brighter than a wick in oil, so it leaves the corners of my room dark, and my bed disappears into a triangle of pitch. The haze of alcohol fills the room, alcohol and sweat. Because in my home, in my bed, for the first time after months and months, someone is here, completely obliterated by the dark. If I push my head and shoulders out of the sphere of yellow light over the desk and accustom my eyes, slowly, to the tenebrous air, I think I can make out a crumpled structure, an engraver’s needle cobweb, a plaque almost unattacked by acid. After a long time, I perceive the phantom-like cloud of a crumpled sheet, veiling and simultaneously unveiling a human form. It all looks like a heavy plaster cast thrown onto the plank bed, a statue that creaks and bows the slats. But Herman is light, a skeleton that the wrapper of his skin can barely hold together, glued tight to his skull and flapping free everywhere else, because his metabolism is a haze of alcohol vapors. “Poor him,” Mamma said twenty years ago, “so young and polite, he tells me ‘kiss the hand’ ten times a day when we pass on the elevator or the stairs — poor kid, look how he ended up, look what drinking will do to a person …” But I, holding her hand, without imagining I would one day know Herman as well as I do myself, looked with fright over my shoulder, toward the entryway, where I could still see the drunk, unnaturally hunched over, silhouetted by the weak light of the yellow and red elevator bulb. His neck was at a right angle to his body, as though one of his cervical vertebra had bent his spinal cord horizontal, and his head, always looking at the ground, was the image of oriental humility. Whenever we met, he scared me, because all drunks scared me, they were strange animals — I heard them sometimes howling and cursing behind the block — and, even though Herman was gentleness itself, when he put his hand on top of my head, I jumped and Mamma pulled me close. He still wouldn’t take his hand off my hair, cut short, with bangs, and, if the elevator was coming from the seventh floor, he might stay like that for more than a minute. During this time he would gaze at us, in the shadow of the stairway, revealing very, very blue eyes beneath his eyebrows, grimacing with the effort of looking straight ahead. His face was handsome and young, intelligent, but his breath, reeking of vodka, made us hold on to each other for the entire time that, crowded in the elevator, it took to reach the fifth floor. When we closed the metal door behind us, with its crack of matte glass, and we stepped onto our calming landing, in front of apartment 20, we breathed deeply a few times, while Mamma unlocked the door and the elevator went another two floors higher, with Herman.

Aside from the customary “kiss the hand, ma’am,” he never opened his mouth, but he smiled at me and absentmindedly patted the top of my head. He always wore the same suit, dark and proper, with a white shirt open at the neck, showing a little of the soft, rosy skin of his chest. He was always drunk, and when we went shopping with Mamma, on Lizeanu, we could usually spot him in the bar, wasting his time with ordinary drunkards, but Herman never trembled. He never rambled when he spoke, and he never left his clothes undone or dirty. He was so different from Mimi and Lumpă’s father, a porcine gypsy, who would come home with a train of musicians playing the violin and accordion, while he howled his favorite song as best he could:

On my mother’s grave, on her grave

If tonight I don’t get you

Naked in your slippers

I hope this slum gets the plague

with his pants around his ankles, smacking the balloon of his hairy paunch! Or the drunk on Stairway 3, an old man in a gray hat who would pull out his little black worm and urinate like a racehorse with a thick jet onto the pillars in the hall, right in the middle of the kids playing in furniture boxes.

The young man lived with an aged peasant mother in a studio on the top floor of the block on Ştefan cel Mare. The elevator only went to the seventh floor, and then you took the stairs to get to his miniscule landing, shared by the apartment’s door, the always-barred metal door to the elevator motor, and the laundry door with a transparent window. The fourth door, for me the most mysterious one by far, led to the rooftop terrace. In fact, that landing (and not only the landing) was connected to concentric mysteries, ever more troubling, ever deeper … I had moved to the block on Ştefan cel Mare when I was five, and the immensity of its stairways, hallways, and floors had given me, for some years, a vast and strange terrain to explore. I went back there many times, in reality and dreams, or better put, within a continuum of reality-hallucination-dream, without ever knowing why the vision of that long block, with eight stairways, with the mosaic of its panoramic window façade, with magical stores on the ground floor: furniture, appliances, TV repair — always filled me with emotion. I could never look at that part of the street with a quiet eye. If I were to take a picture, I am sure it would show something completely different: between the enormous, scarlet castle of the Dâmboviţa mill, with its pediments and crenulations shooting toward the sky, and the sea of roofs and yellow, cubic buildings, pink, or calcio-vecchio cubic buildings of Bucharest beyond the street, there would only be an empty lot, maybe some piles of rusty tram rails, or concrete forms, or purely and simply a yellow pool, refracting the yellow clouds pouring over it … The block, the Police watchtower next to it, the Circus alley and its blue mushroom cap surrounded by poplars whose branches were held in a Renaissance entrelac (and which had grown enormously over the years: summer, from my parents’ apartment balcony, through the snowfall of poplar tufts, the tree growth kept me from seeing anything of the alley, but the tallest dusty pediment of the mill) seemed actually to live only in my mind, sprung pale and ghostly, from an emotional abyss. Everything is strange, because everything is from long ago, and because everything is in that place where you can’t tell dreams from memory, and because these large zones of the world were not, at the time, pulled apart from each other. And to experience the strangeness, to feel an emotion, to be petrified before a fantastical image always means one and the same thing: to regress, to turn around, to descend back into the archaic quick of your mind, to look with the eyes of a human larva, to think something that is not a thought with a brain that is not yet a brain, and which melts into a quick of rending pleasure which we, in growing, leave behind. In countless dreams I entered Stairway 4 of the block on Ştefan cel Mare, the way it was in the first months when we moved there: the hallway full of debris, the metal panel with little letter-box doors on a different wall than it is on today, a mysterious cell, full of magazines and packages, that doesn’t exist anymore — or maybe it never did — and the monumental steps up to the elevator door. Everything is vast, like in a basilica, solemn and frightening. More terrible still is the great white opening of the elevator shaft, before the car was installed. There is no door, just a rectangular opening in a wall. I go up the steps full of stone chips and whitewashed lime, surrounded by a kind of enchantment. I stop in the immense portal and look up the enormous, astounding well, with cable viscera hanging against the walls. The infinite height makes me nauseous, I squat down and feel someone yank me backwards. It is Mamma, who takes me by the hand and we climb the stairs, full of the same debris, sometimes so much that we have to clamber over the gray mounds. In between the landings with apartment doors are others, empty, sinister, with little windows where you can see the mill, and through one door alone, the incinerator. The incinerator already emits a revolting stench, since many families have moved to the block long before the construction was completed. I am more afraid of the empty landings than of those with apartments, even though each door is different there, even though great crates have appeared with cacti or oleanders, and a few grimy pictures are stuck to the walls. If I weren’t with my mother, I would never get home, because it seems certain that the floors continue above and below endlessly. Lost on empty landings, I shout desperately, until I lose my voice, weak with fear and strangeness. We do, in the end, get home. Mamma unlocks the door, twisting the security key in the keyhole that makes the wings of the little pieces inside pull back slowly. Only then does she unlock it with the real key. We enter the vast, empty rooms, and then into the front room. The evening is dark. In the triple window, a blood-colored cloud hangs over the city. Luminous billboards, very far away, flash on and off. In the room the only furniture is a bed and a chair. The walls are unpainted and two black, stunted wires cross the ceiling like spider legs. We don’t yet have electricity. Mamma, young and beautiful, lights a candle and sticks it to a saucer. We don’t have curtains, and the window is splashed with lime. We sit on the bed, embracing, and I melt from love and magic. Along the window only the stripe of clotted blood remains a while, and the rest is night. And the round, weak light of the candle, in prismatic needles, refracts in the window. It is a beautiful and sad quiet. I huddle against my mother’s body, and we watch the stripe of blood slowly disappear …

Then, in the trembling, spherical light of the candle, Mamma rises and projects her colossal shadow onto the ceiling and walls, like in a strange ballet, when the woman of dark flesh, but with clear, hazel eyes like two lakes at dusk, exchanges features, clothes, and internal organs with her own misshapen, anamorphic, palpitating shadow. She opens her hand and in the center of her palm, like in the heart of a brown flower, there is a white plastic elephant, thin and semitransparent in the yellow-dark light. She puts it on the chair and lets it hang its golden coin over the arm, connected by a thread to the elephant’s neck. The coin turns a bit and sparkles, blinking slightly, casting vague sparks onto the floor. Its weight sets the elephant in motion, wobbly at first, leaning on its right leg, then the left, while the coin slowly approaches the ground. Kneeling on one side of the chair and the other, we watch it together, happy and smiling, melting in the luminous night of the half-foreign room. And in the surrounding stillness, lit from behind, extending its shining trunk and misshapen shadow onto the wood of the chair, the elephant scoots forward, minute by minute, with small, dry chuffs, millimeter by millimeter, eternity by eternity, all the way to the edge, where it stops, leaning gently over the abyss. The coin is only a finger-width away from the floor, and it alternates its faces one after another, shifting like the phases of the moon …

Sometimes, two or three months after we had moved to Ştefan cel Mare, Mamma would push the button for six or four by mistake, in the newly installed elevator. We would rise in darkness. The car light bulb was constantly stolen, until they refused to replace it anymore, and, when the car stopped with a clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, we would open the door and happen upon an unknown and frightening world. If we stopped at four, the shock wasn’t so intense, because we recognized that landing from when we used the stairs, but if we came to any floor above ours, my eyes would pop out of their sockets with fear. Those worlds were always silent and abandoned. The air was green, and through its solemn fog I saw terrible images sometimes, over the familiar forms that I had expected. The doors of the apartments on five, each with a familiar detail — the blue plaque on Mr. Manu’s door, the policeman’s silver peephole shaped like a funnel, the brown mat by Săndel’s mother — were superimposed with monstrous, threatening mental inventions: other doors, other paint, other colors on the edges of the fuse box, other mosaics on the floor. The landing was identical to ours and yet completely different, as broadly alike as it was narrowly different in details. It was another universe that howled menacingly, like a glacier, and I was completely lost. Once we even went in the wrong entryway — there were two entries like ours, but they were Stairways 6 and 7, not 3 and 4 — and we were fooled until we took the elevator to the fifth floor and opened the green metal door onto another world, and as we went down the stairs, each landing — some illuminated and full of screeching silence, others sunken in the deepest dark — was strange and frightening, as though we had descended into Hell … I howled like an animal and pulled on my mother’s hand. She also shouted, trying to calm me down, but I was throbbing all over, like a bird’s heart, and I didn’t calm down again until I saw that I was outside, on the street, and I saw the electric poles over the tram tracks, holding their globes of rosy light. Trams and cars passed in the reddened evening, and the illuminated windows of the furniture store showed familiar, calming objects: chairs and couches, desks, lamps and shades …

The eighth floor of our stairway was incomparably more mysterious than the others. I discovered it late: when I went up there for the first time, with Luci and Jean, to go out on the rooftop, more than a year had passed since we had moved to the block. I was a full six years old, and in that concrete colossus, I only knew well our stairs and the hall across the entryway we shared. I would go out behind the block almost every afternoon to play with the other kids, on the worksites where they were still putting in the sewers and electric cables. I had heard about Stairway 1, as though it were a faraway continent I might never explore. Wherever I was, I had to be within my parents’ sight from our fifth floor balcony. They stood together watching me, head by head and their gaze delimited the safe and civilized world, beyond which I would be swallowed by the void. The universe at that time consisted of the three rooms in our home and a few annexes, extended like spider legs, with an ambiguity all the greater for their distance. There was a first zone, semi-real, where I could move by myself, more or less safely, after which followed the city streets, which my parents created by walking between real and foreign places. Only my mother and father, between whom I walked through fortresses and basilicas, depots and castles of water scraping clouds like flames on yellow heavens, only my gigantic masters and friends, clasping my fingers in their great, warm hands, talking quietly over my head and pulling me through round piaţas with fabulous statues in the center, could pacify the endless dominions of chaos. Like a reflex arc, like the engram of memory, like the melting of marble steps under millions of feet, some streets, the ones we took more often, solidified, they gained a consistency, they were colored in familiar shades, detaching from the unreal gray that surrounded them. The tram toward Dudeşti-Cioplea, where Aunt Sica lived (Vasilica, my mother’s sister), was the only one painted red, and above it was the only fragment of blue sky in Bucharest. Climbing on board, I liked to sit behind the driver, to see how the control with the metal ball clattered, and to watch the sky through the thick, violet glass of the sunshade. The ball on the control lever was brass, polished by the rubbing palm of the driver, and its curve gathered, in concentrated colors ten times more intense than in the thin air outside, all of the neighborhoods we passed and all of the wooden interior of the tram car, with wooden chairs and wooden handles that knocked against the vinyl roof. I saw the driver’s face there, too, and if I got closer, my own face, just my eyes and nose, smiling in dull wonder. Equally solid, and a little less strange — although still, so odd! — was the way to my godparents’ place, on Maica Domnului, where a different tram took us only a few stations, after which we had to turn down a slummy street, always full of mud, with fences painted dementedly in pink and blue and green, to reach, at the end of an endless road, the house shaped like a ship. Above this new neural pathway the sky had a completely different form: it was a sheet of scented liquid, with vast coral reefs, and sea lilies rocking in the currents of spring, filtering the frozen air through gills that looked like feathers, and schools of fish glinting in the sun and changing their direction suddenly, all at once, at a twitch in the clouds …

The eighth floor was a zone of abstraction, unsuitable for life. There, on the crown of the block, the air was probably so rarified that no normal human being could survive. It was an adventure already to walk the stairs to the sixth floor. The seventh was almost inaccessible, but the elevator, the living and moving soul of the block, would dare go that far, like an outpost reaching deep into Mato Grosso. The landings were, if not identical, at least of the same kind as those I knew. On the eighth landing — and how many rumors, legends and myths did we kids tell each other, about this far-off land! — everything changed. There was, first of all, the door to the rooftop. Our parents must have told us hundreds of times: “Never go out on the roof! That’s not allowed!” even before they had the tiniest idea of what this rooftop was like. We didn’t even dare to imagine it. In place of an image in our minds was a green light of fear. The bigger kids had been on the rooftop, and this gave them prestige and self-assurance. They told us about the narrow door with the leaded window, going outside, and seeing the entire city beyond the concrete balustrade, and how, if you leaned over, you could also see the street like the bottom of a well, with its miniscule trams and cars … The elevator housing was also on the eighth floor, and they talked about its thundering motor, starting and stopping. In the washroom just “stupid stuff” happened (and you couldn’t get another word out of them about it). Finally, on the eighth floor, like a watchman at the border of another world, lived Herman.

The day when I went up to the eighth floor for the first time, two things happened to me that were so unusual, I attribute my courage in these moments to my mind’s confusion. I had gone out behind the block at around nine in the morning, when, even though the sun was shining strongly, the air was still cold like water from the faucet. I was alone, so far, in the topsy-turveyness of construction materials, mud, and ditches that made up our play area. Behind the concrete fence and the metal gate, which the girls, playing school, covered with crooked letters in colored chalk, rose the enormous brick palace of the mill, and beside it, like an annex, the flattened building of the Pioneer bread factory, with curved pipes coming out of the walls and going back in on another floor. Its windows were opaque from flour, and it was surrounded constantly by the smell of warm bread. The brick factory was as tall as our block, and on its peak, lost in the clouds, sometimes a red flag fluttered. After I had shaken the levers of an abandoned bulldozer in the block courtyard, I climbed out of the cabin and began to work on a hill of sand full of the traces of children who clambered over it all day. I dug a hole into the wet, red sand, that smelled of snails, in sharp contrast to the dry, dusty layer on top, until I could put my entire arm inside. My nails smarted in the wetness and suddenly they felt actually painful: I’d hit something hard. I lugged out this object that had sat crossways to my tunnel, and when I wiped away the sandy dirt, I caught my breath: it was a large, heavy, shining cowboy pistol, a revolver, with a curved handle that barely fit in my hand and a mirrored nickle barrel. It never crossed my mind to wonder whose it was, or who might have lost it. I’d had, up to then, some ordinary, two-bit water guns, made of soft, pink plastic, from which I would suck the rubber-tasting water. I had hardly ever seen cowboy guns, maybe from rich kids, and none of them compared with my unparalleled revolver. It was all mine. I had found it, and from then on it belonged to me. I climbed back onto the soft vinyl chair in the bulldozer cabin and began to shoot all around into the frozen air. I had goose bumps from the cold, but the sun and the poplar puffs, and the twisted and luxurious vegetation twined around the concrete fence brought me the feeling of a torridly hot summer. Only when I ran along the sewer-pipe ditches, aiming at the first girl who came out to arrange her dolls on a rug in the sun, did I become conscious of the second amazing fact of that morning: I was naked from the waist down. I was wearing just an undershirt that fluttered over my hips, barely covering my behind and “little rooster,” but revealing them when I ran around and shot my pistol. Because the undershirt was a little long, Mamma hadn’t noticed that I’d forgotten to put my underpants on, since she had recently been letting me dress myself.

I felt my entire skin burn with shame. I pulled down my undershirt as far as I could and moved slowly, barely lifting my feet, toward our stairway. I made it into the hallway without anyone seeing me, and I scampered up the stairs. The mosaic steps were ice cold when I put my bare feet on them. The first floors were sinister and dark. One, which was mysterious, where I knew no one and thin pipes ran along the walls and fuse boxes lined up, then two, three, and four were each more familiar … I knew some neighbors who had kids: Romică’s mother, Virgil’s, Cristi’s, and the Chinaman’s … The policeman on four, with such a silly name: Corcodel, had made a monumental door, painted as black as the entry to a crypt. At Mr. Kulineac’s you could always hear Lola barking. Popa, who played soccer for Dinamo, had a daughter with fantastic toys that were brought from abroad, including a doll that pushed a stroller with a little baby … I found our apartment door half open, probably as I had left it. Mamma was doing laundry in the bathroom, and when I opened the door, she had suds up to her elbows and some in her hair. A big cake of laundry soap, green and narrow, tottered on the edge of the sink. I aimed the pistol at her and shouted, and Mamma jumped and started to shout back at me. She wiped her hands on a towel. She was enormous. My neck hurt from looking up at her face, projected somewhere against the ceiling. She told me to take the pistol back immediately to wherever I had found it, and when she saw my bare bottom, she smacked it a few times and found me some shorts. She had barely gotten them over my thighs when I tore myself from her grasp and ran outside again.

I met up with Luci, and then Jean, on the big tank near the concrete wall, across from Stairway 5, a macabre stairway, different from all the others and almost as mysterious as Stairway 1, because it was not in a hallway, but directly behind the block, near the entry to the furniture storeroom. Its gaping mouth, blacker than all the others, was mostly hidden by kitchen sets, hall tables, easy chairs, and windows packed in cardboard, all directly on the asphalt, and sometimes by workers armed with belts and hooks who would heave them into horse-drawn trucks. Jean sometimes would take a horse by the bridle and whisper in its ear: “ţuric!” and the horse would step backwards, knocking over chairs and tables.

On the big tank, stomping as hard as we could to hear the metallic booms amplified in the space underneath, we chatted a while, almost calm. Jean from Seven told us that in Italy mămăligă was called “poopy-lenta,” “so you can run down the street shouting ‘poopylenta, poopy-lenta!’ and nobody will do anything to you,” and Luci, tubby and curly headed, perched on the fence and shouted it too, laughing like crazy at the funny word. After we’d had enough of saying it a hundred ways, we set to exploring, since there were too few of us yet to play anything. I objected with all my might to going into Stairway 5, more sinister for me than a dragon’s cave. When they grabbed me and tried to force me in, I fell on a pile of planks full of nails, and I got scratched a little on the leg. In the end, shaking, I said I would go on the roof if we went up our stairway, mine and Jean’s, since Luci lived on Stairway 3. Jean was a jerk. He had a bad mouth, sang songs, and told dirty jokes. He lived on Seven, he was always dressed poorly, and his mother looked like a beggar. His father drove a tractor for the circus, pulling around caged animals and houses on wheels. But we were all good friends, because we always laughed with him and didn’t try to fight. That day, for the first time, we went in the elevator without a grown-up. Jean stretched himself high on the tips of his toes, and reached to 7. “I can go higher,” he said, and he pushed the red button, which made a buzz so loud that we all screamed. This didn’t stop him. He stretched up to see himself in the mirror, stuck his tongue out, and in the end he pressed the last button, marked “O,” which made the elevator stop in between floors. “I’m telling! I’m telling your mom!” Luci shouted, crazy with fear, while Jean opened the doors so we could see the layer of concrete between the floors. “You’d have been stuck here, man! Toast!” And we believed we really were going to stay in that terrible elevator car, painted green, forever, without our parents or the real world, and they would bury us, the little ones, in an infinite block of ice, in endless fear. My tears had already started when Jean pushed 7 again and the elevator started moving, making its slow way through the concrete universe of the block. Two more metal doors appeared and disappeared, slowly, in the elevator window, until it stopped and we poured onto a foreign landing, so unfamiliar that we could have been anywhere, thousands of kilometers away, above or below, in one place or another. For Jean, however, this was the most ordinary place possible, because it was where he lived. I had the barrel of the pistol stuck in my underpants and covered carefully with my undershirt; I hadn’t shown it to the other boys, since I was afraid they would know whose it was and take it away. Now, more dead than alive with fear, I could feel it there, so warm, it was as if it had become part of my body.

Piled together, we scampered up the stairs. From even the first moment, a new kind of light fell on us and grew stronger as we ascended. It was white, intense, unreal light, completely different from the melancholy Nile-green air of the other floors. If the first flight of stairs was more or less the same as those between the floors we knew, the landing between 7 and 8 seemed new to us, like a fairy tale: there was no radiator or door to the incinerator, it was completely empty, white and pure like a painted box, and flooded with light from a few very high windows. From there, the light fell obliquely, in thick pieces, vibrating like crystals. We went up another flight of stairs, one much shorter than normal. I would have given anything to turn back; my fear had become almost unbearable, but Jean and Luci, their shapes eroded by light, their hair full of rays, continued, hugging the walls, smudging their clothes with lime. One more turn in the stairway and we arrived on the landing for 8, in a supernatural light. It came from a leaded window in the rooftop door, which had a large, rusted lock. It was hard to see anything in the shining light. Slowly, close together and looking all around, we began to make out a few things: an old bicycle leaning against the wall, a rotting wooden crate for an oleander, a few doors with barely demarcated shapes in the walls. The landing was so narrow compared to the others that it seemed to squeeze us, pushing its doors against us, trying to crush our bones and flesh. A constant, threatening murmur came from the elevator housing. We stayed there for a few minutes. Jean said some bad words, since the rooftop door was locked. Through its window you couldn’t see anything. It was as though you were looking into the mouth of an oven where the metal is heated white-hot. The crazy light was amplified by the immaculate walls. The outline of the old bicycle looked like flame. And we suddenly saw, through our clothes that had become as transparent as cellophane, the insides of our bodies, our fragile, dark skeletons, and our internal organs like shadows on an x-ray. When someone called the elevator, on the ground floor or some other floor, the elevator housing gave a pop that paralyzed us. Frozen, with wide eyes, we awaited the building’s collapse and the world’s end.

Then, the door of the only resident of that landing opened, and on its threshold, Herman appeared. But he was changed. His face was not a human face. His hands, holding a spiny mollusk shell as big as a teacup, were not human hands. And he wore only a silk robe, open at the chest, and decorated with the most fantastically alive and slippery drawings, passing into each other, looking at each other, playing with each other, coupling and biting and rending each other. It was a soft, crystal mirror, a prism with folds that reflected the space around it — us kids, the rusty bicycle, the rooftop door — but it deformed each surface anamorphically, filling it with colored sparks of the most tender violet and voluptuous red, the most unforgettable green, the most childish yellow, and heavenly blue and orange, so that, from Jean’s long-eared face stretched in a pleat of the robe, there emerged a stag beetle of ivory and gold, and the beetle’s mandibles were two statuesque naked women, holding cornucopias, watching over a gateway to hell, and each cornucopia, with the next movement of silk, became an agglomeration of viper skulls. Luci became a team of horses with flowering cashmere saddles, and in the middle of the flowers, asps battled unicorns for a priceless gem, and the gem was a planet covered in clouds, whose gaps revealed ponds and craters, and each pond reflected the inhuman face of Herman. I saw myself, too, in a single moment without end (and, in a way, also without beginning), but immediately my pallid and angular face, all eyes, stretched from the middle of pulsating irradiations over the entire vestment, completely covering it, so that Herman was now vested in the flayed skin of my face, wrapped in the long lashes of my eyes, illuminated by the timid strawberry-pink of my lips, punctuated by the black sun of the freckle by my ear, fringed by the vines of hair on my neck. The vision lasted less than a moment, and then shattered into spirals of spirals of spirals, greenish yellowish red, planets of lizards of stars, worlds of worlds, voids of voids, ship-moons, scorpion-cars, brain-vipers, vulva-angels, cloud-islands … Herman was floating. He levitated in the doorway, his neck broken and his face indescribable, and the colors of his horrible, enchanting vestment danced over our faces. We would never have snapped out of that fascination if the elevator hadn’t started again, with an apocalyptic bang. We started suddenly and ran down the stairs, howling as loud as we could, floor after floor, while alarmed neighbors opened their doors as we passed. I don’t know how we got to the ground floor, how we came out of the glass door of the stairway … We didn’t stop until we reached the big sheet-metal gate of the mill fence, where Silvia and Marcela were drawing princesses with colored chalk. Panting, we leaned against the fence, looking up at the top of the apartment block. What if Herman had followed us? But nothing happened. It was time to eat and our mothers, leaning on the balcony rails, called us up. First the girls left, then Luci. Jean went down the alley, and I was left alone, still leaning against the rough concrete fence. What a strange day! And, especially, how … unusual, how different I felt. While running down the stairs, I heard a loud clang behind me and I imagined I lost the pistol, but I could still feel its warm barrel against my stomach. When, at last, I heard my mother’s high voice, I went home and into the bathroom to wash my hands, where I wanted to admire my pistol again. But the pistol wasn’t there anymore, and the hard, hot barrel was made of flesh and came out of my body. It was my little pecker, that I used to go peepee, which now was strangely erect and painful. It all lasted a few minutes, and I didn’t have time to become alarmed before things turned back to normal, for years and years …

Herman is sleeping now, drunk, in my bed, crosshatched with dark. I was barely able to lug him up here. A few hours ago I went out for some air in the dusk as thick as pitch. I slowly crossed the lot full of old refrigerators and upholstery springs and casing wires, and stumbling over them, I saw the precise design of the walnuts in the tree branches against the velvet colors of the sky, urine yellow on the horizon, then pink, and on the opposite side, a deep blue, indigo that the moon whitened … A giant metal construction, like an endless drill rig, with antennae on top, a radio relay probably, gave me a strange desire to climb its narrow vertical ladder, through the protective ring, high up, in the middle of sunset. I passed through twisting neighborhoods, with old houses, massive as galleons, floating in the dusk, their balconies ferrying men in shirts and women in bras, smoking, speaking softly and listening to the crickets. I went down deserted side streets, past shoemakers and watchmakers with their shutters drawn. I went along the cyclopic worksite of the House of the People, avoiding the police patrolman talking about soccer, and I emerged, after a long while, onto the boulevard with movie theaters, already sunk into the dark. Yellow bulbs, every third one lit, transformed the buildings into pale crystals, without any trace of reality. The trees leaned the shadows of their branches over walls with blank windows. I walked slowly, my hands in my pockets, thinking of Cedric and Vasili, The Albino, and Herman, my senseless and endless manuscript, this illegible book, this book … I passed in front of Romarta, looking, as always, toward the cubist attics (superimposed, retreating from each other) of the block across from the Casa Armatei, and wishing I could live there, high up, in the last cube, under the great blue sign for the C. E. C., so that I could go out in the evening onto the little landing in front, lean against the last C, seen by no one, like a Ferragus scorning the metropolis, and contemplate the city, my mysterious and beloved city spread under the Persian carpet of the constellations. On the almost-deserted streets came a wave of warm air that smelled like linden trees. The trolley buses passed, sad like funeral trains, through the University intersection. I followed the line of my thoughts up to the strange, enchanting story of Paul and the Russian circus dwarf, Katarina, who always held her panther cub in her arms, and when I reached Piaţa Rosetti, with its nationalist statue sunk in a tarnished bronze chair, the haunting syllables began to churn in my mind: NO-TO-KO … TO-KO-NO … NO-KO-TO … A nearby maxi-taxi idled with its lights on, without a driver or passengers, docked by the statue like a skiff on the rocky shore of a little island. Collapsed beside the statue, with his back against the bronze plaque, lay a beggar or drunk, one of those who had multiplied in Bucharest in recent years. I don’t know why I crossed the street and entered the little park around the statue. Night had descended like pitch, like in the slums. The bronze statue was almost invisible, and the beggar was a warm spot, a viscous liquid muddying the spectral marble. He cast a fetus-like shadow, with its head pressed unnaturally into its chest, in a perpetual bow, in endless humility. It had been years since I had seen Herman, but every time I did, it seemed like he had always been with me, sometimes curled up inside me like an embryo in a uterus, other times protecting me like a ghost from the folds and corners of the city.

I squatted in front of him and took his face in my palms, pricked by his few days’ beard. My stomach turned over from the nauseating stench of cheap alcohol in his mouth. Nearly fifty years old, Herman was almost bald; white hairs, every which way, surrounded his skull, and his face belonged to a man of suffering, one made for suffering. His crusty, elongated eyes, with tufts of eyebrows above them, opened for a moment, without focusing, like in a faint, lowering their eyelids again and showing only two stripes of cornea, yellow as ivory. Because of the night and the sad moon, the former azure of his irises was now stained by coma and agony. I was barely able to carry him to the 343 bus station, where I had to put him down for half an hour until the bus came to take us close to home. I shoved him into the tired elevator that carried us to the last floor of the old, scarlet block; and look at the old man now, the codger, the great sinner in my bed, shaking and stinking of sweat. A few minutes ago, I stopped writing to open his left fist, where I saw, between his fingers, a crumpled piece of paper. On the cheap paper, torn and torn again, that he must have kept in a dirty pocket full of stuff, something was written in pencil, which at first sight looked like a telephone number. Then I saw it was a mathematical formula. I am writing it here as best as I can make it out, hoping I don’t get one of the signs wrong:

20

I RECALL that first and only hard-on of my childhood with the perplexity I have always had for the old paintings warehoused in the ponderous gallery of my memory, heaps upon heaps of paintings, with supple lichen flowering in layers thicker than clotted paint, and blind scorpions gnawing the pads of their frames. In Ammon’s horn and the mammillothalamic tract, in the habenular nuclei and the fornix, and beneath the quartz cupola of the encephalon, there are thousands of transparent tubes, through which run paints and oxides and thousands of studios where painters with fifty hands copy, restore, cut out, mix and separate, create pastiches and replicas and duplicates, falsify dates and signatures, project onto the desolate walls of the skull’s yellow bone slides and retroprojections, deformed by the phrenological curves of the brow and temples, the protuberances of imagination and wiliness, of pity and suspicion … There are also museums, well lit and snobby, with square tiles dividing their hall floors into vast chessboards, and festive light fixtures within vaults painted with winding allegories, where the stem of a heavy chandelier flows from the navel of Arrogance. There are official pictures drowned in asphalt, there are limpid wall texts, under glass plates, beside each immense canvas stretched over the immaculate walls … But they are museum-traps, as sweet-smelling as carnivorous plants, where even the visiting public is an illusion painted on the walls and desolate canvases. There everything, but everything is fake, fabricated from one end to the other, hanging from striations and peduncles like rotting fruits. Where should you look and whom should you believe, when you recall other dreams in your dreams, and when in those dreams you remember things that never happened, and other sights flash in your mind when you eat or read a book distractedly, and you take them as the bizarre caprices of an interior demon, when in fact they are the faithful engrams of deeds accomplished when you saw with bigger eyes and thought with a smaller and more rudimentary brain? When, at your desk, where you fill lines of slag left by a dirty ball on a fabric of vegetable fiber, looking at the filigree design of coffee cups, and suddenly the design seems to float in the air, it doubles and deforms strangely, changing into a scene at morning, with a glinting, evanescent sea visible between the pink columns of a geometric temple and palace and when the picture floats minute after minute, transparent, over your office, as though it would melt again like sugar in water — it is impossible to tell where, on the tridimensional, endless cobweb map of your place in the world, you find yourself and your fear and fascination: in the dead-end of Illusion, in the street of Reverie, in the park of Memory, in the bus station of Hallucination, in the borough of Reality … It’s easier to imagine that you have pierced the folded map with a needle, uniting incompatible and disparate places in an incomprehensible trajectory, perpendicular to the paper, hidden, penetrating existence out of nothing into nothing, as we ourselves unite emotional incongruencies with the paradoxical transit of our lives: birth and love, art and madness, happiness and death …

Later, when I was sitting on the cabinet in the bedstead with my feet on the radiator, watching for entire afternoons as Bucharest disappeared, floor by floor, behind the scaffolding and casings of the block across the street, I remembered that first inexplicable tumescence of the unimportant appendix I used to go peepee not as a fact in itself, but as a piece of the entire constellation which also included, with differing levels of probability or fiction, other physiological, psychic or oneiric bizarrities — structures of weakness which doubled, like a ragged batting, the melancholic firmness of my mind. The snow that fell heavily over Ştefan cel Mare (then pot-holed and half as wide as it is today) crosshatched the immense panorama of the city. It reflected the colors of the sky on the earth and sent the greenish phantasms of the mixture of houses and trees onto the sky, colors which repeated on my retinas after I stared, hour after hour, with dilated eyes, blinking as seldom as I could. Sometimes I aimed my gaze at a single snowflake, as soon as it appeared in the upper corner of the window, and I followed its oblique and rapid fall, so that in those seconds I could see all its crystalline, evanescent details and perceive the metamorphosis of its colors, from the dirty gray that enveloped it when I saw it against the milky sky, to the fairy-like white, with the little, tufty halo it acquired against the houses’ roofs, windows, and doors and the dirty drifts on the sides of the road. Toward noon, the sky turned red, and it continued to snow apocalyptically. The shadows of people bound up in coats who crossed the street holding water canisters (the pipes in the apartment block had frozen long ago) blurred, erased by thousands of snowflakes, and when I looked up toward the gray lint falling from the crepuscular expanse, I felt I was at an angle flying toward the heights, my room and all, as though my apartment were a spaceship ejected from the ground. The radiator burned my bare feet, and the room was wrapped in darkness and loneliness. I had finished my homework long ago, and there was so much emptiness and melancholy in my life, so much inability to imagine not only my future, but also the present moment, that my mind, like a vacuum, sucked a weird marrow from the thin bones of my memory. And this fluid, which rose, rotating in my skull like in a drain basin, this metaphysical interferon secreted by each cell, gland, and cartilage of my body’s empire, slowly filled the walnut form of my mind, impregnating itself with the bitterness of its tannin, dissolving my consciousness and, thus ennobled, retreating into the tubes of memory. I went back, back toward the interior. I descended into the heart of my heart, I made myself tiny and thin and moved around my spinal cord, leaving my adolescent body to clang about like an oversized jacket. I went back to my anterior forms, toward the rings of ever more tender growth as I approached the pith. I assumed my form at fifteen, and I left it like a virtual aura for the one I’d had at eleven, then nine, then five, until I curled up in my own stomach like an infant who had my features and eyes. Then, on the depressing, fleshy screen of the winter sky, like my own visual field, hallucinations intertwined so oddly, and in such detail, that they could not be anything but memories pumped through the umbilical cord from the fetus toward the mother, since in the inverted film world of memory, the child gave birth to the mother, moment by moment, and fed her a substance which didn’t end but was secreted ever more abundantly. The me of today englobes the me of yesterday, who encompasses the one from the day before yesterday and so on and so on, until I am only an immense line of Russian dolls buried one in the next, each one pregnant with its predecessor, but still being born from it, emanating from it like a halo, so that the middle is darker and the surfaces more diaphanous, and the glassy surface of my body in this exact moment already reflects the tame light of the one that I will be in an hour, since my astral body is nothing else but the clairvoyant light of the future. From the dark toward the light, from lead to crystal, from crush to levitation, from everything to nothing, the absurd trajectory of our lifetime tapers off, until it ends in a threadbare void. And the I of every moment is connected to the one before through a sturdy umbilical cable, with two arteries and one vein, moving the ineffable erythrocytes of causality. Beside it, a subtle and complicated vascularization, a braid of blue and violet capillaries inextricably connects the Russian dolls to each other in a wooly cocoon, so that the moment of now can branch out, over a period of five years, and another over seven, touching flexible synapses to the heavy eyelids and Buddha smile of one of the millions of children and adolescents that look like me, sucking on their minds, their neck glands or their suprarenal capsules to draw out emotions, chemicals, scenes, ideas, or something else I cannot imagine and do not dare to understand. With some of these brothers of mine (odd brothers, all carrying my name and genetic code, the way that in big families the youngest children wear the eldest’s clothes) I have lost direct contact, while others feed me through tens of thousands of tentacles. In their turn, they feed each other, they ally with each other, and they plot against each other, holding out their hands to each other over the ages in such a dense tangle of relations that they blacken a four-dimensional field — my real being, of which the “I” of this moment is only a spot, a state, an isotope in an infinite series, a meeting of the virtual with the wonder of reality, which, look, just passed. Because, just as some beings who live in a bi-dimensional world see a ball traverse the scene like a point that appears out of nothing, becoming an ever larger disk and shrinking again to a point which disappears, the baroque anatomy of my body reveals and at the same time hides a fourth dimension: time. Take a biopsy of my spinal marrow and you will find a white disk with the pattern of a gray butterfly. Take a biopsy of my real being, the way you would cut down a tree, and you will find the concentric circles of Mircea in Mircea in Mircea in Mircea in Mircea in Mircea …

I didn’t turn on the light, even after darkness fell, and nothing was left of the entire triptych of the city but the phosphorescent blue of snow on the roofs and the reddish sky, still unexpectedly light, so that the darkness was concentrated in my room, surrounding me in sadness. In the next room the television was on, and my parents made comments and giggled stupidly. Muffled thuds came from the room on the other side, from the next apartment. In nights of excitement and fever, lying on my sheets like a burning statue, I would hear whispers from beyond the wall, squeals and sighs, or it seemed like I heard them, and rising to my knees, I would press myself against the cool gypsum, I would put my ear to it and try, holding my breath, to guess what was going on in there, how they were struggling in bed, in a mass of wet and throbbing organs, a man and a woman, pleasuring each other, their hands touching the skin of each other’s erogenous zones and the spiral hairs of their pubises, nibbling their nipples and ear-lobes. My ear froze and began to sting, and my heart beat so hard that it drowned out other sounds. I writhed like someone being burned alive in a fire, I spread across the wall until the whitewash covered my skin and my pajamas, and I stayed like that for hours on end, a bas-relief of frustration. After I had lost all hope of hearing something real and started to feel palpitations of tiredness, I would throw myself back onto the bed, and fall asleep to dream that a long, narrow panel opened in the wall, right over my bed, and I rolled into the neighbors’ room, where a luscious pale woman pressed against me and offered the menacing spider between her thighs, an actual spider, from the Amazon, big and strong like a crab, which I picked up by the thorax, as big as my hand, and took from the woman’s pubis, which was as flat between her legs as a doll’s. When I turned the spider over, it had a narrow, red wound on its stomach, between its vibrating legs, just like (I remember within the dream) the girls in the waiting room of the Emilia Irza Hospital, where I was admitted when I was five, just before we moved to the block on Ştefan cel Mare. I threw the spider as far away as I could and cleaved to Silvia, trying my hardest to put myself between her thighs, until my drops of semen poured onto her stomach in thin, ivory jets. I stood and, looking around, realized her room was as narrow and round as an alveolus, with its walls lined in black velvet. A metal spiral staircase took me outside, after I climbed up three or four floors. I was on Ştefan cel Mare again, in front of the appliance store windows, magically illuminated in the night.

I had just turned five when my mother, I still don’t know why, took me to the Emilia Irza hospital and, because there was no one she could leave me with at home, had me admitted to the children’s ward. At least that’s what she’s always told me. I tried to ask her about it later, in the hot summer nights spent in the kitchen, watching the wasps come and go through the air vent over the stove, but she stubbornly resisted, the way she did when I asked about other things, images and facts that remained in my memory, but which, inexplicably, had disappeared from my mother’s. For example, I see myself in a dark bathroom, with a large, pale boiler tank at the end of the tub. Through its little door I can see the burner’s frozen blue flames, the only lights in the room. Their continuous murmur, calming and sad, is the only sound I hear. Then a splash. I’ve taken my hand from the water and violet drops, like grapes, plop onto the water’s oddly dark surface, through which I see my little body, like a livid fish. The violet, strong-smelling water is up to my neck in the metal tub. “Permanganate” I hear clearly in my head. And I know that my mother had poured that liquid, with a not-unpleasant smell, from a bottle into the tub. Then she left me (why?) in the dense shadow, steeping in the bath of rotting flowers. It stank of swamp, violets, permanent marker, uterus. I dissolved in the unmoving water until I could not tell my limbs apart and they were ever more clenched in crystal. Any drop from my fingers fell with a genetic, unexpected sound on the mauve water, as though, at that moment, my ear canal was being sketched out, with its labyrinthine structure, and then dissolved again in the boulder of temporal bone. Every drop reinvented my cochlea. In the end, my mother came back and delicately sunk my head under the hypermanganate-laced water, wetting my hair, and she started to massage my neck. Squinting, with the water lengthening and squeezing my facial mask, I followed the will of the giant woman who bathed me, who doused me with violet rags pulled from the mirror of water and rubbed my shining limbs … Mamma sweated, and her breasts, sagging even then, with enormous, scarlet ovals on their peaks, began to show lines of violet drops, as though the permanganate was actually my mother’s sweat, as though inside she was completely filled with permanganate. Yet later, my mother would never confirm this memory, even though I am sure that it didn’t happen just once, but over a long period of time, the ritual of this foul chemical wash continued in that bathroom, which I don’t know if I should place in the house on Puccini or the apartment beside the garage. In the same way, I never found out what the formidable battery of vials was for, thick as a thumb and full of a yellow liquid, which I happened upon at fourteen, in my parents’ buffet. It was a white cardboard box, long and relatively narrow, on the top of which was written — and like the almost mystical term “permanganate,” the name of this incredible medicine rises in my memory sparkling, like it was written in precious stones — QUILIBREX, with straight, blue letters. Inside were dozens of vials, thin cylinders with tapering necks and pointy glass bumps on the end, lined up in a cardboard grid. On each vial, with its liquid shining in the light like gold, something was written, tiny, illegible, and inside there were beings: delicate, lacey worms, some with pink colors and little black fibers in their tails, others with wet skin marbled in vitiligo, vague reptiles with budding feet, a Sybil like a small beetle, as though sculpted in lead, reading a book spiritedly, a spermatozoid five centimeters long, a transparent embryo, through whose skin showed a brain like a sack of venom … And then, I remember one of the vials had a sailing ship inside. An admiral with silken epaulettes was pacing on its deck with his hands behind his back. Resolutely, Mamma did not remember, or did not want to remember, the box of “Quilibrex.” Why, month after month, had I bathed with permanganate? Did I have some horrible, or merely unpleasant, skin disease? Were there blind sarcoptic mites swarming below my skin, with long hairs emerging from the stumps of their legs? Or was the jungle of supple trees that was my hair teeming with lice? As for the vials, I would swear they were not for me. At Voila, they poked my butt countless times with penicillin or streptomycin, at the slightest sniffle. Each time the nurse, a soulless executioner, woke me up in the middle of the night, I could clearly see the needle pierce the rubber plug in the little bottle and extract a whitish substance, so awful-smelling that later I would say mold smelled like penicillin, not the other way around. I winced, resigned and horrified still. I was just a handful of boy with pajama bottoms pulled around his ankles, and I withstood the gentle and quick smacks of the hand on my buttock, already wet with alcohol, and I endured the torture of the needle penetrating my skin and flesh and depositing, in a bag of living pain, moldy water. But I never got shots from the thick, golden vials. They could only have been for one of my parents. I played with them for a week, and then they disappeared without a trace.

One morning at the end of August we left, for the last time, like on an iceberg, the yellow house in Floreasca, where we had lived for three years, and we went off along the quiet neighborhood streets, passing the grocery at the end of our street, where they would send me to buy things with the exact change, past the barber where I had once gotten lost and howled until I turned blue. I held Mamma’s hand. We took various buses, and after burrowing through incomprehensible areas of the city, we arrived in front of an enormous building. I didn’t know I would have to spend a week behind the façade with thousands of windows, after which I would never go back to our apartment in the house, but I would fill a new spiral, much bigger, in another block, where I would live for almost twenty-five years. And it is so clear to me now that the foggy façade of the Emilia Irza Hospital, like the block across Ştefan cel Mare, built fifteen years after we moved, was nothing other than the opercula, impenetrable membranes separating the compartments, ever vaster, of the spiral shell secreted, structured, and inhabited by the soft flesh of my mind (here, in this notebook) and the soft meditation of my flesh (in real life), if life and thought about life are ever separate, which happens outside the awareness of the event, and on the other side the gestural realm where the gesture intervenes and all other beliefs wither, turn to dust, and disappear. Through the muddy filter of the hospital, the previous lives of the siphonophore larvae that I had been, from birth to two-and-a-half years old (on Silistra), from then to three (the block beside the Floreasca garage) and then in the house on Puccini — beings with differently developed brains, with different connections in which images were more like emotions and tastes, and every event took the form of a yet more disorienting surprise; the other fetal lives, a little more evolved than the real fetus, dreaming with rapid eye movements in my mother’s genital paunch, appeared like a magical series of reincarnations, just as odd to the being behind the window-filled wall as the bestiary animals or humanoids who, they say, live on other planets, in the colloidal suspension of the stars.

I remember a freezing morning, consonant with the ancient, legendary, lost in illo tempore purple dawns, that welcomed us, my mother and me, on our way to daycare, and whose engram entered unexpectedly into my poems:

ah, mamma, i dream of you so often!

i walk holding your hand in enormous mornings

you and i reach the factory courtyard and its drums of acid

we enter shops full of threads from mechanical carpets

or, in the black hours of morning

we walk hand-in-hand on narrow streets with little shops

and we turn off the gas by the reddened squash

But, if it is absurd and delusional to use the word “memory” for those unplaceable and atemporal images of asphalt reddened, as far as you can see, from sunrises that warm faces and garments, washing them in a thin liquid purple and extending fine and endless shadows of amber, I can instead mark out scene by scene — how strange — that inexplicable week in the hospital, my first complete separation from my parents and home.

They both took me. I remember how cold I was, as though I were looking at a group of photographs that held in their thick layer of silver nitrate not only images but also sensations, emotions, sounds, and smells. I wore navy corduroy overalls, with two satin mushrooms stitched onto the chest, the same overalls that appear in black-and-white pictures from this period: I am in the Ştefan Gheorghiu schoolyard, in a group of kids, three girls with scarves on their heads, all taller than me, and standing beside us, next to Aunt Estera, is my father’s co-worker, in a kind of raglan sweater often worn in the ’60s. Aunt Estera has wiry hair and a cigarette between the fingers of her left hand. I’m sticking out my chest, relatively chubby in the face, sickly, and my hair combed with a part. As soon as we entered the hospital doors, we were submerged in endless green corridors. We were accompanied by a nurse in white, who kept opening doors with opaque windows ahead of us, and closing them once we passed. Along the walls, between numbered doors, with nickel ashtrays beside them, were glass cases of disgusting and fascinating anatomical displays: slices of heart, pieces of colon, and fetuses in various stages of development, which I stared at in passing, without daring to ask for an explanation. The only one that startled me was the thick jar, half a meter across, where two infants floated, Siamese twins, conjoined at the pelvis, so that two trunks emerged obliquely from what was a single body from the waist down, with only two feet and toes crinkled from the wet. You wouldn’t have been able to say, looking at the bald skulls and eyes rolled back into the head, what sex the two beings were, but their shared pubis was a girl’s. In the ever more imbricated hallways, sometimes rising and falling like a stairway with a banister, sick elderly people sat here and there, in discolored scarlet robes. My mother went into a room with the nurse, while my father and I waited in the hall in front, on a vinyl bench. I couldn’t sit still for more than two minutes. I nosed around, up and down the freezing hall, for fifteen minutes, looking with wide eyes at all the cases, and at the posters of skinned people on the wall. One shelf had a plaster model, also a half-skinned person, who had a face on one side, with a breast and a still-human arm, while on the other side, it grinned bare teeth stuck in its jaws, and its eyeball shone like a marble. Each organ, in various colors, could be removed from the flayed body, to get deeper inside, so that soon I was holding a ribcage in my hands like a pan flute. My father, who did not have a single white strand in his hair combed smoothly back — he was much younger than I am now — stood up, red with anger, and smacked me (“Hey, those things are expensive! Put those bones back!”), but just then Mamma came out. I could barely recognize her in the miserable thin robe, flannel, blue with dots that were once white but now showed the background color, and with a cap of the same material on her head. She hugged me and, to my discomfort and my father’s irritation, started to kiss me with slummy tenderness, saying over and over, like a rosary in a gypsy accent, “I could just eat you up! Mamma’s little boy! What will you do without your Mamma for so long?” and more kisses, so many that I was relieved when she put me down and left me in the care of the nurses. My father kissed me too (I remember the sensation of his unshaven whiskers on my cheeks and the vague smells of cologne and walnut oil) and paused to whisper something to my mother. I remember them there, in the narrow, high hallway, face to face, talking seriously, without smiling, without holding hands.

Leaving them didn’t frighten me at all. I was tugged gently away, down other corridors, by the woman in white (who looked like a typical German, blond, short hair, penciled “eyebrows abroad”). This trust is incomprehensible to me, entering into the great adventure of detachment from my parents and exploring the hospital with a kind of wondrous enchantment. That first week of independence, subtracted from normal life, would be, perhaps, the model for my later experiences of closed, isolated worlds, spherical like pearls and just as precious, adorning the asymmetrical, capricious edifice of my ordinary life, which is impossible to totally comprehend. When they sent me away later, to camp or on trips, or who knows where else, my indifference left my parents at a loss for sufficient expression of their indignation. “Did you miss us?” they always asked, and I always responded, sincerely and naïvely, “No.” “You’ll never win with that attitude of yours,” Mamma would repeat, bitterly, adding: “I’ve never seen such a spiteful child,” meaning that, after the age of six, I would not let her kiss or pat me, but I spurned her, putting my hands across my chest and turning my head. Not once, in my adolescence, did I write them or call from camp. My father did the same when he was in the field, so that, abandoned and in a way offended by everyone, my mother often complained that she lived with two savages. The love and even passion that appear in every line I have written about my mother (and I’ve written almost solely about her) have always taken me by surprise, and made me wonder whether it was poor literary effect or if there had ever been an age in which I truly loved my mother more than anything in the world. If there had, then what conflict, frustration, or betrayal on her part had transformed my adoration into frigidity and, perhaps, a subterranean enmity? It’s true, she often told me I treated her “like an enemy,” and I remember how she cried once on my birthday, when she bought me a jacket and I told her to her face “I won’t wear something like that,” or when I wouldn’t touch the food she made, saying invariably and impersonally: “I don’t like it.” “You’re like your father. When we were first married, I would wait for him to come home from work to hot food on the table. I was thinking maybe he’d say something nice, just a word … But he would eat and not say anything. And if I asked him, when I couldn’t take it anymore, how’s the soup, how’s the steak or whatever, he’d keep his nose on the plate and tell me just ‘How should it be? It’s food!’ It killed me …”

I was finally alone with the medical assistant, holding her hand down the greenish corridors, over a red and white mosaic floor, like a chessboard. We walked down cold, vast hallways, we went up marble stairs, and in the end we came to a wing that was completely different from the others. On both sides of the corridor were unimaginably large doors, reaching almost to the ceiling, where large white globes hung from metal stems. Many doors were open, and standing in their thresholds were children, some just poking out their heads, curious, others completely in the hall, girls and boys my age, some a little bigger, all dressed in a kind of pajamas I had never seen — instead of buttons they had knotted cords. The pajamas were faded from washing, but you could see that they had once had bright colors, and they were decorated with animals: giraffes, zebras, elephants, monkeys … I walked down the entire corridor, looking in the rooms, which were the biggest I had ever seen (except for the ghostly palaces in my dreams) and almost empty. Some toys were lined up on the floors. I let the kids touch me with their little hands while I walked, and ask me my name, and ask me why I had come to their door, this time completely wooden (the others had opaque windows), at the end of the corridor. The nurse opened the two white doors wide and the smell of freshly washed clothes emerged like vapor from the room lined with shelves from top to bottom. Hundreds, thousands of pairs of pale pajamas, neatly folded and perfectly arranged, filled the shelves. On their edges were drawings of nothing but animals and birds, sketched loosely and repeated over all the material. The nurse hesitated a moment, looked at me, and chose a pair from one of the lower shelves, blue with white elephants. She unfolded the top and showed it to me, smiling in a tempting way. I don’t know what in those flannel rags, the elbows so worn you could see through them, looked extremely beautiful to me. I could hardly wait to put it on. In fact, that day, everything seemed unusual and magical, as though someone had changed the light suddenly, and a kind of emotional tuft covered all that I saw.

The nurse put the pajamas in my arms and pushing gently on my neck, led me to one of the doors with a window, in the middle of the corridor, where a young girl was standing. From the first moment, I saw such evil and hostility on the girl’s face that I could only think of Aura, the granddaughter of my old godmother, who scratched my face whenever my parents made me and Marian play with her. I walked in past her and saw another girl in the middle of the room. She was sitting down and combing the hair of a dilapidated doll. She looked a lot like the first girl, and both regarded me with dissatisfaction. The nurse didn’t say another word. She undressed me, pulled the pajama tops and bottoms onto me and showed me my bed. There were only three white cloth beds here, with metal panels around them (one of which slid to the floor to let us into the bed), a table and three chairs, two sinks with mirrors, and a shelf on the wall. Across from the door were immense windows, beyond which, at our height — the tops of our heads didn’t reach the sill — we only saw sky. When the woman in white came out of the room, telling us only, “Be good!” all of my attention turned toward my two small roommates.

The one I had seen first, on the floor, was named Carla. She was a little bigger than I was, she must have been already six. On her face, the pure, geometrical evil, extracted from the evils she did each day, was so pronounced that it seemed like a physical feature, like a puffy eye, or a mole, or a second nose. It looked like it could be removed through a simple operation, with local anesthetic, and then the girl’s face would be normal. Carla had oblique, dark eyes like a cat’s, with something crooked about them, and a grown woman’s laugh that glued her lips onto her face like an artistic collage — the same lips that she would have at thirty, superimposed, guilty and disingenuous, translucent like the skin of earthworms, revealing their lines of blood. She was the boss, she had invented “mineymoezish,” and over the week, she was the one who gave me the most bruises, pokes, and scratches. In the first few moments I was alone with the girls, Carla pulled a chair to the sink and climbed up and snatched the toothbrush the nurse had put in a cup for me, next to the other two. She threw it onto the carpet with a hatred that petrified me, because I had never encountered it before, in anyone. I had always been the littlest and most spoiled wherever we lived, passed from arm to arm, dosed with candies, cookies, and taffy, stolen by Victoriţa from the preschool where she worked, and the children always circled around me, at the house and block alike, when I would recite poems, “Uncle Stiopa the Policeman” and “Olenka’s All Grown Up,” admiring my cleanliness and the shine of my golden locks … I never knew hostility, not even when my father unexpectedly grabbed me, held me down and pinched my nose, and my mother pushed a spoon into my mouth, forcing me to swallow the bitter medicine, and whacking my head if I let it run out of the corners of my mouth while I twisted and writhed. I was horrified only by the brutality of the situation, since I knew that my parents loved me and wanted to make me feel better. But what did Carla have against my stupid toothbrush? And why didn’t she talk to me, why did she only brush me away from where they were playing? Why, later, did she knock over my blocks and break my toys? I wanted to cry just thinking about it, the way that later I would always cry after I fought with boys, whether I beat them or got beaten up.

Bambina’s face looked like Carla’s, aside from her eyes, which were dull and gray like concrete. But the evil on the flesh of the first here grew a blister as thin as a fish bladder, glimmering, and evenly enveloping her entire face. Bambina was not impulsive like her friend, but she was perverse and calculating. Her limbs and her trunk were filiform, brown as a gypsy’s. She never looked you in the eye, and when the nurse came she would transform into the most well-behaved girl. Wherever she was, when she heard the easily recognizable steps of the nurse’s high heels, she would go sit at the table and begin to play with a doll, quietly, her feet together and her elbows by her body, and for this she was always praised. The nurse called her nothing but “little angel,” but I knew from the beginning whom I was dealing with, thanks to my toothbrush, which I picked up, washed, and put for the moment on the stiff sheet of my bed. Going into the hall a bit to see the other kids, I swung the door a while and then re-entered the great white cave. I caught Bambina wetting my toothbrush in the pot full of pee. I was so shocked by the girls’ behavior that I didn’t think to complain to the nurse who took care of us.

Both girls had hair that stuck out like Furies’, and they spent the day banging their slippers against the wall that separated us from the next room, yanking the hard fabric band that came from a hole in the wall, to raise and lower the window blinds, and especially playing with hideous rag dolls with plaster heads, like they were back then, dolls they bashed together until the faces shattered, saying they were soldiers or boxers. In the evening they would scare themselves, telling each other that the dolls would come for revenge during the night, so before bed, they tied them in cords and laces, making grotesquely large knots. I spent most of my time in the hallway or by the window. By the last day, I didn’t have my toys, and the two would shout if I even looked at their dirty dolls. I also liked to lift and lower the metal panel on my bed, to wander the hall and look at kids in the other rooms (even though I wasn’t supposed to go in the hall) or to gaze minute after minute at the marine-blue flowers on the tiles below the faucet, until I started to see double and the flowers — they were irises — merged into each other and took on a strange multidimensionality. It gave me the feeling that I had slipped out of reality and penetrated that unspeakably deep field of irises. I wandered through them without a body, without movement, I was that world where there was nothing but intensely blue flowers, floating in the air at equal distances, above and below, before and behind, to infinity. I would forget myself completely, until a slipper got thrown at my head or my waist, knocked my cheek against the faucet, and brought me back into the room.

I was totally isolated from the girls in faded pajamas, as though we were from different worlds, a feeling heightened by my inability to understand them. Most of the time, they spoke an unknown language, made not only of sounds but also of gestures and touches and even of smells (when one of them — in moments of discussion I became able to anticipate — broke wind), and which they performed with unbelievable speed and precision. Much later, reading about Vollapük and Esperanto, I remembered how Carla and Bambina talked, and the idea of naming their language passed through my mind, a language where ordinary sounds were mixed with bizarre glottals, with deaf-mute signs and facial expressions like catatonic schizophrenics. I thought of it as “mineymoezish,” because their most common invented word was “minemoe” or “mynimoe,” accompanied by rolling eyes and the motion of pulling something from their chests with imaginary claws.

Evening meals were almost magical. The nurse sat with us, on a folding chair, and our table was lit by a very weak shaded lamp, which only drew the plates and our nearby faces from the dark. Even the figure of the nurse, whose white and massive chest rose like an iceberg in the light, remained in a penumbra. The plates had the same unique food each night: it looked like a trembling jellyfish, almost completely translucid, with its internal organs (darker, amber-colored) showing through its skin. When you stuck your spoon in it, the jellyfish throbbed and tensed with pain. We had to eat all of it, despite the insipid taste, like flan without enough sugar. If the trembling aspic was not a kind of medicine, then I don’t know what medicine is. But it is possible that it was, because only during this time did the nurse sit with us to the end, to the last swallow. Many times one of the girls, most often Bambina, would lie down and vomit, covering the carpet with cheesy pasta, but without a word of reprimand, the nurse immediately called the housekeeper, who cleaned the floor and brought another plate of jellyfish. Like later, in the Voila sanatorium, whose madness seems to have been prefigured by that of Emilia Irma’s, the child would not escape until his plate was clean, even if it meant he had to stay at the table all night.

When she got them to talk, without their catching on, about their strange speech, the nurse got a story, more mimed than spoken in words. Carla, from time to time, had the same dream, in which, naked and with curly hair past her buttocks (“and I had boobs like a big woman,” she showed, cupping her fingers in front of her chest), she wandered through a vast palace of white marble, with a portico, galleries, and statues, and a shining mosaic spread on the floors, tracing out an incomprehensible design. Suddenly the palace was full of endless vistas, without any furniture or paintings, translucent like it was carved from salt, and filled with torpid, multicolored, butterflies. Surprised, Carla wandered through the halls until, in the center of one, she discovered a crystal mausoleum, sparkling in all the colors of the rainbow. Inside was a soft being, with a complex and delicate anatomy, wet orifices on the edge of an ashen stomach, and a vaguely sketched-out face, from the middle of which protruded a short proboscis, with a large bead of milk inflating and shrinking at its tip. Crinkled skin, like a scrotum, rose slowly, and the being opened a human eye (here, Carla closed her eyelids and then opened them with an unnatural slowness, until her eyes became two staring globes, as though paralyzed with fear; at the same time she made the gesture of pulling her heart, veins and all, out of her chest with the claws of her left hand). Then the statues came to life, climbed from their plinths, gathered around the tomb, and began to speak in this unusual language to each other, which Carla learned after many identical dreams and which she transmitted to Bambina, so she would have someone to practice with in the daytime. Despite all the nurse’s ploys, Carla never breathed a word regarding what, precisely, the statues had said.

The girl projected this same dream to us, directly into our brains somehow, as though we had dreamed it ourselves, because her words and motions were only vesperal flashes on the black crests of waves: elliptical, uncolored, and dissipating soon within the prayer-like atmosphere of the evening meal. After we finished eating, we each went to our own bed like every night, and we curled up under the sheets. In the hospital, the rooms were much taller than in the houses were I had lived, and all the way at the top, they had enormous, white globes attached to the ceiling with long metal stems. Before sleeping, I would fix my gaze on one of those globes, floating like a foggy moon in the brown darkness. I stared at it hard, until I felt that it began to oscillate … right … left … more and more … with the miniscule image of my bed held in its curve … one side … the other … until I sank, sighing, into sleep, to dream bad dreams about the girls, their hands knocking over my block towers …

Like the décor, the days were also incomparably vaster than they seem today. Eternities of fresh, glacial light passed between waking up, long mornings, and afternoon meals, there were fluttering changes of gold and shadow from the flowing clouds covering and revealing the sun in the large, white-framed windows. The girls’ features, the beds’ metal panels, the intense blue of the irises under the sink, and each detail of the hideous dolls: their shiny cardboard flakes, covered in plaster, where a nose or eyes were drawn, vibrant and glowing, that detached themselves vigorously, three-dimensionally, one on top of the other — it was as if I weren’t seeing these things with my eyes, but an impersonal camera lucida, cutting and merciless, that spotlighed even the most unimportant details with a kind of abstract consciousness. Everything glowed and spun in colors and designs from the beginning of the world. From my spot at the window, I watched Carla and Bambina perform their ballet like tiny goddesses of destruction. I watched their glassy fingers tear shreds from the sheets, blindfold their dolls, and execute them by stabbing a splinter of pressed wood in the dolls’ chests. I made myself as small as possible when they began to bounce around, ungracefully like wild animals, throwing whatever they could grab into the middle of the room. I tried to interfere once when they went “hunting” in the other rooms and dragged back a smaller boy, who they threw down, leaning over him, poking him, pulling out strands of his hair and kicking his ribs. Then they turned to me and scratched me like cats on my cheeks and shoulders. Afterwards, they would bang their slippers against the wall for hour after monotonous hour, one beside the other, chattering in mineymoezish and hopping around, until the nurse came in and took them by the ears. Then they started to scream and blame me: I was the one responsible for the mess in the room, the noise, everything. I wouldn’t leave them alone, and I took their toys.

The afternoons were almost taller, like vaults of quotidian architecture. After the meal we were supposed to sleep for two hours, but no one did. The two of them stood up on their beds and pulled each other’s hands and pajamas, trying to make the other fall, while I stared out the window at the shining outlines of the clouds, at their transformations, at their steady advance toward one of the window hinges. I watched how the September evening fell, and the pineal gland at the base of my brain detected the seasonal change in light. My pupils grew, and a gentle, atavistic sadness stole around my chest as evening came. A little before it got completely dark, the air became enchanted. Across the walls, stripes of red liquid stretched, phosphorescent, and the air in the room turned brown. The long rectangles of the windows turned from light blue to yellow, and then an unnatural, gloomy orange that covered everything in the room. Then the silence and boredom became unbearable, and everything (only then) began to reek of doctors and hospitals.

It was the moment that I waited for all day: when Carla and Bambina took off their pajamas and, like large dolls, with unexpected grace, they climbed from their beds and began to dance through the room. I knelt and, my mouth gaping, watched their small naked bodies, dark brown in the evening light, spinning like two small fish in a glass globe. From time to time, catching the window light, their eyes sparkled one moment and went dull the next. They lay down and rolled over the worn carpet, they crab walked, they tried to walk on their hands, they held each other’s arms and spun … I knew the nurse would never come at that hour (we were horribly frightened of her), so I climbed out of bed, too, tentatively, watching the dance with a kind of prudent enchantment. I looked curiously at their thin chests and the fine line between the lips of their shining pubises. At the house I had played doctor with Anişoara, in the basement, in the little room painted light green, and we often took our underpants off, but this seemed like something else, because the girls dancing around the dark room did not encourage the same complicity in danger and shame as my meetings with Anişoara. The ordinary, dumb girl at the house, who taught me to play “shots with pants off,” looked at my naked body with a kind of dreamy admiration, while I was probably so indifferent that I don’t even remember Anişoara without her underpants, just the fear of our parents catching us.

What was happening now was magic. Neither Carla nor Bambina were themselves any more, as though the acid of evening had dissolved the crust of evil from their faces, and left them pure and inexpressive like benign masks. I could hardly recognize them. When it was so dark that their dance was only visible against the windows — their black and supple silhouettes were like African statues — the two approached me, by the window, their eyes shining, and took off my pajamas. They lay back triumphantly to show me the purple slits between their thighs, as though there was something grand there, and glorious. They smiled to each other, confirming their exorbitant power, and they rejoiced to see me looking at them, but my small sex, in contrast, brought the usual meanness back to their gaze. They pulled on it, pretending to cut it off, and in the end they turned their backs to me, as though I didn’t exist. Then we got dressed again, quickly, since we heard the steps of the blonde nurse, who was bringing us our usual mollusk supper, covered with caramel syrup, which we had to eat to the last spoonful. The last night, while I chewed the tasteless meat, I felt something like a rubber tube in my mouth. I plucked out a white vein, with a greenish tip, which I placed on the edge of my plate, and I vomited. The nurse immediately brought me a fresh helping.

The children in the other rooms were not healthy and whole the way we, at least in appearance, were. Almost all of them had some strange thing wrong that made a powerful impression on my mind. One boy’s fingers stuck out in every direction, like lobster legs. The room next door constantly reeked of stinging urine and maple. A thin, withdrawn person with dull features screamed her head off when Carla and Bambina, after a lengthy hunt, caught her and pulled her into our room. They wrestled for half an hour while the child writhed like a leech, until they pulled her pajama bottoms down, to look one more time, like at a rare flower, at the bud so complicated you couldn’t have said if it was male or female. There was also a little girl, sweet and lively, happily laughing and talking with everyone, whose hands came out directly from her shoulders, like wings, without arms in between. Everyone admired her waist-length hair, like a blond doll’s, and her shining blue eyes. Several other children had terrible deformities from polio. They all wore the same faded pajamas printed with animals, bound with cords like file folders.

My parents’ arrival, one day before we left the hospital, in a milky morning that already foretold the change of seasons, in those days when I could not talk or play with anyone, was the only real event. They abruptly appeared in the room, in windbreakers and arm in arm, young and dark-haired, almost as tall as the ceiling, and they fell upon me in a frightening display of love. In a few moments, I was surrounded by new toys with a strong smell of paint — a set of cardboard boxes with fairy-tale pictures, each smaller and smaller, fitting one in the next, other wooden blocks that made square pictures: turkey, pig, cow, and ones you could make castles with, and especially a white rag horse with glass eyes and a red lacquer saddle. This toy was so dear to me that even at fourteen I still had it, somewhere in the buffet, shaped like a kind of deformed worm, almost totally brown from dirt, marked all over with pen, with its eyes missing and cuts that revealed the fragile roughness of its harness. My parents did not stay long. After they promised to take me home the next day, “to a new house, bigger, you’ll see,” they left just as strange, just as altered. I realized then that their departure made no difference to me: I could have stayed in the hospital my entire life, watching the walls darken and brighten in the sun, melding into the stereoscopic field of my irises, or listening distractedly to the demented inflections of mineymoezish. And always whenever I would later abandon myself to the will of punctual, spherical worlds, the pearl-worlds that I strung, like vertebrae, upon the cord of my spinal marrow, I would stay there, metamorphosed, adapted to the texture of the air there, the flashes of the clouds there, until something from the outside world hurried my abortion through those successive abdomens, with other placental constellations, amniotic waters, dawns and gods … Once my parents were gone, I was left sitting on my bottom, on the carpet, building block towers and pyramids for the horse. A bit later, however, coming back from the potty, I found the tower I had worked so hard to balance until it was as tall as I was toppled and scattered, and the purple lacquer saddle torn from my horse’s body. Only then did I begin to cry, in despair, the way I should have cried when my parents were leaving. When the nurse came, the pious little girls were in their beds, playing dolls.

The next day, my clothes were brought back, and my pajamas, balled up, sour-smelling, stayed on the floor, like an anatomical specimen on a slide. The nurse took me by the hand, under the hostile gazes of Carla and Bambina, who did not want to say good-bye as the large blond woman asked, and we walked again, together, through the sinuous corridors and the frozen stairways, until we reached the waiting room with the plaster model of the skinned man. My parents again went into the next room, to talk to an unseen doctor, so I was alone in the olive air, listening to the sound of my footsteps on the square floor tiles. I approached, as I had the week before, the armless and legless statue, half a person with painted yellow skin, hair like a black hat and one coin-like brown nipple, and half a nightmarish monster, made of blood-red muscular fibers, knotted blue veins, and the tips of ivory bones. Through a hole in his cranial cavity, above the skeleton of his face, you could see his brain. No martyr had ever suffered so much, or been so savagely and scientifically tortured. On each detachable organ, held by nails to the next, there were small numbers written in an ancient hand, seconded by a table on the wall with knowledgeable explanations, which for me were nothing but thorny decorations. I stood still in front of the tragic sculpture, its gaze lost in its spherical eye, held up by orbital muscles like hands raising an offering. The blue, porcelain eye had a brown glass iris, where a fragment of light flashed. Leaning my head far back, since I was only waist-high to the man skinned alive, I contemplated the sinister foreshortening, the same way I had stared at the field of ink-colored flowers, until in my self-hypnosis, self-forgetting, the statue’s trepidacious extermination of being became suddenly pregnant and luminous, its contours irradiated by hesitant stripes of gold. And then, only then, I realized the man was screaming — hoarse, unending, in wild glissandi, coughing out pieces of larynx and bloody strands of tracheal mucous. He screamed like a hyena, like a stray dog being beaten to death, like someone being boiled in oil, like a woman giving birth to a bat. His body was gripped by unbelievable convulsions. Bloody stumps reached toward the ceiling, stained by squirting arteries. I started to howl in terror along with him. We howled together, we writhed together, and in my little brain with soft bones the scream turned a blinding yellow, apocalyptic, pulsating, unbearable. I screamed with my hands on my ears and my entire body, through the narrow tunnel of my throat and my buccal cavities, became a howl, it dressed my howling body in a howling anatomy, so that I didn’t howl, but the howl howled me, I was the one that ran through the vocal cords of my howl, wounded by my glottis and epiglottis, flowing down my tongue, narrowing myself to pass through my howling lips.

This is how my parents found me, balled up on the square tiles, at the feet of a plaster model, screaming as hard as I could. I kept screaming, my nose running and tears wetting my face and neck, until we left the hospital door, through the yellow leaves and cobwebs. We waited a long time for the tram in a lonely station. I kept sighing, and my cheeks did not dry until I saw the red tram coming, rocking on its rails, like a tired beetle.

21

MAYBE, in the heart of this book, there is nothing other than howling, yellow, blinding, apocalyptic howling … Last night, with all of my strength sucked dry, I fell asleep between my flaccid sheets and lay like a corpse frozen on a field, in an utter lack of existence that made death seem like a pointless agitation, until I reacquired, for the first time in three or four years, my state of nocturnal “revelation” (in fact, I’ve never found the right name for it, and the one I use here seems to serve only inasmuch as it is weak and unmarked, because, in addition, in the limitless insanity of my “essential” dream — and here, more than ever, the word “my” should be in quotation marks — it doesn’t “reveal” anything to me, except, perhaps, revelation itself: it reveals to me the fact that in this opaque, dense world, murderous as a pillow that someone holds over your face, kneeling mercilessly on your chest to stop your writhing, revelation is possible. Like a porous flaw in the hard ivory that surrounds your interior cistern of living light, a pore gnawed out by a swarm of termites, a tunnel can suddenly open for your vision, illuminated from within by an undying fire, while you rotate unquiet, in dreams and visions, around and around the Enigma. But what can you understand if, sliding through the tunnel at a terrible speed, you feel your eyes burnt to a crisp and your ears torn by flames, your tongue liquefied and bubbling, your skin scorched like the rinds of trees, your nasal mucous digested by incineration? In the spooling sheets of ash, in the carbonic rose, what of you remains after you meet the living you, what can have a revelation, what can follow the melting? It is the center of the rose of our death, because there in the center of our carbonized body, among the petals of char that were our liver and brain and lungs, held together, like an abominable blossom, there among the scrubbed granules of our molars, between the matchsticks of our bones burnt white, there is still something, and that something is everything. When the tunnel turns straight and the flames from the oven’s mouth lick it, melting the glassy walls, when you speed fantastically fast directly toward the blindness beyond blindness, toward the deafness that makes deafness seem like the wailing of a slaughterhouse, when the protuberances of fire that burn fire like kindling lap against the black rose, its petals (kidneys and vertebrae, theorems and desires, theories and gods) lift off and ignite again, tumbling back down, and in the middle of the middle of the middle of the cup of the rose, an indestructible quartz sphere appears, that can penetrate the architecture of the tongues of flame, in the hierarchies of wasteland. In the center of the cistern of fire, reflecting the fire, it becomes itself the generator of living power, and so it was at the beginning, since you can never experience an enigma if you weren’t the one who made it.

This is the “dream” I have tried to describe over many pages, and that I had for the first time at the age of sixteen, right or almost right after I got out of Colentina Hospital. Since then, it has replayed itself, in various variations, with details added and elements subtracted, possibly twenty times in these fourteen years. At the start, it came disturbingly often, maybe once a month (while I was feverishly searching through neurological treatises to diagnose myself), then the intervals extended and everything seemed to be on the way toward “healing,” with time. Last night’s dream, the result, perhaps, of yesterday’s pages (when I was detailing the vision of the plaster model screaming and spouting blood, I felt something much like insanity), followed the pattern of all the ones before and was no less devastating, even though it had been two years since the last time. As usual, accompanying the eruption of the revelatory dream — but what veil was moved away? on the contrary, the veils lay on top of each other, thicker and thicker, until their thickness, around the fragile egg of your dura mater, a celestial turban with the diamond of Shiva on the brow, becomes enormous, filling the entire cosmos (finite, but without limits, where imaginary time follows space in all its directions) with an impenetrable batting — my oneiric activity intensified considerably, along with waking states in which my self was suppressed. Monsters teemed under my eyelids as I curled up in bed and closed my eyes. Rotted skulls, indescribable faces, and terrible whispers in my ears tortured me until morning, when, so often, I woke up completely paralyzed and couldn’t make even the smallest gesture for minutes on end, even though my mind tried desperately to command, firmly, to believe, not to doubt. It was as though I had ordered a mountain to hurl itself into the sea.

And then the night came when, after I was finally able to fall asleep, it seemed that I rose, still wrapped in my sheets like a mummy. It awakened no suspicions when I saw myself from above, from the ceiling, as if twin entities from my consciousness had decoupled and moved several meters apart, one of them crossing (by what osmosis? by what tunnel-effect?) the metaphysical skin around my encephalon that separated the inside from the outside. The room was dimly lit in a gently rotating olive light. Although everything was in its proper place (see, the English notebook is open on the table, as I left it the night before, and my pants on the back of the chair were on the carpet in my dream, just as I would find them the next day in reality), there was a lunatic mist in the room’s air, as though I had slept poorly or I’d awoken in a world identical in every detail to our own, but reconstituted (too faithfully, in a way that was too nuanced) on a strange planet, for incomprehensible ends. And suddenly I began to hear the sound. It seemed like it had always existed, but it had evolved over millennia far below the threshold of my perception. It had amplified, starting from an almost absolute silence, seeking my ears (or maybe the zone of my temporal lobes, found at the interface of vibration and sensation) like an arrow finding its target, and in the end, amplifying billions of times from its original point, it slid through the great audile gate of my mind. The sound, that began as small and inoffensive as the buzz of a tiny fly, almost inaudible, oscillated like a siren, but on a frequency all its own and with a certain glissando that gave it an almost-tactile velvetiness, as though your fingers softly rubbed a petunia’s soft, fibrous petals.

In just a few seconds, the sound gained corporality and became yellow. It twisted into my brain like a corkscrew, ever more powerful, oscillating up-down, up-down faster and faster, rising asymptotically from audible to loud, surpassing the thresholds of acceptability, then tolerability, until it transformed into a howl of gold. I felt that the amplification would never end, and a destructive hysteria, a terror synchronized with the mad growth of the sound, encompassed me, mastered me, and substituted itself for me, against all of my efforts to maintain my identity. The sound had exceeded my ears’ capacity to hear, maybe dissolved them into flame, when the second part of my dream unleashed itself. I was knocked down violently by invisible hands, dragged out of my bed, sheets and all, and thrown against the furniture on the opposite wall. In other iterations, the abuse did not stop here. I was carried, with an ever increasing speed, through strange rooms, on tunnel-like roads covered by trees, reaching infinite speed, while the tongues of flames of the former sound burned my body. They exploded my head and spread me out triumphantly through all of space, through all of time, through all being, until being itself burned and the bubbling fire took its place, thickening, multiplying, concentrating, and endlessly amplifying. Howl of fire, falling and rising a billion times a second, my howl and God’s, my terror and triumph, horror beyond horror, happiness a billion times exceeding happiness …

I found myself again in my bed, and it seemed I was awake. The green room pulled into itself, and rotated the same lunatic light. It seemed tears had dried on my cheeks. I got up and went to look for my mother. Dawn was breaking. I walked down the halls and through the rooms of our home, still lost in the twilight. The doors opened before me by themselves, letting me enter, slowly and steadily, three rooms in turn. When the living-room door opened, I saw the dawn sun in the window, small and red, without shining, rising over the Dâmboviţa mill. On the ravished sofa my parents were sleeping, Mamma with her head completely beneath the sheet, curled up, so that she seemed oddly small, and my father on his back, with the buttons of his wrinkled pajamas undone and wearing a sleeping cap, made of a knotted woman’s stocking, to keep his hair back. I walked closer and looked at my mother with a strange intensity. Almost immediately, I actually woke up, and I remained for a bit in a state of complete confusion, like I had the night before. Then I did some little, absurd things. I went to the bathroom, and after I looked at myself in the mirror a while, without a single thought, I began to cut my fingernails. Or I screwed and unscrewed the cap of the rubbing alcohol. My scalp burned all over, as though it were covered with an incandescent metal web. I walked mechanically back to my bed, where I fell right asleep again and vegetated for a few hours without dreams, until dawn came.

During one of my dream-wanderings through twilit rooms, on reaching the living room, I was surprised that my mother was no longer sleeping in the sofa bed. Only my father was there, with his face turned toward the wall, wearing just an undershirt and breathing steadily. Frustration and disquiet woke me immediately. When morning came and my mother came back with the milk, she told me, black with anger, that “this father of yours” had gone out again with his newspaper buddies to celebrate someone-or-other. Mamma had made such fuss over the expense that she slept in the little room, leaving my father to sleep alone … The dream, therefore, involved a kind of bizarre clairvoyance, as though in a way I could touch reality — even if it was outside my body — through dark rooms.

It all began in the late fall of 1973, when I was caught in a bad, freezing rain while coming back from some workshop classes. My uniform was drenched immediately and water ran through my hair, under my collar, zigzagging over the naked flesh of my spine and spreading over my back. The view from number 5 was desolate in any case, but beneath the steady rain, all the houses and the sky looked like they were made from clay and pitch. The leaves stuck, dead, to the tram’s sides and windshield, rotted in puddles, and caught on the hunched shoulders of a crazy baba who leaned against a fence, spread her legs, and urinated along with the rain. When I got home, I took a hot bath and I soaked with the water over my ears, listening to the curiously clear sounds coming from the neighbors — voices, barking, a washing machine humming — until the heat almost made me sick. Afterwards, for the entire evening, one after the next, I emphatically recited works of poets I had discovered, one after the next. The latest poet always seeming like the greatest, the only one touched by genius, the only one. The emotions of my declamation — in a low voice, still, since I was afraid my parents would tease me, even though they usually were lounging like the dead in the blue aura of the living-room television — passed all measure. On the edge of my bed, book in hand, I whistled, hooted, and barked the verses, contorting the muscles of my face trance-like until they started to hurt, and, like the peribuccal sphincter of trumpet players, they even went numb for a bit. Each line had to be experienced with absolute intensity, since each line brought new meaning, an interior light to my pathetic life in my room with dim bulbs and old furniture. When I recited these poems, looking in my own eyes in the mirror and grimacing (I thought) desperately, prophetically, purely, or passionately, it seemed my interior chemistry changed: my hair rose up, not just on my head and arms but even on my thighs, my eyes widened, the acne that covered my forehead lit up across my pale skin … I sweated profusely, soaking my pajamas, which always had broken buttons. I could not stay still. I was encompassed in exaltation. I went to the panoramic window, where stitches of rain fell over Bucharest, to recite:

Girl like a lizard,

Asleep on the slate,

Throw yourself in the river

Your life to escape

Across the way, Nenea Căţelu’s dogs were huddled like black rags in the rain. The crucified figures on neon pillars between the tram rails, each with his crown of thorns, raised their bloody faces toward the sky lapping up the November rain. The rails carried only service cars, with a kind of yellow gallows on the back platform, metal, with a hoist. I sat on the top of the bedstead and propped my bare feet on the burning elements of the radiator, which they had already turned on for testing. I stayed like that until it was completely dark and the city, like in an illustration in an old children’s book, was blotted out delicately under the silver clouds and moon. Only neon signs, flashing on and off in the distance like phosphorescent deep-water fish, broke the nightfall with their indistinct green, azure, and purple letters. As I had done since childhood, when a sign went out I closed my eyes, counted to seven or eleven, and when I opened them again, I saw the same sign again, lit. In this way I could keep it lit endlessly, leaping over the night’s emptiness, because the dark space that remained after the rectangle or circle of light went out on the top of the blocks downtown became suddenly much blacker than the rest of the nocturnal panorama. I didn’t turn on the light in my room, and I stayed like that until two in the morning, watching the dark through the sparking blue window, feeling like a cave animal, with transparent flesh and no eyes, touching the walls with the thin tips of my tactile organs.

That night, as I fell asleep, the mask of my face felt heavy, like bronze, from so much effort and contortion. I woke up the next day pale and dizzy. As I brushed my teeth I realized, without yet understanding, that in fact, there really was something unusual: the cold water I used to wash was running out of my mouth, even though my lips were pressed together: a muscle in the upper one, on the left side, had gone soft, powerless and a little twitchy. It was odd, and almost funny. “What the hell?” I said to myself, and I sipped some more water into my mouth, trying as hard as I could to keep it in. But the harder I tried to control my lips and cheeks, the more strongly the twisting, turbulent stream squirted from the lax dam of my upper lip. I walked out of the bathroom and, for about an hour, I piddled around, trying to avoid thinking about that peculiarity that, I hoped, would gradually pass, like a twitch or a fluttering eyelid. But the anomaly stubbornly persisted. I realized I could no longer whistle, and my lip, for about a centimeter, was covered with bestial puffiness, soft like a snail’s flesh. Not even then was I scared, but I showed my mother (just back from the piaţa, weighted down with enormous shopping bags) what had happened to me, smiling naïvely, as though she was going to praise my soon-to-be-demonstrated dexterity. But Mamma was scared, she clamped her hand to her mouth like a peasant and let out a highly aspirated “aaoleo!” We left quickly for the Emergency Hospital. It was Saturday, and there was no one in the waiting room. It smelled like rubber and antibiotics. Finally, a middle-aged doctor came, who examined me and made a snap diagnosis that turned out to be correct: facial palsy, probably peripheral, sinister, additionally named “a frigore,” since the nerve that activated the musculature of half my face was broken, at the ear, from excessive cold. The frozen rain that had fallen on my head a day before had done me in. Hospitalization was demanded, in the neurology ward, to begin treatment as soon as possible, and so the doctor, after she joked and chatted with me a little, wrote an admittance to Colentina Hospital, where I arrived that same afternoon.

In the large neurology ward in Section IV of the hospital on Ştefan cel Mare — a few yellowed and crumbling buildings with their prows and sterns pointed with glassed-in verandas, so that they looked like Spanish galleons anchored side by side in a sparkling cove — there might have been thirty beds. Their population, although homogenized by scarlet gowns, full of thin spots, red spots, and ironing scorch marks, rapidly diversified for me, as I got to know the other patients, each with his own illness, personality, and story. Since I wasn’t examined until Monday morning, I had enough time to follow, on the one hand, the progressive extension of paralysis over my face, encircling, as slow as a minute hand, the commissure of the mouth, cheek muscle, left cheek bone, and eyelid (which I was unable to close, for three full months, without using my finger), until my face — and this showed most when I laughed — came to resemble a sinister harlequin; and on the other hand, to become part of the small group of younger people, the “kindergarten,” as Doctor Zlătescu and her assistants called us, the guys with whom later, for an entire month, I would sit at the veranda table and play endless games of 21 for matchsticks. The others I knew less well: I remember a former doctor who had MS, who always sat, dreaming, on the top of his bed. If you approached him, he would reach into his pocket and take out a black and white photo showing a heteroclite group of people, whose names, relatives, and other details were always changing. There was a person who had been hit on the head with a crowbar during some “incidents with Hungarians” at the border, during some historic moment I could never place; a man with Parkinson’s, drugged with L-DOPA as much as he could take; a bartender from the Intercontinental who wore women’s underpants, with satin ribbons; and an antipathetic person, extremely fat, always stinking of sweat and suffering (terribly) from Reiter’s syndrome: he thought his own teeth were conspiring against him and he could not keep himself from chewing his tongue and cheeks. I also remember an old man, at least eighty, completely decrepit, called Mr. Ionescu, who would brag that “before the Communists” he had written reports in The Universe about serious social problems in Romania: “We flogged them, we did, we flogged them without mercy! We were the terror of the political press, we were! Bucşescu could come to me, and Vosganian, and Lacheris, even Samurcaş came to my office once, and they’d fall to their knees, they did, and they’d give me millions, just not to write about their shady deals! Cockroaches, evil, spiders of the regime of corruption, that’s what we called them, we did! And I’d throw their millions right back in their faces!” The old man, completely bald, with what looked like varicose veins on his scalp, wide, beastly eyes, and toothless jaws always chomping, caught his breath and began again with the same senile vehemence, spitting on us while he raged: “They sent women to corrupt me, courtesans, call girls … They came to my office, to the newspaper, you can’t imagine who came: look here, I had Debora Zilberştain on my lap, and Angelica Ducote (the one from the Oteleşanu Beer Garden), and Mioara Mironescu from the Biscuit (no no, the Gorgonzola), and that Vetuţa that Eftimiu used to visit for her carnaval de Venice … All of them came, they did, I had all of them, but I still wrote my stuff, rascals the lot of them! When they heard Ionescu, they thought Satan, they did!” The old man had known “like my own pockets” Camil Petrescu, Homer Patrulius (“the only one who was a genius, he was; Lovinescu would say: ‘You’re a genius, my good Patrulius, you’re a genius!’ ”), Minulescu, Corduneanu … Occasionally, the nurse interrupted him to stick a syringe needle in his buttocks, with the same indifference as if she were injecting a corpse, or to delicately take his glans between her fingers and insert the pink snake of the probe, the only way Mr. Ionescu had left to urinate … Finally, from somewhere, some corner of my memory, appears a tall guy, fragile and pale, like a species of green lobster, always sitting at the window and looking into the distance. He suffered, I believe, from an unusual acromegaly. I didn’t notice him until everyone did, one visiting day, when a woman came accompanied by a ten- or twelve-year-old girl. The endlessly tall man suddenly sprang to life, approached the girl like a ghost, took her aside, and gesticulating like a necromancer, talked to her about half an hour. “Don’t forget to dream,” he shouted with his dull, squawking voice, when the mother and the girl left the ward.

But I had too little to do with these guys. At night, some curled up and whimpered irritatingly, and others ground their teeth to make you shudder. Those close to me (literally, since our “kindergarten” was bed by bed near the entry doors) were different. Near my bed, separated from me by a nightstand, was a suffering, deformed shoemaker about fifty-five years old, whose skull, with skin the color of feces, emerged directly from a misshapen trunk. It looked like two children’s heads, one in back and one in front, were forcing themselves up through his flannel pajamas. In addition to this hideousness, the hunched man had been struck by hemiplegia right in his miniscule shoe shop. He was the only one in the hall who was completely helpless, unable to sit up in bed, and the target of everyone’s hatred, since he made the room smell terrible at least once a day, when one of the nurses put “the pot” under him, and after a period of time, took it away again, wrapped in dirty paper. The poor man was so embarrassed, he begged the ground to open up and take him in. I talked many times to this Leopardi tortured by melancholy. Evenings I took off his old watch, with its calcified face and khaki canvas band, to close it in his “drier,” and in the morning I would buckle it to his wrist again. This man of pain had deep folds between his eyebrows. Only visits from his family cheered him up a little: an oligophrenic woman, who had had an operation on her head, in front, where a blue scar, crossed with stitches, arched up until it entered her hair, and a normal girl, his great pride. Three quarters of the time he spoke only of her, how well she studied, how she played …

One morning, while a doctor was making rounds, Mr. Paul, the shoemaker, found he couldn’t talk: he babbled, he didn’t find his words, and his face turned purple the way the embarrassing organs hold blood. A terrible fear consumed him. The doctor tried to calm him down, but the deformed man’s mouth suddenly gaped open toward the ceiling (what was with his teeth that they looked so unusual? a deformed bridge? tartar deposits on each tooth, forming cameos of religious scenes, gardens of forking paths?) and loosed sharp howls, silly sounding, like a fox caught in a trap. He screamed like this and writhed as much as his hemiphlegia would allow, with his face flushed and tears running over his temples, until they tranquilized him. Toward evening he cheered up again and laughed happily. He had thought that, on top of deformity, on top of paralysis, God had also smitten him with babbling. This had driven him out of his mind: “What would Smârdan’s damn kids say if I came back from the hospital babbling?” But there was no reason to fear. To my right was a zit-faced dick, with an Oltenean horse-face, a poorly dressed jackass of a soccer player. He had arrived just the day before I did. After a fall on the pitch, blood had started to come out of his ear. He woke up one night with a red pillow. Hair cut straight, small round eyes, a mouth without lips and ubiquitous acne gave him the classic look of a “no-gooder” from old films with crusaders and chastity belts. He was under observation, like the good-looking and well-raised young man next to him, who, with a completely normal medical record, went to sleep one night and couldn’t be awoken for eight days, at which point he opened his eyes, happy and hungry. Since then more than a month had passed, his brain was explored in I don’t know how many rounds, and the EEG came back normal every time. “Nobody knows what I have,” he told everyone, proudly. I discussed literature with him, I enthusiastically recited Tzara and Vornca, and he talked to me about Mandiargues and Beckett. He liked to make me laugh, since then (as my illness progressed) the right half of my face came to life, the corner of my mouth rose happily toward my ear, my eye narrowed and flashed, while, like the unseen face of the moon, the left side stared like stone, hieratic and mysterious. “It’s like you’re both Riga Crypto and Enigel the Laplander!” Also around age 17 or 18 was the only epileptic in the hall, a big country boy, with long, hanging ears and bloodshot eyes. While I was there, he only had one attack, but it was violent and terrible: he fell suddenly, howling like he was being impaled, into the space between the rows of beds, and his clonic movements began right away. A doctor came quickly and pushed his hands hard against the boy’s mouth and nose until the convulsions became less intense, and the large body in blue pajamas became inert on the floor. But until then, no one was scared. On the contrary, he was entertaining us with pointless, childish stories, lost in details, about ghosts coming out of the pond and children who could tell the future. The soccer player, the narcoleptic (named George, I think), the epileptic, and I were the “kindergarten,” and we spent all our time together, usually playing cards, at the end of a bed or on the terrace, telling jokes and spying on the nurses. In the last week of my stay, they added a kid of about ten, who had a burning desire to be operated on, for a reason that will surprise you: after an appendicitis they had taken out his tonsils and some polyps, and now he was faking (so the doctor thought) acute pains in his stomach. If there was so much as talk of an operation, his little pecker would instantly harden, which made the soccer player roll on his bed with laugher. Of course the ass took care to “get him up” twenty times a day, describing, in great detail, silly dissections, resections, and trepanning and pretending that he was salivating from pleasure. But the boy saved himself from all the teasing with his unusual gift for cards. He trounced us, over and over again, at 21. He won dozens of boxes of matchsticks. His miraculous intuition told him when to stop at 14 or 15, or, on the contrary, to take a hit when he had 19 or even 20.

My medicine was cortisone-based. Thus, I was not allowed to eat salty food, but they thought maybe I would enjoy the terrible salt substitute on every table on the balcony, potassium chloride. I was also given some vitamins, but, thank God, no shots. The treatment the doctor prescribed, from the first day she saw me, after the nurse examined me all over (not including my pajama bottoms, as I hoped and feared, because I had seen that one of the examination rubrics was “genital appearance” — but there the nurse had written, ex officio, “normal”) she scratched a key over the sole of my foot, put drops in my eyes and checked my other reflexes with a rubber hammer. The examination excited me to an unexpected degree. The nurses, one blond and plump, the other red-haired, wore white gowns that were easy to see through, especially when they leaned over, showing their panties and, when they wore them, their bras. Every day I ascertained (and discussed with my friends) the color and design — circles and flowers — of their intimate lingerie. Between their buttons, the gowns, ironed like paper, sometimes gaped to show the roundness of their breasts and, if you were lucky, even the circle of a nipple. Since I was 16 and my hormones were first in line as blood irrigated my brain, I had no trouble imagining that I would have both of them, that they would come to my bed one after the other, on some night colored by moans and gnashing teeth. There was also a third nurse, “the saint,” as the deformed man always called her, a girl with a thin, pale face, almost without a body, in any case without feminine attributes, who floated quietly among the ill, doing the most revolting tasks (pushing the catheter into a patient’s urethra, reducing a rectal prolapse, carrying the chamber pots) without her face showing that grimace of disgust and scorn found on the other two. After this first examination, the doctor set my diagnosis, treatment, and even a reasonably ambiguous prognosis, saying, apparently as a joke: “Now don’t go thinking we can make a toothless baba into a marriageable girl …”

The weather outside was miserable, it rained hard and stupidly, the few trees that could be seen through the veranda windows only had a few yellow leaves on their branches, and the alleyways were black, wet, and foggy. In the evenings I read, most of the time, especially after eating. Twice a week I “took the rays” and twice, on different days, I got a massage, since it was part of the treatment. In the meantime, my facial paralysis had become total. Being a “nice” and typical case, I was often visited by medical students doing a rotation in our hall, in groups of 7 or 8, surrounding a bed and trying to make a diagnosis. “Look at his face,” the professor would say to them, after they closed in around me. There were cute girls and guys in short-sleeved doctor’s shirts. “Is it symmetrical or asymmetrical?” “Asymmetrical,” most of them shouted, but with a disapproving glance from the bearded one, the others shouted louder: “Symmetrical! Symmetrical!” “Now, laugh, my boy,” the professor added, and I complied, like a trained monkey. “Asymmetrical,” they all hooted triumphantly. Next, they put drops in my eyes, straining to spot I don’t know what reaction. Once the professor left, I knew I would have some quiet. The short-sleeved guys slapped the girls on the butt, they went on the veranda to smoke, they joked and talked without paying any attention to the sick people in cherry-red gowns or pajamas with washed-out stripes, with a rough texture like sheepskin.

When I took the rays, I went down two floors, through vast, cold hallways that felt as sinister as a morgue. Each had two or three vinyl benches where hardly anyone ever sat. A public telephone hung on the wall, where a frail patient in a robe with circles like a kimono was talking. I went into a dark hallway, lined with blue oxygen tanks. I caught foggy images from the hell of intensive care out of the corner of my eye, through the slit between rubber paper curtains, and finally, I reached the narrow examination room loaded with electrical devices. Even I could recognize how bizarre and ridiculous these boxes with ebony buttons and dials were. They were held together with beefy bolts, like on a tank. Inside the dials moved needles shaped like arrows, down to their little tails, and the letters and symbols were written in ink, in an old hand. It was like the warehouse of some television repair store, where you tripped over cables and wires, where countless metal jacks awaited plugs with ordinary plastic caps, where panels with potentiometers and voltmeters looked like tram controls. I would sit on a chair in front of each one in turn, and the doctor, usually buried in a copy of Sport when I arrived, came, looking like a skeptical magician, to place two Vaseline-covered electrodes on my temples, which he then stuck fast to my skin with leucoplast gum. Then he turned an ebony button to a certain level and went back to his corner, lost behind the pages of athletic classifications and commentaries. I was left with an hour of waiting and anxiety. The Vaseline popped slightly when the electrical current passed through, as though it were bubbling in a boil. With my eyes closed, I imagined how the electron fluid traversed my scalp, burrowing into my skull bone and perforating the sheets of thick, vaulted parchment that wrapped my brain. Next, it sunk into the complicated and analgesic marrow, exploring its circuits and structures, favoring the emissions of neurotransmitters, stimulating glial cells, waking the princesses sleeping in alcoves of mystery, proliferating the ragged claws of crabs and beetles scuttling in the basements, and vibrating the quartz globes in kaolin halls vaster than the mind itself. Violated, humiliated, but at the same time greased with a strange myrrh in the irrigation of its veins, my brain slowly unfurled its twisted legs, blossoming like a land of milk and honey, watered by a carnivorous Jordan. I descended into the karst, excavated by streams of violet current. I explored tragic, grand structures, propelled toward their heights — abstruse palaces glowing in the sun, their pointed peaks flying weathervanes made of masses of neurons, their checkered halls with floors teeming with moist, transparent animals, whirlpools of colored information, and balls of serpents braided around jade spools. I crossed the swamp of axons on skiffs of iridium, I hacked away dendrites and tentacles with a machete, I faced dangerous hurricanes of nightmares, I dared to meet the eyes of heavenly emissaries, until, in the end, through fogs of blue, I spotted the liminal space I so long had hoped for, the cochlea of the opposite ear rising from the temporal cliff like an enormous Ferris wheel. Then, in a daze, I would open my eyelids: the hour had passed. The technician ripped off the leucoplast and removed the electrodes, leaving my temples glistening. After every appointment for the rays, I spent the following afternoon staring at nothing, dreaming without dreaming of anything, meditating without a thought, but feeling my life was as expansive and pure as an enormous summer sky. I would respond to my friends if they asked me something, eat if it was time to, but I was not there, and I felt strongly I was not from there, that the colored forms around me, like the ironwork of voices, and the deceit-work of autumn clouds, although identical to those from my world (and exactly because they were identical) were nothing more than a vast and shabby stage set. I looked at everything, without fixing my gaze anywhere. My eyes moved in different directions, the right and left phantoms parted, slowly, from each other, and the world doubled and melted into a kind of fine mist, brownish-red, and then gold, until only the gold was left, like on an icon, shaking in the cold and emptiness … Then images of the ward came back, but without shape or sense, like the baroque fabric design that I used to gaze at as a child, on afternoons when they forced me to sleep. I would stare, with my face to the wall, at the back of the sofa, the floral patterns of its cloth. I followed all the twists and forks as though they were under a magnifying glass, and I observed each shift of nuance of color, until I knew the material as did perhaps only the one who had made it, but without knowing why I knew it, why my mind recreated that piece of fabric, why it glowed anew, in three dimensions, in the center of my visual field, with every thread and every colored millimeter visible in a radiant light. Images where you do not exist are horrible, images that anyone could see and graft onto your mind, your flesh … In the end, after hours and hours of nothing, I came back to my own feelings. I rediscovered my endocrine glands and my skin, my history and my values, my pajamas and my playing cards. I laughed again, with half of my face, at George’s jokes, and at night, before sleeping, I pictured the asses of the two nurses, and in my mind I took them from behind, again and again, under my warm and damp sheets. In the morning, I buckled the cripple’s watch back onto his hand, and then the doctor and assistants came. Time reproduced itself with the placidity of an inferior invertebrate, three-quarters full of eggs …

22

THE final component of my treatment was massage. Long after I left the hospital, I continued to do it myself, in the mirror, like a woman worried she’s getting old. I’d put a little talcum powder on my fingers, and start with my forehead, pushing my skin toward my temples and noting, day by day, how, if I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise, the folds in the left part of my brow took a clearer shape (in the hospital they’d been non-existent). I turned next to my eyebrows and the tops of my cheekbones, with the special movements I’d learned from the blind masseur, and then massaged under the cheekbones to the cheeks, where I would push for minutes on end. The cortisone and electricity treatments had stimulated the regeneration of my nerves, but my facial muscle mass recovered almost randomly, so that my face’s symmetry changed — the price I paid to recover basic movement. I spent even more time on my lips and chin, and then ended by massaging my neck, marveling every time at how thin it was and how quickly it reddened under my fingers. I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time, feeling a benign tension in all of the muscles of my face. An adolescent’s head, pale as death with circles around the eyes, stared back at me from the prison of the mirror. Then I’d fall into bed with a book, and evening would find me reading, as usual, and mad with loneliness.

But, while I was in the hospital, the facial massage sessions took place in the office of the blind masseur, twice a week; his wide, moist hands alone shaped, like a sculptor, the waxy clay of my face. He emanated cold like an iceberg. I was scared of him the entire time, even though, when I descended into his lair for the first appointment, I realized he was not completely unfamiliar. I had seen him often on Ştefan cel Mare, walking arm in arm with a red-haired woman, violently rouged and painted, wrapped in fox furs. Utterly imposing, with an unusually large face, the blind man displaced the air in front of him as he walked, with that characteristic gait, as though he was resisting someone who pushed him from behind. In his examining room, beside its diminutive furniture and bookcases, dressed in a white shirt that revealed his hairy arms, the masseur was even more impressive. He filled his office the way an enormous statue of an idol gathered the cave around itself. Inside the building, he took off his black glasses, so you saw his closed eyelids, with beautiful lashes, rounded by the dead eyeballs underneath. He had the eyes of a sleeping person, or of someone trying to solve a knotty problem that has no answer.

I never felt completely relaxed when I went in for the massages. I would always have rather done the rays. In the first place, the office was far from my hallway. It seemed like I had to descend dozens of floors and cross hundreds of empty corridors to get there. At the beginning, I would always get lost and end up in the women’s halls, x-ray rooms, or laboratories, or simply in cold, green halls with no way out. I remember how surprised I was when, opening one of the anonymous white doors at the end of a corridor, I found a bedroom, a boudoir really, with a vanity holding a variety of unguent perfumes and a bed with a teenage girl lying on the sheets, curled up and reading a book with a cherry-red cover. Hearing the door, she jumped up, frightened, and began to scream, looking at me with wide eyes. I saw my reflection for a second in the clear mirror of the vanity: a dreary guy, in a robe and pajamas, standing in the half-open door, just as frightened as the girl. Apart from the strange apparition of this intimate alcove within a hospital and the powerful beauty of the brunette who occupied it, there was, through the window with foaming curtains pulled to one side, a piaţa surrounded by blackened old buildings, with an equestrian monument in the middle that I knew well from the encyclopedia I read — I really read it, I didn’t just look things up — and I had read it often and well from the age of seven: it was the statue of Simón Bolívar from downtown Montevideo …

Finally I made it to the massage room, which looked just like any other examining room, white and functional. The blind masseur knew me by my voice and invited me to take off my robe and pajama top and sit on a veneered chair in the middle of the room. He stood behind me, like a barber or dentist, and suddenly I felt my head caught by unusually large hands and pressed powerfully against his stomach, which felt like a soft, white wall. The massage could not have gone more than twenty minutes if he’d done it without stopping, and that’s how long it lasted on days when many patients were in line, patients whose footsteps, whispers, and massive men’s growling voices were easily perceptible through the door. When I was the only client, however, his hands might wander over my face for an entire hour, focused, pressing, vibrating and rubbing certain groups of muscles with fingers like a violinist’s, and other times totally distracted, touching just my eyeballs (extremely gently), the corners of my lips, and my jugular, which beat slowly in the warm flesh of my neck. During the first few appointments, the blind man massaged my face in silence, at most tossing out a remark or two that left me at a loss: “Your bones are like crackers. Don’t ever become a boxer.” Then he fell quiet again, and I heard nothing but the grainy swish of the talcum-covered fingers that rubbed my flesh until, I imagined, it became translucid like the cap of a jellyfish and revealed, pure and white, the ivory of my skull, as polished as a stone in a riverbed. The repetition of the same pushing and pulling and trembling fingers, the odd heat of his stomach that almost completely engulfed my head, and the mystical light of blindness that floated in the examination room transported me into a tense and unpleasant state. I was deeply scared, so deeply that I could not recognize it as fear, but more as sadness, as disappointment. The blind. Blindness. Since I was little, I had been tortured by a thought that I tried in vain to communicate to the big people. And it wasn’t just the great quandary that all boys and girls rack their brains about: how children come into the world. To that at least I knew I would not get, as yet, the answer, or I would not get the whole answer, because the adults, united in an impenetrable conspiracy (as though they were initiates of an Eleusinian Mystery, and we, the little, were profane; and really, don’t all mysteries, and maybe all religions, follow the model of this first exclusion? Isn’t sex a kind of immortality to which you gain access through maturity? Doesn’t it divide life into two stages, a larval stage and another, burning in the eternal light of consciousness? Isn’t the child, in comparison with the adult, like the adult in comparison with the angel he will become, through transformation and vestment in praise of the holy body? “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face …”), a conspiracy that did not allow anything to reach our little minds thirsting for truth. I thought then that children appeared out of their mothers’ stomachs at the bottom, or by cutting the belly, the way we think now (mistakenly and madly) that we will see without eyes and hear without ears and sing without lips in the promised new life after the obstetric labor of death. More than the question, “how are children made — and born,” which made grown-ups seal themselves inside a bitter and angry muteness (somehow jealous), saying only, through their teeth: “You couldn’t think of anything better to ask?” other questions nagged me, ones I knew that my parents would not answer, not because I wasn’t supposed to know the answer, or because they didn’t know, but because they couldn’t understand what I wanted, because I couldn’t explain what made me so uneasy. I burst into tears so many times, sitting on the bed behind my mother who, naked to the waist, tapped a fork between the threads of the Persian rug she was working on. I might have asked her what the world would be like if no one lived in it, that is, if no one saw it, but I couldn’t even transform the mounting fear into a thought, let alone a question. I had, in fact, from time to time, had a horrible flash of insight: the world would exist even if no one ever saw it. But then what would it be like? It would have no color, or taste, or texture, or smell … And yet it would be, just as much as the one we see and feel. I looked at the room around me, and I tried to imagine the carpet frame, the bed, the walls, and even my mother, with her curly hair falling between her shoulder blades and her damp breasts hanging on her chest. I tried to imagine erasing the colors from everything, but somehow keeping the shapes, and I tried to “see” the chunky, desperate gray that would remain, the way that our room would be if no one saw it, a kind of concrete bunker in which you couldn’t distinguish the chair from the cement, or the rug frame from the cement, or the half-woven rug from the cement, or Mamma from the cement, petrified on the edge of her bed. I knew, though, that even this vision was an image, that it was also “seen” with a half-closed mind, they way you squint to see just the essence of a painting. But what if my mind closed all the way, and what if, even more to the point, there had never been an eye or a mind? How would things look where no person had ever stepped? How could they exist, without form or color? Then I would imagine the world, the whole world, everything that existed, as a great darkness, with denser parts and muddier parts where the things used to be — a limitless swamp, with spheres slow dissolving, no light anywhere, no nuance, no sound, only darkness with bigger and smaller muddy parts, thrown in heaps and piles like old furniture in a completely dark workshop.

This may be the source of my discomfort regarding the blind. When I was small, I imagined they all lived in that swamp, like sinister tadpoles, amphibians with rigid necks that would project their awkward and prudent images onto a sea of multicolored lights, full of sunlight, but inside, in the subcutaneous night, they would project their tentacles and the bizarre sensory organs they used to communicate with other worlds silently, like abyssal fish — worlds of fear, perhaps, and depression. They knew what being was like when no one saw it. They were, furthermore, its agents, its spies, its avant-garde in the blank world. Through their often half-open eyes, through which you could see a puss-filled cornea, death and agony stalked you, the great ataraxia of nothingness. I didn’t know then that the blind, who seemed to all have the same mother and father, are actually diverse, and their blindnesses have a well-developed taxonomy. Later I saw newborns without eyeballs, cased in large cylinders of alcohol. They had no eyelids or eyelashes, and their flat brows, like ivory helmets, extended down to their lips. I heard about those born blind who remained blind all their lives, in spite of the fact that their eyes and their optical nerves were intact, virtually functional; and about those who, on the contrary, had normal development of areas of sight in the occipital husk, but still could not see because of some mysterious atrophy or dysfunction in the optical chiasm or retina; those with cataracts on both eyes or invasions of blood in the vitreous humor; those who had no notion of sight, the way we have no notion of what fish feel with the lateral line or what the ovum feels when the spermatozoid first touches it and the chemical capsule on its tip breaks, instantly making the enormous sun of reproduction opaque; those who have a notion of sight, but only on the left, not the right, without one eye being more damaged than the other; those who see images normally, but are not able to understand what they see; those who have the feeling they are surrounded by deep night and those who still perceive a vague luminescence coming from everywhere; those whose blindness is only the fleshly equivalent of some terrible psychodrama (since between the eyes and the testicles, the globes above and below, between castration and plucking out the eyes, there has always been a sadistic and at the same time redemptive transit); those who see as if they’re looking through a screen, and those who see as if they’re inside a dream … Blindness is ragged and gradated: no one sees in full, and no one is utterly blind. And just as all matter of all worlds came from an infinitely dense and burning point in space, just as all life branched out of the first coacervate in the bubbling ocean, sight has arisen in, and been clarified by, the flesh of animals, sprouting from the first point of chromatin in the body of the first paramecium. Its red dot saw only light, intense and pure, undifferentiated into forms and colors. It is the light that rose through the tubes of generations, separating itself from itself and filling with attributes, like the black thread of the snail’s eye rises through its scaly horn to appear on the tip. And perhaps at the end of the growth of sight, like in the Zen parable about the mountain, we will come again to contemplate, in a different way, pure light, with the body changing suddenly into the brain, and the brain becoming only an eye, and the eye disintegrating suddenly into light … And only then will the great unification take place, not of the four forces into one, but of the eye that sees with the world seen by it, in an eye-world continuum that may be called the All …

Over time, the masseur became more talkative, and toward the end of my hospital treatment, the ever more occult, more labyrinthine movements of his fingers on my face were accompanied by bizarre stories, neither flesh nor fowl, whispered, insinuating stories as if he were telling them to himself, as if he expected me to answer — the completion of a phrase left hanging, the flash of recognition at an allusion that for me was utterly obscure … When I entered his office and he recognized my voice (later he probably knew my footsteps, too, or other sounds: who knows, the swish of my clothes, the way I turned the doorknob or knocked) his unmoving face changed to the smile of an enormous Buddha. An odd crease appeared between his eyebrows, as if a bud were struggling to break through, an ocular bud, a seeing mole. He moved behind me, and, executing his ritual, he adorned it with eccentric myths that have stayed alive in my memory. At first, his stories did not have a completely unusual atmosphere, even though it was a little embarrassing that the blind man suddenly shared intimate things with a boy he didn’t know, things that were surely painful for him. Yet he did it with detachment and a kind of half-scientific interest, half self-deprecation that made the revelations bearable, like a few splashes of lemon over the fat spine of the fish on a platter.

Before going blind, he had worked with “the blue-eyed boys.” I didn’t know the expression then, so I asked, “Where?” to which he responded teasingly, “Eh, the guys with stars on their shoulders,” and continued to describe his professional life only in this kind of paraphrase, to the extent that, in the end, in my ingenuous mind of the time, the working-class child whose parents didn’t talk about politics at home, there formed a jumbled-up, fairy-tale image, where I saw the masseur in the middle of a kind of angelic hall of superhumans, all tall and blond, with shining azure eyes … I imagined them naked, statuesque, really white as marble, until their eyes became unsettling and haunting in their Hellenic faces. Their shoulders were decorated with glowing constellations, forming zodiac signs as clear as the decals on glasses. “The happy boys,” as the blind man also called them, could be Cancers, Scorpios, Capricorns, or Virgos, depending on their rank in the hierarchy. They moved among us but were unseen, they heard everything we said, even in the privacy of our homes, and still no one guessed where they held their mysterious meetings, in what network of underground highwaymen’s tunnels … If they were all azure-eyed, it was because their blood itself was azure, like that of gods and spiders. Incorruptible and distant, a race of masters from other areas of the Cosmos, these “boys” (a sign of their ritual virginity), with an unshakable and enigmatic happiness, had interfered somehow, from times immemorial (which went back, according to some rumors, to old king Burebista: because it was certain that Dekeneu, his great priest, due to the heights of the sacred mountain where he lived, had a blue fluid in his veins, with a strong smell of cyanide, blood much better suited to absorbing the scarce oxygen of those heights and transporting it through the systems and mechanisms of his astral body) in the political structures of humanity. More than ever in recent decades, their domination became complete, triumphant. Of a higher rank than the angels, these super-watchers, from their aerial palaces, aimed eagle-gazes over the ant hills that the workers of the earth raised in their cluelessness, and they unleashed themselves from time to time over frightened hoards, snatching mortals toward the sky. No one could penetrate their ways or understand their thoughts. Two men slept in one bed: the one was taken, and the other left; two women were grinding together, one was taken, and the other left. The vultures came in droves to the place where the cadaver lay.

I had this vision while the masseur, whose speech was neither fish nor fowl, pressed my eyelids with his talcum-covered fingers, as though he wanted to open my eyes. “The accident” that made him blind, five years before, removed him forever from that glorious sect. Naturally, those ranks would not admit any being with a deformity, anyone who would disrupt their perfection. The masseur went blind because he had seen too much, he said, and I drew the conclusion that destiny had reserved certain unpleasantness for these privileged beings. The quantity of information that they could receive was limited, and if they consumed their ration before death, they went blind or deaf or insensible for the rest of the years they had to live. Angels fallen into the concrete marsh of streets, metros, and fish markets, dragged the secret of their blue blood with them to their graves.

If he hadn’t been one of the hierarchs of the “Secu Monastery,” their enigmatic meeting hall, whose name suggested dryness and askesis of the spirit, the blind man would have ended up making hairbrushes, like the vast majority of those who lose their sight. The position of masseur at Colentina was created especially for him. It was well paid and close to home. His beautiful wife, who always dressed like an opera diva, brought him to work and picked him up every day, proudly braving the gazes of those who passed on the sidewalk along the hospital fence where bindweed grew. The blind man, with his chest out, seemed to oppose the trek as much as he could, as though he were being dragged toward the gallows by a pitiless guard. Something he said, one of the phrases he let snow gently and continuously over my head in his ragged talkativeness, made me pay special attention: “I don’t know if I am in this room because I went blind, or if I went blind because I was meant to be here …” His strokes paused for a moment. He touched the dusty skin of my face, and continued his chatter, describing the funereal process of his blinding. The beginning of his story would have been atrocious and shocking if the same tone from the tips of his lips (gently amused, as though he were talking about someone else) hadn’t emptied the vessels of his words, leaving them as airy as the rooms of a paper palace.

He had come home in the evening, after a day of listening (probably the listening that monks do in their cells, I translated) and entered the hallway of the block where he lived. The light bulb there, like all bulbs in all block stairwells, had been stolen, so thick stripes of velvet darkness had settled on the side by the elevator. From there, some guys leapt out, drugged him and took him, in a car, probably, to another part of the city. When he came to, he was in the center of an enormous hall, under a great vault like a basilica, maybe thousands of meters above. He was tied to a crystal chair, in the center of a checkered floor that extended as far as he could see, like an open field, with white and red squares crowding toward the edges, where they came together in a single line of fog. The air was gelatinous and frozen, crossed by oblique columns of light from round skylights here and there that perforated the gigantic semispherical vault. He sat, perhaps for days, fearfully following the movement of the spots of light over the floor tiles, which were polished like mirrors. The spots of light darkened into scarlet, the air vaporized from the endless hall, darkness fell, and then, inching upwards, the outflow of dawn began. At the edge of sight and straight in front of him, he thought some points were moving, barely perceptibly. For several days, the points advanced and grew, little by little, taking hours upon hours to cross one spot of light, entering the penumbra again, hours upon hours later, until, one morning, the man bound to the sparkling chair perceived, only a few hundred meters away, a disorderly column of men in white, stiff, vestments, which fell over their bodies not in graceful folds, but in sharp angles, like exoskeletons.

“Soon,” the blind man said, “the forty or so officiants of some Mystery formed a semicircle of rustling robes around me. They held incomprehensible and dreadful tools, the mere sight of which produced waves of sweat on my skin. Only one was empty-handed. On the ephod held at his shoulders by silver chains, there was a shining quartz box. Inside the box was visible a human tooth, with long roots, emanating a pale aura. The irritated-looking priest wore a steel miter on his head, with extended pipes that perforated his skull.

“The indictment — since, judging by the solemn and threatening expression of their insect faces, this is what it had to be — lasted for hours on end, until night fell in the giant sphere. Now the only light, like phosphorus, came from the complicated pliers, screws, and scalpels in the priests’ hands, and from the tooth in the crystal box. The words they shouted at my face, splattering me with saliva — now their Hierarch alone, now all in chorus, now one or another in a moment of inspiration — were signs scratched into my tympanum by an unknown language. Finally they crowded around me and put their hands on my head and shoulders. Their clothes, threaded with gold wires, smelled sharp and verminous. The Hierarch placed an iron circle on my head, tightened it with screws, and hung its mechanical peduncles in front of my eyes. Those small clamps took my eyelids, and with fine adjustments of the screws, they were pulled apart from each other until they began to hurt, tear, and bleed. My eyeballs remained wide, lacking defense, and I had already begun to guess the monstrous torment to come. Copper nails, reddened in fire, would pierce the fragile eggs within their sockets below my brow.

“Yet, that was not to be. The priests moved to one side of me, perhaps behind the crystal throne. A single voice, thin as thread, wove a sonorous tapestry in the cold gelatin of the hall, while an enormous eyelid began to slowly unstick from half the horizon and let a crescent of blinding light into the hall, like the blade of a golden scythe. I yelped like an animal, because that light was not light, but the light of a world of light, it was not a ghostly, white fire, but the fire of a world of fire and calcination. While my eyes, transparent as opals, died in inexpressible pains and voluptuousness, the skin of my naked body began to see. I saw with my chest and my arms, beyond the oven that the eyelid had slowly opened, forms and ghosts, slippages and contractions that were not of this universe. I knew, while I howled and tried to break my bonds, that I was inside an eyeball, that my own life was a miniscule speck of dust in the vitreous humor of an eye — of what god? of which giant Atlas? — and that this eye had now opened onto a world of a higher order. I had been stolen from the cerebral structures generating the dream of this being that kneaded our world in its sleep. I had been carried through the chiasm and the optic nerve, passed through the polychrome carpet of its retina and forced to look, from the middle of the crystalline ball, at a world that was blinding, blinding … The eyelid rose higher. The light from beyond light struck me like a monstrous column descending through the pupil, the hall filled with the unbearable color of blindness, and in the height of those pains, compared to which a simple pierced eyeball would have been a heavenly balm, a kind of voice, or a kind of calligraphic design on my seeing flesh told me the strange myth of Those Who Know, their global conspiracy, which spread as much in space as time (as one of the leaders of the secret services, I had a vague awareness of this — because all these services, sects, and cabals are connected, like networks of neurons), their self-rending toward heavens and hells in the inhuman effort to penetrate reality.

“I was blinded so that the ways of the Lord would show in me. I would be, from now on, chosen for atrocity — but also for prophecy — by an unknown force, so strong in comparison that the dark power of the blue-eyed boys is a degenerate caricature and a deformed metaphor. I would wait here, in my office, like a spider in the middle of its sparkling trap of hardened saliva, for the one able to recognize me, the one who would point his finger toward my eyelids, to touch them with his healing fingernail, to burst the bursting and blind the blindness of my eyes. He would be — they told me through that tattoo of speaking light when I cried out, crucified on the crystal chair — an adolescent with bones as thin as a birds’. I have been waiting for him for years, not just to restore my sight, because what more is there to see after the images I have seen, but to see Him, the one, he that will be sent, the Sent One, who, being already there, is here at the same time. Meanwhile, I have passed through all the bolgia of blindness: the trepidatious snuffing out of space; the expansion, like what bats enjoy, of the sonorous dominion, with landscapes of sounds; the hallucinations of the invented faces of those I talked to, in the most vibrant colors, fluorescent and electric, but the faces of acromegalics, Cyclopes, scalped beings, satyrs, grubs, skulls, and chameleons; the marble fears, when you feel that someone is coming toward you from all sides at once; the voices that give orders, to you by name, to cut your own throat … And, at the end of the end, the bottomless pit of the mole, the deep blindness …”

The masseur pushed my head more and more into his puffy stomach, like he wanted to somehow incorporate me there, into an impossible oval uterus. My face burned as though it had been torn off, and when I looked in the mirror that same day, right when I came back from the massage, I saw that my face was completely red and drawn, as though I had suddenly lost several pounds. It’s true that from that day on, I observed a small improvement of my peribuccal and orbicular muscles. Inexplicably, they came back under my will. But I didn’t care at that moment about the excoriated skin of my face, nor the signs of better health, because in the massage office, after the large fingers caressing me like butterfly wings had fluttered for the last time over my face, something wonderful and terrible happened to me. I put my pajama top over my shoulders again, and turned toward the masseur to thank him, as always, before leaving. I saw him filling the room, an iceberg as blind and as white as snow, a white and blind whale that smelled of silence. In front of him, face to face, I felt like a secret admirer, drained from fasting, shaken by the crystal elephantine monster. “You are Mircea,” he whispered then, barely audible. Then he opened two large, brown eyes, luminous, unspeakably human inside that head of ice.

23

A FEW months after the tanks of the Warsaw Pact entered Czechoslovakia, Romanian Securitate Department V received a series of new assignments, some of which contradicted best practice protocols and had never before been proposed, and were set at the highest levels of state secrecy. In this period, ordinary people’s children (both boys and girls) were kidnapped, blood was transported in the innertubes of military vehicles, underground buildings (nuclear command posts? bunkers? fallout shelters?) were constructed, and ultramodern linotype presses appeared, protected by reinforced walls in houses that, from the outside, seemed abandoned or inhabited by gypsies. At the Fundeni Hospital, a clinic that looked like a laboratory from outer space performed complicated plastic surgeries on citizens whose physiological, statural, or vocal resemblance to the chief of state had been detected. These citizens, now identical to the national hero, were recorded as killed in a car accident, and their funerals were arranged.

The extravagance and spy-novel mystery of these missions, the absolute power accorded to those who actually executed the horrors — doctors, police, factory workers, and priests — and the fact that they became more and more honored by the party and state apparatuses (at their party meetings, even members of the Executive Policy Office would attend) provoked profound changes in the psychology of the Securitate officers. Most officers were part of a new generation, which had grown up during the war and matured after the wave of atrocities in the 1950s had passed. Often you would hear them talk about “the old guys” like they were drunks and idiots, vulgar brutes who stomped on their victims with disgusting, sweaty feet, in chambers that stank like stables. The older colleagues in the trade, ever more marginalized, still looked like country boys whose uniforms would never stay in place. They could barely sign their own names, but when they met “for a little nip,” they bored the jejune “dandies” (as they, with impatience and hatred, labeled the newly arrived) with the same old fables about hunting enemies of the people around Făgăraşi. The gypsy Belate Alexandru, who had become the hero of the Securitate brigades and was lauded in the poems of writer-comrades, was insulted all the worse in these fairy tales: “Belate? Well let me tell you what happened with Belate. He died like the fool he was, on his feet, like he’d been ordered to, and they just had to tip him over, the crow. Comrade poet had things a little backwards in that poem they put on the coffin:

Cut down cowardly from behind

Inert lay now the nation’s boast

Belate! be in our hearts enshrined

… And his cigarette fell, one quarter smoked.”

When they heard about Belate and the Canal enemies, who, of course, “ended up drinking their own piss,” the young officers felt uneasy. They would never have dirtied their hands with crimes like those. In impeccable suits smelling of lavender, they toured the bookstores in search of fashionable reading. They paid each other visits, with their wives, having only a little coffee and a cognac (not sticking their guests at the table and drugging them with soups). Evenings, they gathered at the Select or Boehme … They had all spent their teen years dreaming of being what now, would you look at that, they really were. They all had passionately read At Midnight a Star Will Fall and The End of the Ghost Spy, identifying with the plainclothes officers, all without stain or blemish, Major Frunză and Captain Lucian, for example, who (the quintessence of both Hercule Poirot and the Hercules of myth) ended up solving enigmatic cases and catching the imperialist spies or war criminals returning to the country under false identities. “Who are you, mister Pietraru?” they dreamed of finally asking, at the end when the disarmed sunglasses-clad spy collapsed in his chair. “Isn’t it true that beneath this borrowed name hides Horst Müller, officer of the SS?” At which, before anyone could stop him, the man would bite down on the cyanide capsule hidden in his shirt collar …

No, the Securitate was no longer the old Siguranţa of the bourgeois-landowner regime, whose commissars were satirized in so many films, or even the Securitate that operated under Dej and Drăghici, with its camps and German Shepherds. It had become a modern institution, a corps of technicians from the ranks of the university, and it had a special social role, something almost messianic. The nation was industrializing, the Romanian miracle was on everyone’s lips in the West, and the annual growth of GNP was among the greatest in the world. The new Party leader was young, nonconformist, and admirably courageous toward the Russians. The joke was that he was like someone driving a car who signals left and goes right. Signs of prosperity — foreign-made cigarettes and liquor, full cafeterias, refrigerators and televisions for everyone, the chance that, if you ate bread and yoghurt for five years, you could flaunt a new car in front of your neighbors, a Dacia or even a Skoda or for the lucky a Wartburg (and why not a Fiat 600, at the end of the day?) — appeared in cities and villages everywhere. Political arrests halted, and some old communist leaders were rehabilitated. It seemed at the time that the only outlet for the elite corps of plainclothes Securitate officers would be industrial espionage. At any moment, in spite of the population’s growing social and patriotic consciousness, you could imagine that a bum on the beach talking to a foreigner would sell Romanian research secrets for a fistful of green money.

It became clear soon after the events of ’68 that things weren’t actually quite that way. It’s true that some colleagues of Lieutenant-Major Ion Stănilă, who meditated on all of this in a kind of somnolent reverie in his office in Dristor, on the second floor of a middle-class house with no sign, were still occupied with the surveillance of research laboratories: weapons at Tohan and Sibiu, chemicals at Turnu-Severin, something unclear but top secret in Apuseni, plus the routine industrial sites around Bucharest. Every day, they put on white coats and pretended to be scientists, working with minimal specialized knowledge from short courses of chemistry, physics, or metallurgy. Some of them, after years and years in research, came to understand their work pretty well and made something of a name for themselves in science. More envied were those who were sent to the West, our network of Securitate diplomats enwebbing the embassies and those who worked there. Lord, what a thought: to live in the West for years and years, sometimes decades, and save hard currency in the bank! Some, the best ones, infiltrated strategic points in the most disparate fields, under false identities and with proper paperwork. They lived there, got married, had kids, and no one ever knew their true identities. What would it be like, thought the lieutenant-major with fear and fascination, to be stuck in the ribs of a hostile world, to blend in until you almost had forgotten your own name and mission, to do your job and raise your kids in the culture of that place, to make friends and go to games and go out for drinks, when the whole time you are there with them, you are also extremely far away, a pseudopod, a peduncle of another world, voracious and merciless? How would you be reactivated, after years of dormancy, parasitism, and mimicry? What would it be like to suddenly receive the code word, to have it rise within you — suddenly, under the dull face that you wear of a mediocre engineer, inside your eyes that are bored with your obese wife — the demon of another empire? How would it feel to be possessed, not to belong to yourself, to be the glove into which, from time to time, an iron hand slides?

Distractedly regarding the reflection of his face in the Comrade’s portrait on his desk, Ion Stănilă admitted, in his heart, that he would not be capable of something like that. Secret agents were heroes whom he raised to superhuman heights. But as for himself … it was enough he had gotten this far. The rest of his family was still in the country. His brother had had such a hard time in ’58, when collectivization left him hobbled with a bad hip and a twisted hand, that he would have been begging at the church door if Ion hadn’t found him a job in the garage. So now Luca washes under the car with the hose, brings the mechanics cigarettes and bread buns, what can you do … Since his family had turned in the horses and been left with the cart in the barn (they had been to Măgureni last summer and been sad to see the way the beautiful landscapes of blue serenas and red flowers were flayed off of the rubber-tire cart), it looked like the whole family had gone senile. Ion always had to intervene at the mayor’s, the People’s Guidance, to ask that the authorities not take the vinery away … And here he was, an officer in the Securitate, with a big salary, success on every side, living in a house with calcio-vecchio and an interior stairway, and more importantly, with a woman who made everyone’s mouth water when they went out to a restaurant. “You know when my frickin yid walks in, with freckles down to her ass, in that red deux-pièces and red high heels, even the waiters have their mouths hanging open. What they wouldn’t do to her, there she walked, all tits and ass, her purse in her hand, down the carpet in the Athenée, the Hall of Mirrors …” Yes, he had been much luckier than other people. Many had been stuck on one level or another without knowing why, and it was more than certain that he would have gotten stuck, too, if the propaganda secretary at the university (“Aaah, I’m going to flee the country … oh, give it to me! harder!.. I’m giving a speech in Europe … uuuh! do me, lover … do my ass … aoleu! oh! down with Communismmmmmm …!”), his dear little wife, hadn’t watched over him, with her frightening dedication to principle. Take Dunăreanu: he went down on something stupid. He said something offhand at a party … something about Dubcek … or who the hell knows, just a joke, but his well-meaning colleagues ratted him out. Now he’s teaching Party history at who knows what communal school. With Maria’s man Costică it was something else: the comrades took them both at once, one from scrubbing statues, and the other from the metal shop in the ITB on Grozovici. “Comrade, would you like to go to officer training in the Securitate?” There wasn’t a stain on their files — they were children of poor peasants, not political. They had no family anywhere except Ficătari and Râmnicu Sărat. They were sharp kids who’d done junior high and an apprenticeship. That was in ’59. They took him and sent him right to Băneasa. Costică — blubba blubba blubba blubba (the officer had been flicking his lower lip and gotten lost for a moment). During the physical they found a cyst on one of his kidneys. No good for the Securitate, so they sent him to Ştefan Gheorghiu to become a newspaper man. But his kid, that snotty Mircea — who was like maybe … three at the time … (so they were still on Silistra) — when that smart Maria asked: “Dear, do you want your daddy to be a newspaper man?” he began to cry: for him, newspaper man meant the hunchbacked drunk who sold newspapers. Back then (you can see one even now) they wandered the streets, with a stack of newspapers in a pink cardboard box around their necks: “Informatia! Informatia!” Newspaper men and street cleaners were pretty much the same, in the minds of regular people. But two years ago, on Moşi, where Stănilă was dressed like a guy selling cardboard hats, trotting along on his mission to catch the spider-woman’s superiors, he had seen one of these lowlifes right next to the camper: he was staring, dead drunk, at the monkey-trainer’s tits on a billboard, while his newspapers fell from his box into the mud, one by one …

When they started to get rid of some of the yids (’cause the boss was a real anti-Semite), Estera became Emilia. Only close friends still used the old name. Comrade Stănilă Emilia — who once every year assembled the law school department secretaries and the student leaders (handsome young people, their hair cut like the Chinese or Koreans, the girls with skirts well below their knees) to tell them that love of country and Party was much more important than “the beloved person” — had been great during the winter of ’56, when a few mangy students had done some silly things. She had taken measures immediately, first assembling a complete list of all the hoodlums and putting it into the right hands. The officer smiled at the memory: what a nut! During those nights when frost grew high on the windows, Estera was fainting with excitement as she was taken vigorously from behind. She was in the college bathroom, kneeling beside the urinals, and those revolting students did her every way you could imagine, one after another and several at a time … Then she rose to the top of the University Party hierarchy, and now she would rise even more. They had called her to the Capital. He had seen her speaking at meetings several times, and she had an amazing way with words, chapter and verse. She had adapted perfectly to the changing of the Palace guards, from Russophile to nationalist. Ceauşescu’s name replaced Dej’s in the economy of her nocturnal orgasms, which, once Stalin was forgotten and the terrors ended (or because of her advancing age?) diminished slightly in drama, while becoming longer and more carefully staged.

Lieutenant-Major Ion Stănilă wasn’t really known for his intelligence in the Department of State Security. Instead, a mean hillbilly cunning had kept him away from traps, from his colleagues’ ill will, from deals that were too dirty or from deals where you would end up knowing too much. His work had been routine: he recruited informants in a few businesses, so that his desk always had a pile of inarticulate and boring reports, which, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t squeeze anything out of — this one did this, that one said that … “Yesterday, 26 V ’967 was paiday and Maistru Boţan Ilie had a beer, telled the one about the Chief in Hell in a shit tub. He also say that Communists is a society for lazy peoples, that the Germans don’t goof off like we do. He say that over there, the engiuneers keeps their asses in the chairs and their eyes on their works, and we do it all backwards, we keeps our eyes on the chairs and asses in our works …” Most infractions were for political jokes. How the hell were you supposed to arrest a person for that, especially since you knew that the jokes were put out, along with all the rumors, by a special team in Buzeşti, by your own colleagues adapting them from French collections … And they got passed to the Czechs, Bulgarians, Russians, and Poles, so it was no shock that the whole camp laughed at the same jokes, just changing Kadar into Brezhnev or Walter Ulbricht into Ceauşescu. Better to have them laugh than march in the streets. Or how were you supposed to arrest someone for listening to Radio Free Europe? First of all, there weren’t a lot of people doing it, and then, even those who were said it was all lies and provocations. The youth have their music. They need something to suck on, or else they’ll do something even sillier.

Two years ago, he had been surprised to be taken from the routine of meeting stool pigeons in safe houses (actually the squalid dwelling of some worker who left a key for him to use the place while he was at the factory: many of his colleagues used these houses, in fact, more as “fuck rooms” for their women), and to receive his first more unusual mission. Information existed that throughout Eastern Europe, wandering troupes of free-professionals had appeared, nomadic circus performers who entertained at fairs and vacant lots at the edge of town, troupes that resisted legitimate attempts to centralize the artistic phenomena of the circus world and place it under state control, following the model of the celebrated Moscow State Circus. Of course, there had always been rope dancers, fire swallowers and sword swallowers, strong men, dwarves, and paranormals, but what was happening now was completely different. The itineraries of some twenty of these kinds of troupes, from Gdansk to Groznâi, had followed pointless routes, apparently unconnected to immediate sources of profit. They often arrived at market sites and regular festivals, but not during the traditional fair season. Some drove covered carts or GAZ trucks with clanging sheet metal and drove in circles, while others, after a long straight path, sometimes going through rapeseed and sunflower fields, suddenly curled wide toward the left. As though on command, all of the troupes performed their shows simultaneously, on the same day and at the same time. This made the KGB officers, who were the first to be briefed (coincidence?) on the circus people’s strange maneuvers, suppose that there was either an existing plan, known and followed like a train schedule by all of the troupes, or that there was constant communication between the convoys. The second hypothesis fell right away. There was no physical contact in evidence, not by radio, homing pigeons, or human messengers. The idea of a pre-existing conspiracy, probably against state orders (there was some evidence in this respect), became the working hypothesis of the socialist secret services, even though the possibility of a political, military, or even industrial espionage network was not ruled out (some of the circus people did own and use cameras, old ones, true, actually daguerreotypes, which projected inverted images directly onto opaque glass plates). Moscow sent a coordinated plan of counterattack to the satellite countries. Then, in 1966, and not two years later, the first rebellion against the Russians had happened nearby, those first beatings of national pride; the Securitate leadership checked with the “Big Chief” to cover its ass and then rejected the Soviet plan, with many tactful caveats, demonstrating that, given our particular conditions, measures should be taken on the local level. The national plan was code-named “Operation Sycamore,” not for some occult reason, but simply because the officer in charge was Major Sycamore Bădescu. Being a bit of a physiognomist — the Major had written his doctorate in criminology on the works of Gall and Lombroso, in connection with recent work on “the crime chromosome” —, the officer chose the most “folksy-faced” people for the operation, so that they would integrate perfectly into the atmosphere on Moşilor Street. Idiots, fatties, rosacea drunks, crosseyed hillbillies, one-toothed brachycephalics, women with beehives and powdered faces, teenagers with wet lips and the crooked gaze of onanists — this was the profile of ideal agents for the present mission, in the Fellini-like vision of Major Bădescu. The fact that all of these features presupposed a subsidiary oligophrenia produced a paradox: like any artist, the major would have to accept that his ideal was impossible in the world of the senses. Wasn’t it Leonardo da Vinci himself who said that the hand cannot follow the mind? “La polizia e una cosa mentale,” said Sycamore Bădescu to himself, smiling bitterly, and he used what he had at hand.

Thus did (then) Lieutenant Ion Stănilă come to sell Turkish fezzes made of aluminium foil and crepe paper, sequined trumpets, and cardboard glasses in the fetid crowd at the Moşilor market, in the wineshop and meat-patty autumn of ’66. Between the fish market, with its putrid stench of salt and women, and the Obor hall, the vast pavement of the piaţa was no longer visible under the mud. The chairs of the chain carousel rotated crazily at the back of the scenery. The motor was hidden by panels dotted with dancing Arab girls and camels with human faces. A sea of people crowded under the central stem with their arms and legs held out by centrifugal force. Even though you wouldn’t think you had enough room to take your hand out of your pocket, the mob managed to advance in fat heaps toward the piaţa, the wine shop, the cheesemongers with their little cloudy jars, and the mounds of crates where the popular soda sold for 75 bani, in round, dull bottles. Dressed in a sheep fleece, pulled tight like a theater costume, with a fez on his head, and blowing a horn shaped like a butterfly proboscis that shot out when filled with air, the officer found himself on a corner near the booths where the circus shows were performed. On the little table in front of him, he also sold sawdust-filled balls of colored paper that hung by rubber bands, clay birds painted strawberry and indigo, with colored feathers on their tails, celluloid weebles with lead bases, and sunglasses with red cellophane lenses. The kids around him, ragged and snotty from the bad weather, constantly stretched out their hands to steal or beg for a hat or a ball, and the lieutenant, with his eyes all around, could barely keep up surveillance of the circus entryway. From time to time he put a paper fez on the boy’s head, so he would walk through the piaţa as a living advertisement. It was strange how caught up in the business he became. He got the goods from the DSS inventory, and now he was chewing his fingernails over how to make a profit, however small, for himself, so first he started to ask 50 bani more than the price set by his superiors, then a whole leu. He haggled with the clients, like at the market, and he tried to trick them when counting money. On the very first day he was surprised to find himself, by lunchtime, completely oblivious to his mission. Hundreds of suspects might have passed him while, red in the face with effort, he hawked his wares. At night, tossing and turning in bed beside his wife, whose freckles were lit faintly in the dark like ground cloves dusting a gingerbread figurine, Lieutenant Stănilă plainly saw on his retina heaps of metal watches with multicolor plastic bands, multicolor wrappers, referee’s whistles, rubber balls, hamsters running on wheels and elephants pulled by the weight of gold coins.

It was only on the second day that the officer began the disturbing adventure that he now, in his room on Dristor, awaiting his superior, relived in his memory, against his will, just as he had done hundreds and thousands of times before. The Securitate officer returned to his corner at the fair, beside the booths covered over with pictures of clowns, the deformed women in swimsuits, and a hideous spider with a girl’s head and chest (the girl had vampire fangs and blood on her lower lip). He was blowing hard on his horn to make it shoot straight out, when suddenly he saw a terribly familiar face in the crowd of people gaping at the emcee on the booth platform. A jolt of ice-cold adrenaline overwhelmed his arteries. Good Lord, that evening in May, with beetles thudding through the dark rose of Ghica Tei park, and the dizzying smell of lilac. The descent, through the plinth of Pushkin’s statue, into the green empires of fear … The levitation over palaces and halls of a transparent hell … And the sphinx-like face of the princess in the oval window, a fairy-tale face in blue satin crinoline, sitting at the spinet piano with its lid inlaid with mother-of-pearl … The languor of her eyes and the horrible, scabby tumor on her neck … It was her, but now in a worn-out raincoat, now with pallid lips marked with cloudy sores, wearing a man’s boots and galoshes. The emcee shouted something into the microphone, but nothing more came out of the box speakers than a groan like a truck. Beside him, a wide, flabby old lady with bleached hair juggled bowling pins. Her lamé dress made her look like a decrepit virago. “Get your tickets, the show is starting!” said the man in black, dropping the microphone, and some of those who gaped, but not too many, mainly those with children, climbed the platform steps and bought tickets. The multitude of trinkets on Officer Stănilă’s improvised stand faded away, while he was unable to take his eyes from the being he had once seen in an inexplicable trance and who had suddenly invaded reality like the smell of sewage, brusquely delivered by a gust of air. She was there, concrete and splattered by the Obor mud, mixed in with the mob of peasants and slum-dwellers, where even a neck boil the size of a quince was not out of place, among twisted faces, toothless mouths, mealy eyes, and gout-swollen fingers. The girl climbed the platform too and bought a ticket. For the second time, but for a different reason, the officer completely forgot his mission. He dryly closed his case with colored ribbons and paper hats, put the wooden goat to one side, and case and all, he presented himself to the blonde in the lamé dress, who had transformed into the cashier. Ticket in hand, he entered the room mechanically behind the others and searching in a daze for the girl.

The hall seemed much larger from the inside than you would have believed from the brightly painted booth outside. At one end a stage was visible, with a blue sheet hanging with a few gold stars. There was no other scenery. The walls were bare, unplanned planks, the floor was made from the same material, and the fifteen-or-so rows of chairs were set up like seats in a movie theater, pivoting up and down on rods, with numbered tags on the backs. It smelled disgustingly like kerosene, like all the theaters did at that time, and on the ground, never mopped, sunflower seed shells and pretzel crumbs

with salt and poppy seeds

it’s what your stomach needs

swam in spit. Someone, maybe at the previous show, had dropped a bottle of ţuica, and now it smelled overwhelmingly of plums, and you could get drunk just off the thick fumes. With a fez on his head, forgotten in his emotion, and carnival glasses on his eyes, the officer sat in one of the last rows and changed seats a few times to the right or to the left, because meaty peasants, in heavy sheep coats and hats, sat down in front of him. His chest beat powerfully, as though not just his heart, but also his lungs, throat, the marrow in his spinal canal and the ganglia of nerves were pulsating, hot, synchronized and suffocating. The young woman in the brick-colored raincoat, with cheap clips holding her hair above the gaping sore, sat quietly three rows of black chairs ahead.

Onstage, the first to appear was a thick woman in a fringed bathing suit. She had large red lips like a black woman, and she tossed and twisted and slid a snake along her neck. The snake wasn’t too big. It moved like wax, and it was ringed with alternating stripes of coral, black, and gold. The woman danced with the snake to a broken, scratchy music that came from a speaker that matched the one outside, as she wrapped it around one arm, passed it over her breasts, and then finally, took it tightly by its head and looked directly into its gemstone eyes. From time to time the snake stuck out its thin, forked tongue, cylindrical and wet as a worm. Staring fixedly, the woman suddenly opened her mouth and took the snake’s head between her thick lips, sucking it into her interior. Centimeter by centimeter, the reptile penetrated the woman’s throat, dilated with swollen veins like an opera singer’s. The rouged ring of the dancer’s mouth expanded more and more as the slippery body widened, and her eyes became glassy and cloudy, as though she herself had become an ophiuroid. The heavily painted lady spent a few long minutes swallowing the muscular, living cylinder, until the snake disappeared completely down her throat and into her stomach. Then she started to dance again, rocking her navel, sometimes shaking her white buttocks beneath the noses of the front rows, until she regained her vulgar gaze. Then she stood still again, her stomach moved a few times as though she would burp, her neck dilated again, and the glassy body of the reptile emerged from her lips like a tumescent tongue. Grabbing it immediately, she slowly pulled out the enormous earthworm, whose body bore carmine traces of lipstick. A cage was brought in and a black rabbit was pulled out by its ears. Once set on the stage, the snake lifted the first third of its body, leaned toward the disoriented, jumping rabbit and jetted forward, biting its ear. The rabbit held still, its entire body throbbed, and then it collapsed, all in a single moment, onto one side, its little legs trembling. The woman presented its corpse triumphantly, yanking it by the ears. She kissed the snake sweetly on the nose and exited to wild applause.

Next, two bare-chested gypsies in billowing pants juggled torches, to the chattering of a chimpanzee who, the lieutenant observed, had an ugly wound on its elbow. And it always protected it, keeping it close while it did somersaults, rumbling on its long and hairy arms with its knees tucked in. It had an oddly thick chain around its neck, held at the other end by the emcee, who had taken off his black suit and, in short-sleeves and shorts, was now the animal trainer. The monkey had such sad eyes that you could not look at it if you were past childhood. With its performance ended the “numerous wild animals” were announced at the entryway. Next there was a cataleptic woman sleeping on a bed of swords, who was none other than the big blond woman in her gold dress of flashing metal.

The officer let himself be stolen away by the charm of the fair again, marveling with wide eyes at everything that happened on the stage. The country boy in him was warmly happy, because when he was little he had never been on a teeter-totter, shot at a bottle, or gone to a circus sideshow, even though he would have given his own skin to do so. He had satisfied himself with what they showed on the platform, before the show, when they promised ten times as much if you went inside. Now he had entered, he was inside, and he couldn’t wait to see the spider-woman, the show’s number one attraction. And back in Teleorman, there had been, years ago, a spider-woman, but soon she stopped performing because — so the rumor went — she had married the ox-tongued man and gotten pregnant. The one here now was either the same one, which would make her pretty old, or another, maybe her kid. In either case, Stănilă had recognized her in the painting on the booths, at the entryway, her black mane and beastly green eyes, her globe-like tits, and the blind and hideous brood of black legs from which the monster’s torso emerged. It was identical to the one on the billboards in his memory, as though fairground painters followed canons, like those who painted churches.

In the end, after the starry rag of the stage background had framed a rather curious number (on a table, from the water of a glass carafe, dry leaves emerged and branched into a shrub the color of cinnamon. Multicolored, exotic fish fluttered tiny vial-like fins at the end of the many little branches, sucking water or sap. Sometimes they let go of the branch and glided around the fair hall, like sparkling dragonflies, to return to the bush and put their cartilaginous lips to the end of another branch), it got quiet and dark. Then there was a rending scream, a backwards scream, born not from a source outside of vibration, such as the larynx of a living man being chopped into pieces, but in the depths of the auditory cortex of each spectator, in the complex neurons that detect the loudness, pitch, and timbre of sounds, and which now created them out of nothing, curled up alongside the Sylvian fissure. In each listener, the roar of a spider and a woman lit the synapses and axons of the medial geniculate nucleus, ran down along the efferent nerves toward the inferior colliculus, encoded in the frequency of the electrical current leaping through supple tubes from each node of Ranvier that descended into the ventral cochlear nucleus, and filtered through the superior olivary nucleus in the brain stem, filling the aqueduct of the cochlear nerve. The electric scream passed through the massive brain stem, filling grottos and strange fissures, frightened Madonnas-with-child enthroned in stalactites, and finally entered the upside-down snail of the inner ear. It went into thousands of flashing rivulets, each watering, and at the end, it entered a transparent cell with tiny hairs housed along the spiral, between the tectorial and basilar membranes, in yellow, gelatinous lymph. Here, the inhuman howl, of being boiled in oil or flayed alive, of suffering a general metastasizing cancer, became a vibration of the endolymph that filled Reissner’s membrane, then transmitted the rising tidal wave in the oval window to the perilymph. Like a machine’s organs, the stirrup, anvil, and hammer continued the mechanical vibration and transmitted it to the tympanum, which, through the wax-filled auditory canal, made the air vibrate. And dozens of outer-ear pavilions amplified the scream like megaphones, alternately compressing and thinning the air, directing the terror toward the stage, concentrating it into one side, where a scarlet spotlight lit abruptly and everyone saw the spider-woman was screaming. The cries of agony, born in the minds of those who looked at her, penetrated her mouth, dilated her trachea, broke open the bronchi of her lungs, and swelled the thick veins on her temples. Everyone pumped into her the terror that passed through her torso, envenomed her breasts, and extended the arched bridges of her back, her hairy legs with terrible claws, her round and fragile stomach, full of eggs and innards, and the spinneret grown at its end, through which transparent silk ran. As with the voice of a woman who screams in orgasm beneath a man who strikes her rhythmically between her thighs, holding her hard, without escape, you could clearly distinguish two voices — one from the beautiful head with curly hair and thin skin like a child’s, and one from the pelvic animal. In the uterus, ovaries, and fallopian tubes, the vagina and labia, both voices are superimposed, and precisely from that mixture comes the excited and sweet moans, not just of any woman, but of your beloved, and not just of your beloved, but of any whore who ever screamed beneath a man. In the terrible howl of the fairground Sphinx, you clearly heard the voice of a woman and the voice of a spider, one stirring an amniotic pity, and the other freezing the blood in your veins and ravishing your mind with horror.

The spider-woman stood there in a blood-wetted corner of the stage and screamed, wagging her head on her long neck to one side and another for much too long for a human being, resembling more a transparent stalk, and scrutinizing the dark of the hall with her green eyes, like a wild animal, as though there were something she was expecting. The spotlight came from the back wall in a purple cylinder, like in a movie theater, illuminating the heads and chair backs in its path. The smoke of cheap cigarettes tossed and turned in the thick ray, making floral patterns of living ash. Although the officer, his hair on end and eyes gaping — Ionică from Teleorman, Ilie Aptrachei’s boy, who had never been to a sideshow — was completely under the spell of the sight of the spider with a woman’s trunk, a living movement, wet and small, much closer to him, attracted his attention suddenly and made his eyeballs converge in front of him on one of the heads, profiled in the wine-colored rays. He started violently and remembered himself, his mission, reality. Moving to rub his scalp, he tapped the edge of the cardboard fez. He yanked it off and threw it on the ground. For that head surrounded by the haze of flashing curls belonged, of course, to the Suspect, the princess, she of the tumescent neck, beautiful like no one else and repulsive like an image from a nightmare. Now, out of the tumor as big as a newborn’s head, peeling and oozing, a gently throbbing, glassy being emerged. The officer, leaning forward on alert, saw the worm prop itself up on small feet and emerge from the cocoon, with antennae like two needles with knobby ends and two flat, matte eyes. He saw it, completely hatched, clamber onto the girl’s head, wiping the liquid off, with its stomach alternately swelling and shrinking, and he saw how this action little by little pumped out a pair of ragged wings, unfolded them, flattened and dried them, until on top of the shining hair of the proletarian princess, like a diadem, the wings of a splendid butterfly spread out, much larger than the officer had ever seen. It took flight in the hall, like a multicolored bat, in and out of the spotlight rays. Its circles, following the bundle of Lobachevsky’s horocircles (ah, Herman!), came closer and closer to the Sphinx who, modulating her screeching into sweet glissandi like a meow, followed the flight of the lepidopteran with her green, beastly eyes. When, in a final loop, it sailed alongside the suffering face of the woman-chimera, a long and sticky tongue grabbed it, crushing its fragility, wrapping around its ringed body and pulling it into her rouged mouth, which chewed it avidly. For a while, at the corners of the mouth, the ends of dry wings were visible, but eventually these too slid into the mouth of the spider-woman …

“Stop! Stop! Turn on the lights!” yelped Stănilă suddenly, leaping to his feet. “Securitate!” The spotlight went out and there was a terrible scramble. People poured out on every side, running into and trampling each other. “Turn the lights on for fuck’s sake!” shouted the officer again, trying to get to the stage, buffeted by bodies in fur coats. Now he knew: the contact had been made! The butterfly was the message! “You thieves!” he shouted like he was out of his mind when he finally reached the dirty stage wings, a booth in fact, full of moth-eaten costumes. He grabbed the collar of the barker who, in the gray light of day that came through the window, was a poor little man with the face of a civil servant. The spider-woman was nothing other than a slutty girl with a chin full of zits, who had just taken the black and hairy legs made of thread-filled rags off her hips. The snake swallower was in a housedress and was combing the chimpanzee’s head for fleas, holding it in her lap like a child. A woman burst in, frightened, holding a piece of old newspaper — the baba in lamé, who left the booth door open in her surprise. “Aha! The evidence! You’re doing yourselves in!” Stănilă grabbed the newspaper that the woman was bringing back from the privy, unfolded it and …

Two years later, the officer still could see before his eyes an enormous, illegible, hazy newspaper article with a headline two fingers tall that he tried in vain to read, an article printed around a map of Eastern Europe, the socialist camp, over which, in a large arc, beginning with Eastern Germany, going down through Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Romania, and climbing again toward the middle of the Russian steppes, a word was written, in enormous type:

BLINDING

The lieutenant knew that he was holding a document of historic importance. The letters showed nothing other than the path of the travelling caravans, which cut through fields, crossed watercourses, went brazenly up mountains and sank into sulfurous swamps to draw (for whose eyes?) with invisible traces a word across the curvature of the planet. He alone, Securitate officer Stănilă Ion, through his exceptional abilities, had unmasked a (fascist? American? or, like he had read in Science and Technology magazine, extraterrestrial?) conspiracy against the state powers of the Warsaw Pact. Naturally, what he had found was only one tile of the politico-diplomatic chain of dominos, but it was essential. His superiors barely realized how important it was. As for him, he could not have imagined a greater triumph than to go home one fine day and embrace his little Jew and whisper in her ear: “Wife, take a look at your major!” “I’m very curious to know how a major makes love,” she would whisper, and the two of them would end up on the rug in their house’s sumptuous hallway …

Unfortunately, none (or almost none) of this happened. Stănilă did not receive anything more, two years later, than one star to go with the other two on his epaulet. A banal promotion, for years of service, not merit. After a moment of panic, the circus people had asked for his identification, and he discovered that he had no papers on him at all. They had been stolen in the crowd, even the badge from his coat pocket. Then the circus people began to yell and hit him with whatever they could find, shouting, “Crazy jerk! Get out, get the hell out of here!” Even the monkey jumped on his back and yanked his hair. Scratched and beaten by gypsies, smeared with greasepaint by saltimbanques, and blinded by clouds of face powder, he was sent off with a formidable kick from the spider-woman directly into the putrid pond behind the wheeled booth, where he lay unconscious until evening. When he woke up, across the sky there was nothing but a blood-colored stripe. The caravan had disappeared, and nothing more remained but the wooden sideshow booth in the middle of the deserted piaţa. Behind him, the motionless chain carousel stood against the sky like a sad mushroom. A dull bulb on a lightpost, far away, increased the air of desolation. The suitcase of fair trinkets, of course, had also disappeared. The officer came home huffing and hawing, after he had argued with the tram inspector because he didn’t even have five bani for a ticket. The last surprise of the unhappy day awaited him in his little nest of folly, where he found his wife discovering with delight how a major makes love … his own supervisor, Sycamore Bădescu, whose ruddy butt, decorated with two large balls, was pumping vigorously between the white gams, in satin stockings, of his Esther. It was given to the unhappy lieutenant to listen one more time, covered in mud and propped against the bedroom doorway, to her passionate abuse of the leaders of humanity …

Having reached this desolate point in his remembrance, the lieutenant-major, sitting in his office in an anonymous Bucharest building, held his head in his hands and pressed his eyeballs with the tips of his stiff fingers. He pushed until the green-blue dots drew a misshapen carpet over his field of vision that reminded him of the ink blots of a Rorschach test, where, at the time, he had only seen, only … but the officer refused to remember what came next, and he pushed away, with desperate gestures, the flashing images, loaded with hate and horror, with which his consciousness assaulted him: the starched fabric of the straightjacket, the bearded doctor, the tranquilizers, the fights with the other patients, the escape attempt at night, in his pajamas, in the deserted quiet of the tram. He’d been captured again and held in the high-security wing for six months, and for two of those weeks he’d been strapped down … And then the morning when he woke up with a clear mind and feeling light, completely in control of himself, when he asked to be contacted by his superiors regarding a question of maximum importance … The Securitate acknowledged him only after another week, during which he was subjected to countless tests, each more disconcerting than the one before, jumping between questions and images, until Stănilă came to believe he was simply a lab rat, the object of some research, with his mind exposed to reveal its obscenity and turpitude to inscrutable superhumans. They applied the Minnesota Multiphase Personality Inventory, which through its 550 questions crucified him on four validity scales (? L, F, and K) and nine clinical scales (hypochondriasis, depression, hysteria, psychopathic deviate, masculinity/femininity, paranoia, psychasthenia, schizophrenia, hypomania). Then came Galton’s word-association test in the Jungian variation, the thematic apperception, the Rosenzweig study, with 24 pictures of frustration, and the Szondi test, with 48 photographs of mental patients … In the end, terrible, terrible butterflies drawn in charcoal, pencil, and blood on the Rorschach cards (Herman Rorschach — isn’t that strange?), where he couldn’t see anything but … From messer Sandro di Mariana a. k. a. Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci learned to stimulate the imagination through chance marks left on a wall by a paint sponge. You could see landscapes and battles, and yellow human torsos turned in strange positions, but more importantly you saw yourself, since ogni pintore depinge se … Koch’s Baum test and the Machover Draw a Person test concluded the graphico-linguistic avalanche that a normal, dignified mind would have responded to in only one way: aphasia, and it may in fact be that this is always the response.

The pajama-clad lieutenant was in a daze of tests and para-tests when he was visited by an unusually massive man, with a head like an ox and brown eyes, who stood beside his bed, hands in his pockets, looking toward him without much interest. “I’m just a pig-farmer’s kid,” said Stănilă to himself, over and over, and not only in this regard. “That’s what we country people are, damn pig-farmer’s kids, ready to pull our hats on our hearts whenever the boyar comes.” And in fact, everyone in the hospital room had stood up in a kind of silly ten-hut even before the stranger showed his papers. And the truth is that he didn’t make a great effort. The doctor who followed him was so scared-looking that he didn’t need any other identification. At a wave, the doctor disappeared, and a short and frustrating discussion followed. The stranger did not believe one iota of the phantasmagoria with the spider-woman. It’s also true that he didn’t think the jejune lieutenant was lying. He believed that there, in the side-show booth, something else had happened: that the officer had found out about something so terrible that his mind had sealed the revelation off, had vomited it out like poison, like an object it could not digest, and it had woven in its place the flimsy scenario that Stănilă remembered. The traces of the truth might persist in his subconscious, so that the superior officer (Romanian Securitate? KGB? Both at once?) recommended — it was, in fact, an order — that Stănilă be interrogated while in a state of disinhibition. Resigned, Stănilă accepted. He knew what the man was talking about: Jagodka disinhibition, something they had also used. How the hell, he always asked himself, were the high-class spies trained to withstand an Amytal Interview? In any case, this method had proven more efficient than torture, and it had revolutionized the interrogation process. Only South American cretins (Stănilă still thought, then) would still use the electric clamps. Bloodthirsty animals.

That same evening, they gave him a subcutaneous injection of caffeine. The effect, in comparison with a cup of coffee, was of course more rapid and, above all, purer. His mind glowed like a crystal. He became more intelligent and articulate. He strove to convince his superior officer, sitting on a stool next to his bed, that his Moşi vision had been real in every detail. He described with cinematic precision the patterns and shades of the butterfly’s wings. He showed on what basis he held that the butterfly was the message. He reproduced from memory, verbally, the path of the wandering circus troupes over the map of Eastern Europe, down to the least important places they had gone. In fact, the entire map, like under a powerful light, shone eidetically in front of his eyes. He tried to read the title of the article floating around him like a fog, but it was, yet again, impossible. After a quarter hour they injected him, this time intravenously, very slowly, with a solution of sodium amytal, 10g per 100ml of sterile water. In a flash he saw — felt, knew, experienced — the entire network of his blood vessels, as though they were dyed florescent colors, and in love. His jugular veins, like two hands with delicate fingers, rose and fed the heavenly mandarin of his brain, which glittered all over with delight. And the blazing flame of love united his sublime body in happiness. The map of his body became the evanescent map of his language, twisting like the steam over coffee. His skin and nervous system formed a syntactic structure, branching in relations of independent, coordinating, and dependent clauses, groups of verbs and nouns, structures both deep and superficial, the fleshless, functional body of language. Morphology ran through his osteo-muscular system, and groups of muscles and bones were juxtaposed with parts of speech, contracting and relaxing in declinations, conjugations, and inflected endings; the paunches of coiled substances and glands produced the vocabulary in which epithelia and mucus and flat muscles and bacteria and vomit and saliva and gastric juices and fermented feces and insulin, lips and anus and esophagus and rectum, and bowels and duodenum, and bile and hunger and satiety merged, generating semantic fields. They stratified into calques from Greek and Turkish, slang and indecipherable jargon, the sublime phonetics of the respiratory apparatus, gentle fingers of god and zephyr blowing on the vocal chords; and the imaginary, the mystical body of the garden of roses, the moon leaning tenderly over the sun’s shoulder (the eternal incest of the sun and moon in our astral body), sprung from the sexual glands, from the grotesque monster between the legs, from the gaping eggs in their oily sacs and from the purple, rubbery glans, camouflaged in soft skin, in the cavernous body of the worm that spits in turn, into the world, and just as hot, the purest and most abject substance, the ivory of life and the residual waters. A more fantastic flower never blossomed from a more revolting root.

Sublimated cell by cell and organ by organ, turned into a complicated mist of words, the officer told them about everything down to the milk he suckled from his mother.

24

THE enormous man had paid, in blindness, for what he heard. Now, however, smelling like fresh snow, he looked at me with eyes again unglued. His shining pupils scanned the peaks and valleys of my face, chest, and hands, as though at some point he would have to describe them, down to their most miniscule details, or die. “You are Mircea,” he repeated and stepped toward me, the step of a blind man, as though, although he had these large, brown eyes, he could not see more of me than, at the most, an intense irradiation of blue light. When he held open his arms for a ritual suffocation, I ran out of the office, leaving the door on the ground, and I dove, still hearing a “Mircea!” vibrating in the frozen air, down the olive hospital corridor. I ran like crazy under the dirty light bulbs, turning corners and hitting swinging doors with my shoulder, passing the same sad and cold sights: corridors endlessly going forward, with doors on one side and the other, long stairways, with spittoons on the landings, leading to other identical floors … Fear, rising irresistibly in me, made it difficult to know what I was doing. The chest of my pajamas was drenched with sweat, in spite of the cold that emanated from the walls. Some of the open doors showed me nightmarish scenes: white beds, half covered in rubberized cloth, where old people lay with strange tubes stuck in their stomachs, others defecating through artificial anuses with nickel taps … children with polio, with the femur stuck directly to the skin, without any surrounding thigh, struggling to peddle medicinal bicycles … open-robed fat women, masturbating, their eyes rolled back in their heads … I didn’t stop until I reached our ward, lit through every window by a mystical fog, which told me I had been lost in the corridors for more than half a day. Only then did I calm down, looking at the patients playing Nine Man’s Morris on the veranda, bathed in golden light like saints, or lying in bed with their hands behind their heads. I went to my bed and curled up on part of the sheet, with my face turned toward the deformed man sleeping noisily, his mouth gaping at the ceiling. His sickly hand hung into the empty space between our beds, with his fingers apart and pale. He was in sleep. His soul was far away. Sleep bodied him gently forth. What if I stretched out my hand then and my finger touched his dark, shoemaker’s fingernails? What if I transferred myself into his martyred body? I would lay there, forever, a paralyzed kyphotic, dirty with excrement, half rotted, looking at the ceiling with frightened eyes, while he, in my adolescent body, would run toward the autumnal world, in golden sunlight beyond the windows. I smiled, because as a matter of fact I would have not been displeased to swap our skins and flesh. I was so tortured, thoughtless, and sad, that the whispered life of a hospital would have been enough for me, forever. I imagined myself as the oldest patient in the ward, in the halo of its horrible symptoms, beloved by nurses, regarded with veneration and concern by the other patients. They would change constantly, always ready to throw themselves back into the twilit jungle of life at the slightest amelioration of their symptoms, while I, in the center of my immobile universe, would be the eternal Patient, over whom mornings, evenings, and nights, summers and winters would settle slowly, like so many layers of shellac over a Chinese box. Thirty … forty years in the same bed in the same ward, holding steady the same calm and white day, in which no surprise awaits you: that was my image, at the time, of happiness. It would hurt, of course. I would have to swallow the medications, bitter as iron. At night I would be woken up for shots, but I would have no desires, memories, or future plans. I would have no papers or identity. My fate would not depend on my word or anyone else’s. I would never have to endure the torture of being evil, or the regret of being good. A pure life, of arid and warm contemplation, in a closed space, a shelter: this is what I wanted then, and perhaps I want it still …

After supper, we stayed up a few hours gabbing, looking at newspapers … A muscle in the corner of my mouth contracted vaguely when I tried to smile, for the first time in three weeks. I imagined how happy my mother would be when I showed her the next day. Mamma came three times a week, every visiting day, with bags full of jars of chicken soup and rice pilaf. She came with her eyes puffy from crying. She would do all of her bawling beforehand, so that she’d be strong at the hospital, not to discourage me. The next day would be the first time I could show her any sign of healing. I went to sleep with that on my mind, after lights-out, and I slept poorly, waking up irritated from twisted dreams that always repeated themselves, as though the projector in my brain played a filmstrip as knotted as a nest of snakes. Something in me knew, perhaps, that my mother would come to find me the next day in the basement, among those at death’s door.

In the middle of the night I suddenly woke up, as lucid as if I had never gone to sleep, not only that night, but ever in my life, as though the notion of sleep was unknown to me. I was lucid as a sculpture in a coffee bean, lucid as a hymn dedicated to lucidity. Opening my eyelids, I saw a human face a few centimeters from mine. The light of the autumn moon, of an incomparable transparency, emphasized the pale mask’s cheekbones and chin and left its eyes sparkling and obscure. Kneeling at the head of my bed, looking at my face with the insane expression of those without expression, silent, petrified, was the third nurse, “the saint,” the one without hips or breasts, that no one undressed with their eyes. I lifted myself on an elbow, not at all surprised. I smiled and put my hand on her arm. It was thin as a stalk, but it had materiality and warmth. As though this was all she was waiting for, the nurse suddenly put her arms around my neck and made room for herself beneath my sheet, with an unexpected energy. My penis hardened instantly and the thought passed through my mind, which was suddenly overwhelmed by a tidal wave of erotic chemistry, that I would, at last, make love for the first time, that I would enter for the first time the warm tunnel between a woman’s legs. The nights of suffering and wet frustration, when, hour after hour, I stalked movements in the houses across the street, when I froze my ears against the wall in the hope of hearing some moan from a woman next door, these would be recovered and, possibly, forgotten, like too-small clothes. Now the nurse tried to take me, she was on top of me, she kissed my neck and chin and put her hand inside my pajama bottoms, first touching me below my stomach, under the bar of rigid flesh, which then she encompassed in her cold palm and pulled forcefully. I turned her over and returned her touches. I felt her breasts, barely rising, but with pitch-black, unexpectedly large nipples, and I moved my hand down to the area of her curly fur, that area that grows deeper in the mind of man, the dark forest, the sacred wood where the Entry gave onto the unimagined and incomprehensible, toward the Enigma, the Garden, Glory, Horror, the cistern of fire of limitless madness of our being. Because, just as the Chinese mandala of Yin and Yang has darkness in the middle of light, the mind of man hides a uterus, a cavern, a carnivorous flower with fleshy and fuming depths, towards which he strives his entire life, to make love with himself in order to find himself beyond sex and destiny, in the pure kingdom from which we all emerged.

If I had become a man then, everything would have been lost, but I was, perhaps, saved. If the nurse had an interior sun, there, inter urinas et faeces, she didn’t have any path of access. Her uterine palace was as hidden and unassailable as the fortresses of hashish salesmen. Between her legs, this woman as thin as a stalk had a vulval structure more modest than a store-front mannequin. There was nothing to penetrate, nothing to conquer. For a few hours, maybe, we writhed, naked under the sheet, until I painfully and warmly ejaculated over her fingers and onto her stomach. We fell asleep next to each other, pressed stomach-to-stomach, reconciled and sad like twins floating in the same placental liquid. Before I sank completely into sleep, the words rang again, those the girl had constantly whispered while we flopped around like fish on land: “Go all the way! All the way!”

In the morning, I woke up alone in my bed, as though everything had only been a hallucination. Only the soccer player, rising beside me, winked once, happily. Had he heard something? It would have been hard not to. Only now I realized how loudly the bed must have creaked. Still, he didn’t say anything. We all waited, gabbing, for visiting hours. Autumn glided slowly toward winter, and that morning through the window I saw the first snowflakes of the season. In a few days, the hospital courtyard, where from the ward windows I could see that some alleys (and if I went onto the veranda I had an open but narrow glimpse into Ştefan cel Mare, with the round tobacco stand where the patients bought their cigarettes, and the rotting fences around the houses across the way, interrupted from time to time by a passing tram) would be covered by an early snow, only as thick as a finger, and the pavilions of aged stucco, that once looked like galleons rocking toward a green ocean, would become the ships of an arctic expedition, caught in endless ice, pink in the eternal, sad twilight. But it was warm in the ward, and its inhabitants, who left their identities and roles at the door, and even, in an odd way, even their memories to become living anatomical preparations, illustrations of Pick’s disease and Trigeminal neuralgia and facial palsy and narcolepsy, living together in a delicate Qumran, in a brotherhood not of suffering, but of irresponsibility and childishness, in blue pajamas, hunched on the foot of their beds and chatting … Hospital life had such charm, in the close, hot space, while outside the large windows it snowed …

During the visiting hour, Mr. Ionescu again found it meet to cause a fuss. He went after the nurses who, it seemed, purposely neglected him. It was funny that it didn’t bother him at all, the sadism with which the two old mares stuck syringe needles into his wrinkled buttocks, like into an old horse, squirting a few cubic centimeters of serum abruptly into his flesh with a kind of hatred that roused our indignation; nor was he bothered that he had to struggle and writhe and foam at the mouth for half a day, with his bladder about to burst, until one of them would take it upon herself to slide the catheter into his urethra; nor that they had given him, as a joke, a robe with buttons missing and put it on him backwards, with the big hole between his shoulder blades and the fabric unraveling everywhere. What he found intolerable was that the girls dressed indecently. “Harlots! I can see your underwear through the robe! Look at you, not even a bra, I can see you half a league away! No woman in my time would have walked around men like that! Not even in Crucea de Piatră they didn’t, I say, because the police would pick them up immediately! Moral corruption, the world is rotting like an apple, I tell you! The apocalypse is coming! Were there women like this in my time? Did whores like this walk the streets? There were whores, of course, but what women they were! The rich ones would put on extra petticoats, and when you took the last one off, I say, however coquettish and brazen she seemed, she’d turn red like a dove and bury her face in the sheets. They didn’t wag around, they didn’t, with their tits under a man’s nose, especially rickety, sick men like us. Shame! Shame on you!” While the old man’s eyes bulged out of his head in indignation, the girls fell over laughing, sorting medications in the compartments of their table. They stopped at each bed and left a few pills or brightly colored capsules on the nightstand, in a special tray, which, when shaken, made a happy, gentle clatter. One day, from one of these long orange and green capsules, forgotten on the nightstand of an old man with nocturnal bruxism, who always woke us with atrocious grindings, a kind of transparent larva emerged, slightly violet, with a complicated interior structure and four black, jointed legs. It pulled itself along the table and then disappeared somewhere underneath. From then on we all opened our capsules gently and carefully, and we only swallowed the bitter powder inside. We would all take the opportunity, when one of the nurses was at our bed with her back to us, to pretend to take her into our arms, to stroke her imperial buttocks, with the line of her underpants, indeed visible like under glass, in the back of the gown pressed to her ass, and to stick our middle finger into the shadowy wetness between her thighs. Then we would settle down, take our medications with a glass of water, and wait for breakfast: bread with butter (no salt) and tea in iron cups.

At eleven, as usual for that day of the week, I went off again through the hospital corridors to the office where I did “the rays.” This time it seemed like I made it there extremely easily, in a second. The vast labyrinth of green corridors was reduced (at least in my memory) to a single corridor, with a door at the end that seemed to me, maybe from the semi-shadow, scarlet and mysterious. When I went in, though, I found the banal and pitiful electrotherapy office, with mounds of devices dating from the time of Volta, exhibits from a technological museum. In the seventh grade I had tried to build a voltameter from cardboard, wire, and an empty marmalade jar: all of the instruments here seemed made by students in a workshop, from the same materials. Miraculously, they still worked, although the only proof was the movement of the stamped metal needles in the graded windows of thick, green glass. There was no sign of the doctor except a copy of Sport, forgotten on the chair, with pages turned down. But why did I need a doctor? I sat where I always did facing the galvanized metal monster, and I greased my temples with a little Vaseline from a yogurt jar. Then I put the electrodes on my temples, glued them with leucoplast, and stuck the prong at the end of the wire into its ebony plug. I turned the potentiometer gently toward the right, watching the needle come to life and move slowly over the screen. At the same time, I started to hear the somehow reassuring little sparks of heated Vaseline. Then I sat still, with my eyes closed, swimming again in my imagination, in the fabulous trajectory of rays through the empire of my mind. There were ghost towns there, villas with crystal columns, and torture chambers with instruments of gold. There were crematoria with violet smoke coming from their chimneys. There were Flemish houses lining canals where cephalorachidian fluid flowed lazily. There were chameleons with iridium jaws. While I watched the mysterious cavernous flux, I was blinded now and again by the multicolored shine of cave flowers. I was moved emotionally by a naked girl wrapped in cobwebs, by a pregnant woman whose stomach curved as much as possible and broke like a pomegranate and scattered into the holy night of light and blood, and by an old woman in a shell of sugar. In my mind, the words of the “saint” suddenly rang out, clearer than any real sounds that her vocal chords and cartilage could have made, echoing like in a frozen hall: “Go all the way! All the way!” Then, another voice, indescribably terrifying, annihilating, so intense and closed within itself that it could not have been composed of sounds, but phonemes, whispered quietly and powerfully in my brain: “Mircea.” For a moment, the enormous universe had this name. “Here I am, Lord,” I whispered, opening my eyes. I already knew what was being asked of me. And it was as though everything had already happened long ago. As I stood shaking in front of the tangle of wires and screens, with Vaseline licking my cheek and throat, for a long time I didn’t move at all. Finally, I put out my hand and took the potentiometer knob between my fingers. I can still feel its hard ebony ridges. I was not inside my body. Everything seemed like a sculpture from a block of yellow matter, a forgotten legend, an incomprehensible allegory. “All the way!” ordered the quiet, impenetrable nurse, who had no glottis, hyoid bone, tongue, tonsils, or palate. In the emotional sculpture one detail began to move. My fingers turned an ebony knob toward the right. A metal needle also glided to the right in a graded window, watched by two brown, inexpressive eyes. Hermetically sealed, like a syllable, in the glass vial of my body, I watched helplessly as I made the most insane gesture of my life, the one that unleashed, perhaps, everything. After I had turned the knob very slowly, after my lunatic internal structures began to shake, and chimeras and stone gargoyles fell off and smashed to bits on the pavement, and the quartz architraves of my temples cracked in zigzags, and a population of giant myriapods and termites swarmed in the dusk, I quickly turned the button all the way!

Back from the bathroom, the doctor found me on the floor, convulsing with clonic spasms, with red foam on my lips (I had broken a molar and bitten the inside of my cheek) and my pajama bottoms drenched. My temples smelled like something burnt. They took me to the basement, to intensive care, where I stayed in a coma for more than a week. They fed me glucose intravenously, and then through a tube down my nose. My epileptic seizures continued daily. When I opened my eyes again, it was evening, and a dry sadness floated over the intensive care ward full of people in agony, thousands of kilometers under the earth, with all history and all shapes and all ages. The patients lay on their tables wrapped in plaster sheets. A nurse in white, with a waxy face, stood still beside a podium. Nickel cases with boxes of syringes vibrated gently in the light-brown air. I stayed another week in that cargo hold. I saw outlines without being there myself. I made out sounds — moans, footsteps, a clink — without ears or hearing. Someone defecated, at times. Someone urinated. I was a duplicate, a copy, a picture, a mannequin. I saw, I felt, what a movie character sees, feels, and thinks, a character who moves and talks but is, in the end, only a spot of emulsion on a filmstrip. What despair and horror hides beneath the arrogant attitude and turned-up mustache of a grandfather, long dead, of whom only a picture is left? I was also long dead. They kept just my simulacrum. Glazed surfaces, eternal evening, plaster statues on sarcophagi … Falling back into sleep, wrapped to the neck in my liver and bile and nerves and guts … Curled up in my own stomach, feeding like a parasitic worm on the striated muscles of my homunculus … Blowing a living mist on my own mirror …

On one of the evenings, when the intensive care ward looked at itself for a few minutes, I suddenly felt that I was looking. I sat up, fresh and nonchalant, without any crack in my consciousness, perfectly aware of what had happened and where I was. I removed the transparent tube from my nose by myself, slowly, like an exotic parasite, and then I touched my face. Trying to smile, I noted — as I had already guessed — the elasticity and docility of my muscles that raised the corners of my mouth. I had made great progress. I could blink my left eye — true, more slowly than the right, and not all the way — and I could raise my eyebrows. For a few months, my smile would stay crooked, and my face would always have a gentle asymmetry. The world of my left eye, withered from so much privation and humidity, would be crepuscular and dark, with strange olive tones, but, combined with the radiant colors from the right, it would not bother me too much. On the contrary, this way my world has a special topography, which I didn’t notice before the illness, and which looks like the world in a dream, when every shape is porously illuminated by emotion.

Doctor Zlătescu, who was in charge of our ward, seemed to have expected I would come back to life. I hadn’t been myself more than an hour yet when she came toward my bed like a Fury, red with indignation, with her teeth clenched. She called me everything, stupid suicide, senseless, idiot kid. She asked me rhetorically (since she was too angry to listen to anyone) what had been in my sick head when I did that. Didn’t I realize I could have died, for Christ’s sake? Didn’t I think about my parents? And how bad would she look, she who was responsible for me as long as I was in the hospital? I listened, scared, embarrassed by the indecent sounds she made in the eternal twilight of the basement. I wouldn’t have known how to respond, anyway. After a little while she calmed down, spent, and sat on the edge of my bed, and after a long silence, she looked at me and smiled. Like a newborn who sees a smiling mask, I raised, reflexively, the corners of my mouth. “You’re going the right way, băbuţo,” she told me, mussed my hair a bit and left. I would see Doctor Zlătescu again after seven or eight years, one sunny day, downtown on Magheru Boulevard. I was with a friend from college and we were gossiping about the Folklore assistant when I saw her: even in the middle of summer when the asphalt melted under our feet, she was wearing a grotesque wool hat, with vines of her dandruffy hair coming out in all directions. On the breast of her spandex, fluorescent-green dress, she wore scout badges and medals. Yellow unit commander ribbons emerged from a purse of ripped white rubber-cotton that she’d found in some trash pile. Her face was a terrible mask of insanity. She talked incessantly, pointing at a parking sign … I was shaken for the rest of the day. That evening, I sat at the window for hours, in the twilight yellow like a sodium flame, repeating the motto of my life: “God, what is happening? What the hell is happening?” to which the city responded with murmurs and specters.

Mamma came every day to sob at my bed, to brush back my sweat from my brow and to straighten the bag of glucose on the stand. She also could not understand what had made me run hundreds of volts through my fragile skull, peeling off layers and layers of old calcium. When they moved me again to the neurology ward, she came back to life, especially when I could smile without effort. She kept trying to hide her hands, stiff and blackened like an auto mechanic’s, which I had seen right away, but I hadn’t wanted to say anything about their terrible state. She said she had cleaned the sink or undone the trap underneath, she wasn’t sure … Only when I went home again, after about ten days (during which time they did several EEGs without finding anything), I found out what had happened: my mother had argued horribly with my dad, and she was trying desperately to find a job and make a little money, so that he didn’t have to take care of her, a fact that he constantly threw in her face. Some newspaper ad had unleashed this mess. One day she came home with a spool of steel wire and a kind of bizarre drill, with a vise attached — it turned out to be a spring-turning machine. “Ma’am, this work isn’t for you,” the metal worker had said humbly at the shop that placed the ad, but my mother insisted, and now she was trying to work at home, in the kitchen, tripping over spirals of blackened wire, moaning and whining about her hands, while the springs came out crooked and twisted, or they sprang back, recalcitrant, smacking her fingers and scraping the backs of her hands. When she started it up, the drill screamed loud enough to make the whole block jump to its feet. In a kind of martyrdom mixed with pain and hate, and the desire to victimize the entire world, my mother kept at this dumb idea for a few months, and she never made even one spring right. Her hair smelled like hot iron, and her hands were one big wound, but she went back to her torture, night after night, with a crazed blindness, refusing to listen to anyone, her eyes fixed and red, and when I held her hands and tried to talk to her rationally, she writhed and shouted like she was out of her mind: “Leave me alone! Stay out of it, snotface! Leave me alone!” This was her plan to punish my father.

It had been a hard winter. The mounds of brown snow lining Ştefan cel Mare were taller than a person. The plows, lined up one after another, were still parked along the sidewalk, and their drivers, in coveralls and fur hats, stood in a circle for a little ţuica. In the morning, my windows were frozen everywhere. In the bottom part, the frost was completely dull and twisted in rhythms of Art Nouveau, while a hand’s width from the top, the ice became translucent, wet, and wavy, and through it, standing on the bedstead, I liked to look at the snowy city. The air was so milky then, and the fog was so compact, that the rapidly falling flakes were barely visible. Bucharest looked like a child’s drawing, all roofs buried in snow and smoking chimneys. The roads, in spite of the plows and salt, were covered again immediately with new immaculate layers, which then dirtied into puddles of milky coffee by twilight. And twilight came quickly, at four in the afternoon, when the streetlights came on, and the snow-filled sky darkened into rose and remained red all night. I spent countless nights at that window, watching how it snowed furiously in the neon lights, and counting cars and trams … Once, in a winter that I cannot place (in childhood? in a dream? in another life?), something disturbing and charming happened. Only a splinter of it remains in my mind, flashing now and then without hope of elucidation: the painful violet of the imagination … a snow-covered hill … a green window … Nothing more, but in this nothing was a tangle of beings and inexpressible states, a kind of a prophecy, an aura, a happiness with a tight heart …

In spring, late in April, at night, I had the first “dream” with that terrible, terrible sound, amplified into a flame. In the golden, transparent air of my waking mind, or my ultra-waking mind, open like a triumphant crown in my sleeping body, a spiral appeared in my head. A long and fine arc, made up of smaller spirals, each twisting in turn, rotated spiral after spiral, making another one, hundreds of times larger, which rotated in turn around another axis, making close, flexible circles. From the new tube another formed, and from this one another, endlessly upwards and downwards, so that you could climb up and down from spiral to spiral, from one existential level to another, without limits, you could encompass the entire spiral simultaneously in each of its spirals, you could simultaneously become the master of the universe and the nothing of nothingness … The grandeur of the embossed tubes that began at the third and fourth level up could barely be imagined, and the others grew exponentially, so much that they broke the crystal safe of any mind, escaping into obliteration and insanity. And still I followed them, while the sound of gold and the void grew with each new level, until the spirals and the sound were one, and my face shattered like a handful of dust in the breath of God. Then I screamed, carbonized by beatitude and torture, in phrases I no longer knew, although I could touch them like the hard blades of knives. After a time without succession, my being acquired an asymmetry, the volume of a non-spatial void and the absence of light. Just as abyssal caves swab the dark and cold with their bioelectric train, I felt a Being approach — a Being made of cosmoses. Every cosmos had inhabited worlds, and every one of those worlds had a multitude of inhabitants. Their material was fire, and their thoughts sparked like supernovas. I shouted toward that Being, and it responded.

The center of the dream, the gate, the vulva, can no longer be described. I woke up in another dream, in a foggy levitation, wandering through the well-known rooms of our apartment. At five in the morning, when the sun was a scarlet ball over the Dâmboviţa Mill and my sweaty parents were sleeping under disordered sheets, I felt a wave of love for my mother, for the closeness of her shape completely wrapped in a sheet, like a mummy. Then I went back to my own bed in the room above the street, a mechanical movement, without thought … I woke up disoriented. I remember the trip to the bathroom, my small pointless actions, and shaking all over, like a cornered animal … It would all repeat dozens of times, almost identically, up to today (yes, almost up to today), for fourteen years. And each time after that, sometimes for a week, I dropped everything, sinking completely into my piercing sense of predestination. I was called toward something, there were signs, coincidences multiplied, and in my mind there were imperious and strange images, but I was to be held a bit longer in the antechamber of understanding. I would have preferred eternal torture, if torture was predestined. My past was the key, the disturbing signs seemed to be legible, I had to begin the great reading, but no shining star offered me any epiphany of understanding. I didn’t know whether the lines of my life (voices and caresses, clouds and cities, laughter and the earth full of worms) should be read vertically or horizontally, from the left or the right, of if I should go back and forth in the boustrophedon of my childhood. I didn’t know if the writing was pictographic, phonetic or if it was a writing at all. Illustrations and illuminations, vignettes and friezes with labyrinths of reeds decorated the old book of hours, its pages made of skin. In the filigree of every page, I could see a braid of blue and red veins, beating with a single pulse, irrigating the paragraphs. Arborescent nerves made every letter as sensitive as a tooth. Mistakes were attacked with antibodies of lymph. The parchment was alive, like skin just flayed from a martyr, and it smelled of ink and blood. What precisely was written on my skin, or what was tattooed there, between my nipples, was completely obscure to me. Thinking and fretting didn’t help, just as good eyesight doesn’t help an illiterate. After weeks of helpless reverie, I abandoned the search and returned to my sorry everyday life.

25

“ ‘QUILIBREX!’ shouted Fra Armando down the underground corridor, through walls of pale-shining quartz flowers, and the guardian, completely covered in a rubber hazmat suit with a gas mask on his face, let us pass, after he pressed into each of our palms a glass cylinder, thick and warm, pointed at the tip, which he pulled like expensive candies, from a white cardboard box. I put my vial into my pants pocket and forgot about it for a long time. While we were walking, always in descent, along the more and more irregular path, crossing pitch-black lakes, staying away from the wheeling depigmented bats, whose ramifying veins were visible through their skin, pinched on the shoulders by crustaceans on the ceiling with comically long antennae, leaving behind formations of karst so beautiful your heart would stop, we watched the hierophants of the abyss out of the corners of our eyes. The priest was always ahead of us, lighting our way with a magnesium torch. I could not see his albino ally, unless I craned my neck and looked far behind us, which seemed to be somehow unfitting or prohibited, since Monsieur Monsú, whenever I turned my gaze, gestured angrily for me to look forward. Or maybe he only wanted me to pay attention to the ever more frequent fissures in the swampy floor: sinkholes whose bottoms you could not see, emanating a green tumescence. The Albino, with his now-dead raspberry bead floating over his face like a miniscule satellite shadowing a milky planet, was the last in the group. On his head and shoulders, the transparent crustaceans teemed in thousands, surrounding him, like a speleological god, with millions of rays of continuously moving antennae. His eyes, in daylight as pale as a snake’s, were now only two slightly bellied ovals, a statue’s eyes, with no trace of irises or pupils. We walked between these two as black people, more enslaved, humiliated, powerless and fascinated than any one of our people ever was. Hamites, Cushites, Ethiopians, and Zombies. Chained, tortured, and whipped by white hands like the sails of a windmill, leaving the Ivory Coast on reeking galleons. Filling the mines, bordellos, and common graves in fifty kingdoms. And we were still ourselves kings, suzerains of our teeth, whiter than the white man’s bones, masters of the confederacy of our pigment, masters of the totems between our legs … In the strange mine of our souls, however, we were not masters of anything. Melanie’s sweat smelled like a fox’s underarms, coming from the entire volume of her hippo-like rump, which chafed against the walls, breaking the mine-flowers’ fragile towers. She pulled Cecilia by the hand. Cecilia’s fantastical make up came even more to life in the aquarium-light of the torches. The constellations of gold on her eyelids reflected on the walls and ceilings like in a planetarium. ‘Look, the cosmos surrounds us!’ whispered Fra Armando, smiling. I followed him closely, watching how two tiny lines of blood spouted from the places where the thin tubes of his miter broke into his skull, behind his ears, to penetrate his brain with stereotactic precision. His blood had already soaked the collar of his vestments, and like an embroidery thread, it braided itself into the threads of gold, making angels and chrysanthemums.

“The path descended, and it couldn’t do otherwise, because the fibers of space themselves went down, as though deformed by a revolting, difficult suffering. The transparent insects, with thousands of glassy anatomical details under the shells of their teguments, became larger and more aggressive. With a strange movement of their legs, the spiders spat jets of saliva at us, trying to pull us into the spools of their sparkling webs, where you could see the dried skeletons of bats, axolotls, and children. The mineral mosaics on the walls seemed to continuously change their colors, and bizarre icons appeared in unexpected combinations of marble, pyrite, porphyry, and quartz. Vasilica, I saw Saint George across an entire wall, wearing a purple mantle, as we know him, but thrown from his horse, with a yellow fear in his eyes and holding up his right hand in defense, pierced by the lance of the bile-green dragon, which triumphantly, with fire pouring from his nostrils, spread his wings over the world. I saw a woman nailed to a cross with spikes of zirconium nails, and three men in black garments crying at the foot of the cross and kissing her last curls of hair, red as copper wire. And I saw a man with wonderful brown eyes, holding a girl on his lap who was only a few years old, naked and plump, giving a blessing with two fingers. All of these ghosts merged one into the other like the waters of a cotton vestment …

“After centuries of walking through the bowels of night, lapping at the sweet mirrors of ice, clambering over stalagmites the size of elephants, and shaking on rope bridges thrown over crevasses, we found ourselves advancing through flesh. We didn’t realize when, slowly, softly, during the course of our many backsteps and quick leaps ahead, the walls of the tunnel became warm, wet, and pulsing, so that it seemed like we were walking through an enormous vein. We stepped into ever more elastic tissue; and in the thick, hyaline walls, we saw countless miniscule cells with violet nuclei. The transparent insects were still there, but they didn’t swarm. They adhered to the walls, their bellies beating with pleasure. Their long, hard proboscides were stuck in the epithelium of the grotto, and they sucked a black blood, whose course into their stomachs was easily visible through their colorless bodies. We crushed hundreds of them in our steady, endless descent. With time, the flesh conduit narrowed so much that we could barely make headway. The walls began to stick together, a cavity had to be made, and Fra Armando forced our way by pushing aside the hot muscles, hidden under a pearly mucous. It was like he was swimming through ambiguously scented female flesh, as wrinkled and snotty as the foot of a snail. And unexpectedly, at the end of the last push, the Light appeared.”

Cedric trembled inside and fell quiet for a few moments. The night was high, and the tiny, frozen stars of winter were stuck like needles over Tântava. But no fiber of crystalline night air came in through the small-paned windows of the old house. The sisters listened to the story with their hands over their mouths and their pupils so dilated that it seemed like their little cups of ţuica had been sprinkled, the way their grandparents had done, with the fatidic gypsy seeds, to engender (through what chemical mutation of this venomous cure?) not a bestial desire to couple, but a longing for fiction. The mirror, set obliquely under the beams, beside the bunch of dried basil, doubled the lamp on the wall in its crooked waters, surrounded with sharp, prismatic rays, so weak that just one step away from its flame the light became brown as dirt. The only thing that the mirror could not double was the smell of sheep and holiness. The smell emanated, like another type of light, from the blankets on the bed with wooden stake legs, the short, three-legged chairs, the round table where bits of mămăligă remained, and the yellowed pictures in crushed-glass frames on the walls. Maria looked, her mind wandering, at the washcloths on the walls: she had woven some of them herself, before the war. Underneath, the cheap paper icons, lithographs in sepia and magenta, were now mandalas charged with power. They clinked the ţuica cups again, and they broke open more nuts … Years after this, Mircea would also climb up the hall ladder into the attic to examine the black roof rafters and the strange compartments in the attic floor, one of which was full of crunchy nuts. A slanted pylon of daylight came down, while the rest was dark. In one corner, between two girders, there always shone the wide wheel of the spider, with the fat insect right in the center, motionless, wearing its red cross on the back of its stomach. The boy bombarded it with kernels of corn, but the horrible creature did not deign to move, pretending not to notice the holes that gaped, ever wider, in its web. It only adjusted its legs slightly when it was directly hit, but after a moment it was still again, as though its obese stomach were terribly difficult to move. The indifference and power of the spider did not fit its size — they were those of a bison, or a hippopotamus. When Mircea poked it with a stick, the arachnid fought back, and it would not flee until the last moment, slinging from thread to thread and then running over the dirt of the floor so quickly that it scared the boy, and he dropped the stick and never again touched the attic hatch. He had no doubt that the spider would get him, that it would crawl up his pants leg, pull itself under his shirt, along his spine, under his shirt, and stick its venomous canines into the back of his neck. The next day, peeking up the ladder again, pale and very cautious, he calmed down. The beast was not going to stalk him and jump on his face from some secret spot — it had repaired the torn wheel and sat in the center again, heavy as a ball bearing, puffed up, emanating power and cold …

The sister took nut meat from broken, woody shells, dipped them in salt and munched in silence, and then they broke more, two at a time, against the heels of their hands. Cedric, inside one nut, found the pink, trembling brain of some small animal. He cleaned off the dura mater woven with little veins of blood, and crushed it with delight against the roof of his mouth. It was past midnight, and in the tile stove only ash was left.

“Following in the footsteps of Fra Armando, we all passed into the enormous hall. Enormous? Hall? Really it was a world, with a horizon just as far away as in our world. Its vault — since it seemed to be a half-sphere with an apex dozens of kilometers from our entrance and a height as hard to estimate as the vault of heaven — began from the floor and appeared to be fashioned from a yellow kaolin, perfectly flat, with no niches, louvers, or inscriptions. The light within the incalculable hemisphere came from the midpoint: it was a column of pure, liquid flame, descending from the center of the cupola to the center of the floor. The source was so far away that the quartz fire could never have filled the hall if the entire floor wasn’t a flat, blinding mirror, perfectly circular, prismatic, and flashing with the most delicate nuances of violet and strawberry and raw green and orange, coloring our faces and pounding us with confused emotions. The heavenly disc, with a gentle surface like warm ice, crunched below our feet, crystalline, like a massive glass platter, poured from billions of intangible concentric moats, which, from the center to the edge, opened symmetrical, pale triangles of reflection. This was the secret hall of Those Who Know, which had, I later understood, not one, but billions of entrances scattered over all the earth. Not only every cave or any door — even the door of a dirty warehouse or a sinister mausoleum — but any hole of snakes, any vulva between a woman’s legs, or any photographic camera could be an Entrance. Any book could be an entrance, any painting, any thought. This is because we were in the center of the center of our world, in the pineal ovum, the center of the flower, the eye of the heart and the heart of the eye, the flame’s flame’s flame’s flame’s flame. We were (incorporeal, apparently, we only then discovered our corporeality, the vertical swamp of wrung-out organs, imbricated one in another, the soft, aqueous machinery that constantly generates the mystical field of life without being life itself, the voluptuousness of love without relation to love, the fabulousness of thought while being the exact opposite) very close to truth, goodness, and beauty, three words for the cistern of light in the middle of our lives, that lightning which, slicing open our body to death between brain and sex, confounds them within one single sun, blinding, blinding …

“We lost years of our lives marching toward the center, and during that time we did not eat, drink, or sleep. Now and then we touched the warm glass of the floor, pressing our ear to it and listening to the chorus of a billion voices. Cupping our hands on either side of our eyes and looking deep into the mirror, we saw entire races of men and women, completely naked, holding their hands out to us and screaming in torture or ecstasy. Were we the angels of a sunken world? Sometimes we caught the eye of one of the young girls with hair falling in curls past her buttocks. She lay down on the pebbly earth of those islands, pressed her temple and breasts to the ground, and in a sweet lordosis raised her rump, in the middle of which her pomegranate sparked like a gemstone. Why, though, did she have those seeping crusts between her shoulder blades? All of these people were sick and deformed. Each had a different stigma. Hundreds of thousands of diseases exhibited their sequelae beneath us, upsetting but at the same time fascinating. For that young man, with a Greek face so upturned that the tendons of his throat crushed his Adam’s apple, would have filled out his form too well, would have melted into it, if a venomous anthrax, just under his left arm, hadn’t made him stand out, hadn’t given him true existence. All of them lived through plagues that served as their names, their habits, and maybe even their souls. They had cleft lips, flaking skin, paunches swollen with cirrhosis, umbilical hernias like watermelons, leprosy and scabies ennobling pink bodies that otherwise bore the imprimatur of tiresome perfection. I watched them for hours on end through the semiprecious floor, which cast a glassy green shadow over their faces as their eyes eternally searched for ours. And then our small procession set off again, always in the same order, squinting at the far-off liquid flame, which made prismatic flakes between our eyelashes. And what a giant landscape appeared under the floor of liquid agate! What a sunken continent! Blue mountains, with thousands of fog-wrapped peaks, rivers wider than the Amazon, fields with unknown flora, grazed by bats with human eyes … Legions of beasts snorting through the endless forests, where every leaf and every vein on every leaf was covered in calligraphy with a miniaturist’s akribia … Isthmuses of madrepore leading to eyes made of water with islands in the center … And we passed over gold and purple clouds with the steps of superfluous gods, incapable of dissolving the transparent hail between us and our creation, unable to intervene in the tragic course of the world …

“At great intervals (decades? years? hours? moments?), the column of fire flashed obliquely, touching a spot on the surface of the floor and then returning to the black center of the disk. From the circular moats, with diameters so large that their metal lines seemed straight, objects and creatures appeared, like sophisticated projections on a drawing table. Were they real beings? Were they simply phantoms? We would never find out, because we dared to look at them only with our sight. The nanosecond flash of a ray produced, suddenly, the city of Amsterdam, with each of its four thousand Dutch houses. It reflected their austere façades in its semicircular, inner ear-like canals. And Badislav Dumitru appeared in the doorway of the house destroyed by bombs, crying with his head in his hands, beside his bag of stinking garlic. And the priest from the village of Bârzava appeared, in his holiday vestments, with the quartz box holding the tooth of the martyr on his chest. And here was one of the sinister instruments that Herman used to tattoo Anca’s perfectly spherical skull. And now, the immense wall of Victor’s ilium bones, the enigmatic dark brother, the great and necessary and impossible Victor. And the dwarf hugging a white panther cub. And Dan Nebunul rising with the registries through the well of Stairway One’s interior courtyard, and the dusty-blue mushroom of the State Circus with its windows shining like diamonds. And the hansom of Efraim Scopitul, and the statue of C. A. Rosetti suddenly brought to life, declaiming in the center of five hundred statues in Bucharest, urging them to revolt, and the cloudy nimbus that Maria didn’t have time to see the day she went out with Costel in Govora, and Mircea (which Mircea?) writing a demented, endless book, in his little room on Uranus, and Fulcanelli howling at the bottom of the inferno, naked in the tongues of fire, and Voila, and Montevideo, and New Orleans, and the ice of Antarctica, and the pearls of universes strung on a metaphysical cord, and fractals, and national history with heroes and monuments, and Witold Czartoryski, the 18th-century Polish poet who saw through Costel’s eyes without his knowing or consent, and we ourselves, Monsieur Monsú, Fra Armando, me, Cecilia, and Melanie, and you Vasilica, and especially you, Maria (in hundreds of forms); and this nut, and this chair, and this glass lamp, and Tântava and everything, and all of it … So there was a time we didn’t feel alone at all: we were there with everything, we were one with the universe, we were one with all that was given to us to perceive and experience. And we understood then that we all were Those Who Know, that in all space and time, in all being, there was no place for innocence … that we all knew we knew, without knowing, though, what we knew. That the only non-knower on the face of the earth was yet to be born, because a single wave of his hand would make a transparent universe opaque, changing the fluctuating and fairy-like aurora borealis of potential into truth and reality. With each step toward the center, the disk changed into earth.”

Soon, the small procession could barely squeeze itself between so many walls, barrels, cables, people of different countries and epochs, fair monsters, stinking lagoons (which they crossed in gondolas), statues at every step — Hitler and Kafka and Lombroso and Pushkin —, branching seas with trawlers and whales … They were not surprised when they passed along the shore of Beheading with three beings crucified on pitch-covered crosses, whom they recognized as Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, in their rich oriental costumes, nor when Marconi, in front of his ridiculous device, received the first message over the air-waves: from quiqui quinet to a michemiche chellet and from a jambebatist to a brulo brulo … Crossing countries and seas, eras and spheres, finally they reached the middle of the middle, the enigma of the enigma, the navel. They were on the sharp edge, beyond which the void began. The black hole in the center of the disk must have been hundreds of meters in diameter. The river of vertical fire, which you couldn’t think of or look at, fell directly through this orifice, forming a great and holy mandala forming together a — yin and yang, matter and spirit, horizontal and vertical, woman and man, vulva and penis, in eternal copulation, palpable, the fire without beginning or end … The roar of this liquid column, like melting pearls, sounded like enormous rushing waters. They stopped there, half illuminated, half burned by the light of that light. Humanity, all humanity, flowed behind them and surrounded them, like an amphitheater of bodies stretching for dozens of miles. And strangely, however far away a face might be, an old man’s face, a child’s face, the face of a beggar or an emperor or a cardinal, even if it blended into thousands of other faces in a stripe of ochre at the edge of sight, it was perfectly drawn, and recognizable even before you actually saw it. Everyone saw each other as though they were in the foreground, half a meter away. Cedric, for example, recognized his neighbors from the The Crest, every last one here in the catacombs of the swamp. Everyone talked to each other, and their voices wove together like bindweed at the root of a giant tree — the great voice of a golden waterfall and wind. Concentrating on one face alone, you heard its voice at that moment, however far away the prostitute or pastor speaking might be, as though that voice had been born right in your ear, or in the auditory zone of your mind, like the wheedling voices of madness.

“Fra Armando waited for all movement to settle. The voices fell silent. The oak of flame raged and shook in its monotone flow, but soon its howl became the definition of quiet, and if this howl, which no one understood, suddenly ceased, the true silence would have made the blood run from everyone’s tympana. When the archon stepped slowly toward the razor’s edge of the disk, they could hear the delicate tap, like the touch of Chopin, of his heels over the gentle surface. The priest of all religions stopped just at the edge of nothing, with his face toward the purple flow. He raised his hands. The long sleeves of his vestments made thick folds around his shoulders, unveiling his unexpectedly thin arms. In that moment the irradiant column, dozens of meters wide, stopped burning, so that now a pearly liquid could jet from the apex of the vault, at once obscene and prophetic, because it looked like either procreative sperm or a melted brain, but most of all like the old and sickly gemstones that decorated the haloes of Byzantine Gods. Then the air under the fantastical vault withered into a warm, semitransparent brown, and the kaolin yellow walls began to pulse like skin, and to blush with an uncertain mosaic of red and blue capillaries, against a hyaline background of diaphanous flesh. Looking around themselves, some believed they were in the stomach of a giant being, distinguishing, with the stubbornness of amateur astrologists, beyond the skin of the walls, the richly irrigated wrinkles of a large intestine, and the circular muscles around a urinary sack. Others believed they were in the vestibule of a brain, and they swore that the folds, taken by the first group for intestines, were nothing other than cerebral circumvolutions, and the so-called bladder was the pineal gland, smelling of neural hormones. And, as the great disk of the floor regained its mirror-like qualities in this low light, we floated inside a sphere where up and down swapped places a billion times a second, becoming utterly identical, mixing layers of reality and possibility until being became homogenous, and no person could say who he truly was: the one that stood in front of the mirror, or the one that grew from his feet, higher and higher toward the Nadir. He was in fact both. What every person had intuited at some point in their lives somehow, suddenly, became clear: that reality is just a particular case of unreality, that we all are, however concrete we may feel, only the fiction of some other world, a world that creates and encompasses us …

“A great mystery, a penetrating melancholy spread now through the billions of surrounding eyes, which in the peanut-colored penumbra shone like balls of glass hanging from thin peduncles, as though all of humanity, melted under the organic sky of the grotto into a single being, was nothing more than a carnivorous plant, a sundew cup open in the bog, flashing its sticky diamonds under the sun at dawn. Everyone waited for signs and wonders, for admixtures of angelic protein into their poor terrestrial feed. How those eyes would have adhered to a lost angel, blown by the wind over sulfurous fens, how they would have touched, delicately, thoughtfully, and ravenously, the rings of gold falling over his shoulders, his ribs sculpted in morphyl, his sandals of iridium wire … How they would have immobilized him in a terrifying embrace, he who came to bring the Gospel to the garbage of the world. How they would have digested him, organ after luminous organ, voice after voice, drinking him through their eyes, then turning their faces to the remains of feathers and bones scattered in the wind, sterile insemination in sycamore eyes of water, full of larvae and mosquitoes … How they would have waited then, for centuries and millennia, those eyes becoming clear and innocent again (a sign of hunger), for another messenger, another revelation of Good News …

“Fra Armando turned toward the immense auditorium and began to speak, profiled against the quaking column, his face so dark that his features were visible only as a sketch of fine lines, like the impenetrable mask of an insect. As he talked, his strange miter spread one or more mechanical petals open, so that by the end of his speech, the rosy brain of the hierarch was unveiled and defenseless, in the middle of a flower of steel. The pipe as thin as a syringe needle irrigated Wernike’s area in the left hemisphere, with a yellow milk, vesicant or nutritive, or both perhaps …

“ ‘There are gods,’ he said, ‘there is Divinity. The countless grotesque, tragic, false, and crude religions are only sensory organs, ways our world touches what transcends and creates us. They are the insect’s antennae, the grub’s palps, the open eyes of soothsayers, through which we touch? attract? drive off? murder? love? the divinity that approaches. The eternal schizophrenia of religions, tangled in rites and interdictions, stained with visions and blood, inverted against conscience and happiness, and preaching another conscience, another happiness, is like a parricide who wants his father to be king, and kills him to become one himself. Religions are madness, and yet they are the only way, since they are the only way out of our world that the mind (our organ to detect gates and exits) can imagine, the only great purpose for which the universe lives. Because an enormous conspiracy in the world is being plotted against our being: everything, the pencil we touch and feel as hard, the pain that darts through our molars, identical days, the fact that every morning we open our eyes in the same room with the same things in their places, the sun that never suddenly turns green — everything wants to convince us, against all evidence, that existence actually exists, that the world is real, that we are truly living in a true world. That we should be calm, that we should be born, that we should live, that we should die comfortably. But how can the wall exist in front of me? In a single second when the voices in your ears stop, in one pure moment of meditation, all of the demented propaganda collapses, and we begin to shake the bones of our minds awake, trampling down madness with madness. Because everything and everyone, however monstrous or distorted, whether motionless in catatonic dances, rounding their circular retina, clanking rat skulls at the waist, crowned with human teeth, or spit on with gold and myrrh — these images themselves are phantoms produced by neurons, along with acetylcholinesterase. Gods and demons, with cannibalistic mouths or with no mouths at all, say the same thing, always the same thing: You are not from here. Here is not your kingdom. You must leave, you must find your world, the world where you have been and where, without your knowing, you long to be. You have to search for the exit, this is the purpose of your life, for the rules of the game at the level where you are. Everything conspires to convince you that there is no exit, and truly an exit does not exist until you search for it. And in a way, the searching is the exit, as though the space you move through with hope and faith were to harden behind you, and construct your exit tunnel, your own, open only to you, like a pore that spreads suddenly in the flower-petal skin of Divinity. No sect, no church can take you there directly. Prayers and postures cannot help. Churches are like dreams: the vein of ore runs thin through many strata of useless sediment. The art of belief is the art of sorting. But everything in a rite is a sign, an indicator, flickering under centuries of perversion: a wonder, a hallucination, a catastrophe, a bearded face in a triangle of rays — here, there is nothing to find, but from here, you can begin to search. Wonders exploding like a carpet of bombs over Judea. The billion faces of Krishna, permitted for a moment to a few human eyeballs. Turquoise giants, god-goddesses, from the brain of he who listens to Bardo Thodol. Koans and mandalas and the Great Vehicle and the Lesser Vehicle and the light of Tabor and interior prayer. All of the techniques of ecstasy, all of the alkaloids of sacred plants and those distilled (coca and angel dust and speed and acid and grass and Jacob’s ladder and smack), all dreams, all mantras — all of it leads here, to this hall, and you have all arrived here by searching along one of the endlessly multiple paths. Perhaps all of you see, in the cistern of living fire from the depths of your being, a Salvation. And it is true, here, we stand in the center of any one of us, because, sinking ourselves into ourselves as though we descended inside a tower and we extended the decent into the earth all towers are built on, we would all meet in this great common hall, this hall that is everyone’s and no one’s. But the revelation has only now begun.

“ ‘Churches are machines to travel to the past, and the sacred is a mode of feeling your first childhood. The past is everything, the future nothing. That is why they crush us, that is why they frighten and overwhelm us with their sparkling vaults of carnelian and their niches with statues made of mercury. They are enormous because we are miniscule. We are human mites, wandering through temples and basilicas and circular labyrinths, over gentle stone slabs with mosaics, watching the ceiling rise immeasurably high on the nerves of ogives, sparking from the light filtering through magisterial rosettes. We do nothing but remember, we see again with a child’s brain the house where we first opened our eyes, the fantastical room where we learned to perceive shapes and colors. And especially, we see how the gods — our mother and father — changed the lines, interfering between our eyes and the walls, furniture, pictures — in the space that had just gained consistency. Yes, Mamma and Pappa, we meet them in the church, and the myths speak about them. Their emblems decorate all of the iconostases of light, because they are the torero’s cape, they are the idols, they are the gods, they are what they are … The inflexibility of sects, the monotony of voices, and the smells of the censers open a conduit in our minds (or our navels, our genitals, our hearts), there where we are the most naked and soft, toward the Precambrian era of our lives, when we were the passive subjects of quotidian salvation, sucking, swaddling, elimination and sleep, with its enormous freight of dreams. Then there’s our waking, the smile of the gods, always in the same forms: the ceiling, the walls, furniture, and pictures, and then emotions impossible to express in language, since language comes only with a sublimation of emotions, on the fossilized earth of true fear, love and hate. The words we use for those things today are only the shadows of shadows, and even much worse: betrayals, contortions, forced etymologies. We will not sob our hardest anymore, not under torture, not in Job’s despair, the way we did when we were infants, and we will not be able, it is not given to us, whatever we do, to love the spirit of God with passionate abandon, childlike, the way we once loved our mothers, when love was not only love and we were not only ourselves, and Mamma was not only Mamma. The essence of the essence of the sacred: memory. The memory that precedes memory. The transport to the world of an encephalon largely free of myelin, that sees, thinks, and feels differently, closer to the seed we exited — namely, the Exit. Even in the embryonic state, the process of maturity begins, the process of betrayal. Even then the basal axons of the mind are swaddled in blankets of myelin, and thus mummified, separated from one another. They become simple logical cables, barely communicating through their terminations, which still never touch. What used to be a unity of minds, the intimate epidermic contact of neurons, is destroyed even more completely in early childhood. Once the vital circuits are complete, the emotional circuit has its turn for mummification. The white substance spreads like scabies toward the edges of the brain, shaping, sparking, isolating, estranging. And in adolescence the oligodendrogliomas triumph almost in full: thought itself is myelinized. This is how we forget, we forget ourselves, and the blinding reservoir, the central canal of our life’s plasma only appears in dreams, rites, psychoses, per speculum in aenigmate … Oh, if just once, one mystic would be able to melt, through meditation or inspiration, the deceitful white substance, recontacting the skull’s neuronal matter, a billion times more than critical mass, remaking our original brilliance! What fusion, what a magnificent spark and total dissolution of the cosmos and maya! What a rose of nonbeing pearls! Saints and illuminati, gods and archangels would perish with carbonized wings like flies around this fire, original and terminal and incomparable … Like a salmon, this mystic would have to travel backwards, thrashing upstream against time, his brow cutting against the currents, leaping over the high threshold of cataracts and waterfalls to ever purer waters, sweeter and colder, to the point where the spring is lost underground, in the kingdom of pyrites and agates. Simultaneously, he would cross, in reverse, the entire structure which corresponds point by point to the ages of his theology, noology, biology, geology, and nadalogy, all of it illogical and impermeable. He would descend below the pia mater, through the six layers of the neocortex, go deeper through the limbic system, wander the paleoencephalon and the dozens of Arcs de Triumph of the vertebrae, cross with great thrashing and effort the blood-brain barrier, which estranges the central nervous system and buries it in the sarcophagus of the body, unrecognized by antibodies as flesh of his flesh. He would collapse into the somatic, drenched in humors and tissues, and then cross, with intense effort, the second barrier, the body-world barrier (because we are Russian dolls stacked one in the other), cross the golden platter of the world, and reach that same light of the happy void in the end, because time and space and being are one …

“ ‘There are gods, but where is the God? Why have you come here, from your towers, from your rotating lighthouses? Why have you descended snail-spiral stairways within your self, coming here, in the self of all, in the Self? Did you realize that any kind of diving (into thought, dreams, crystals, seas, reading) leads here? That whenever you took a step down the greenish stairway in your block, or a basement, or a grotto in the mountains, you were coming closer to this place? I look at you: you are all here: the real and the potential and the illusory. Real people, characters from books (welcome Dionysus! and you Oliveira …) or films, or computer games (Mario and Luigi, each holding a fat koopa), opaque as the Zohar, semitransparent as agate or transparent as abyssal worms — you are all here, for what? Naturally, for Him. For the constructor. For the one who created. For the weaver. For the shoemaker Arepus who holds us all on his craggy knees. For the brain that dreams us and the sex from which we spouted, hot and screaming in pleasure. For the one who saves by beginning and who does not save, so all may begin. Like a female butterfly, he has scattered his pheromones in the world, and you swarm now around that stomach, musky with sacredness, wilting deeply, so deeply with the desire to be, that is, to be saved!

“ ‘Since you arrived, however, you haven’t seen a single god. Only a cerebro-genital cavern and an Excalibur of light. Chalice and sword, greater than the mind and more eternal than the sex — but no god. So one of you might raise the chorus again, like a spider, “God is dead” and shouting we are in the cylinder of death, we agonize, we agitate, we search stubbornly for exits, we move the ladders here and there, we find dead-end caverns and return to the cylinder, gripped by sudden flashes and folded vibrations, and in the end each of us is extinguished, one after the other, like tiny light bulbs, and we leave behind putrid carcasses, dried shells, and dead eyes at the bottom of the jar. But even in this case, the triumph would be ours. The ashen inventor of the jar would not, as we might have thought, fill it with disappointment, but with pure and fresh happiness. Because where did the cylinder come from? And who crafted the stairs? And whose fingers send out the folded vibration? The fact that he kills us is nothing compared to his great mercy, to the terrifying patience that sprang from his heart when he let us live. Living, we knew him. Being, he saved us, and will we be saved eternally, even when we are smashed to pieces, even when we are crushed, bone by little bone. No one, opening his eyes, sees anything but you, Lord! No one, battered by suffering, howls anything but your name. And any living person who shouts, “God is dead,” moves his larynx with the trade winds of your breath.

“ ‘No, the God has not died, he is us moment to moment, or better said, he will be us. Because we all wilt with the desire to become organs, glands, systems and apparatuses in his body, neurons in his thalamus, sperm in his eggs, or simply quarks in the abyss of his matter. And our whole world is only the heaving, the pitching of selves toward him. He is not He-Who-Is, but much more: He-Who-Will-Be. God has not died, rather he has yet to be born. All of us, already illuminated by his foreknowledge (because our flesh is the herald, our flesh is the good news), being only the supposition of our future being, we will one day be him, he will one day be born in us, so that he can someday give us birth. And just as the poet is preceded and formed by the form-without-words of his poems, so God himself is born from the center of his creation so that he may create it. All worlds exist to be existed. All are pregnant with their own gods, the monads are women heavy with statues of light, the starry tree is blossoming, and in the ovaries of its flowers are void and happiness. All creators are the creatures of their creatures and are born to create them, in unfissurable duality.

“ ‘We are creation. In a superior world someone will write, letter by letter, or will draw, feature by feature, the sublime and grotesque of our silhouettes. And any gesture we can make, we make because one day it will be described in a work. We are unable to conceive of, or to experience what will not be written. We speak what is put in our mouths, we see what is given to us to see, and what happens is what is written to happen to us. But we are creation before it is created, because to be created always supposes creating. We are here on a limb, at the edge of existence, because what is the center if not an edge inside? Descending in our minds, for years and years, with stubbornness, writhing, and sleeplessness, clenching our teeth until they shatter, leaving behind a trail of saliva, blood, dejection, logic, calcium, and fear, we come here to find ourselves one moment, at the end of our lives — facing our lives, which have arisen before our eyes like a monumental stairway, but one where we cannot take a step, not because weakness impedes us — no, we do not lack for will — but because we are here at the impassible edge of edgelessness, and however many steps we climb we will still be at the edge, and even if the light of our being would grow a thousand times with every step, the next step will find us just as profane, marginal, and opaque as the first step we’ve ever taken. In this way we will wander eternally, on Jacob’s ladder, at the peripheries of Divinity, on the vacant lots of revelation, wilting while we regard the far-off spring of fire. We cannot enter eternity gradually. Wonder is not given in a series of steps. Beyond the walls are other walls, and beyond those walls other walls, and wonder is the sight of endless walls arranged close to each other, the way the rose is not its center but the scented arrangement of its petals, its edges, and its surfaces. You will suddenly snap the crystal rose from its iridium tail, because tearing off petal after petal is pointless.

“ ‘Because we are creation before it is created, we have gathered here all of those who will be created (for you know this much, Those Who Know: that you will be created, and that those who do not know will never exist in this world, just as in a book no miriapod or hero or smile exists if the author does not write: “miriapod,” “hero,” “smile,” and in fact, you, knowing, already existed and existing, you are already saved, albeit only by salvation), out of the limitless fear of staying on this limb forever. I imagine the howls of horror from all the unborn — unbeing must be only self-horror and self-terror, only cries from the inferno. Out of fear we dive into ourselves, calling on our god like a child in a dark room calls for his mother. What we do not know is that the God, now, whimpers with fear, because he too is not yet a god, the way a woman is not a mother until she has borne a child. So we walk blindly toward one another, through fear, the world, and its god, World and God.

“ ‘We are here to give birth to our mother. To give birth to the One who will give us birth. It’s true, the Exit is barred and we will not give birth to ourselves in other worlds. We will not emerge from this stomach, rather, we are all the stomach from which He will be born, because any world is a stomach that swells and contracts. We will save ourselves through him, inventing him, conceiving him, and he will seem to grow within our world, but in fact, he will grow within an enormous world, one much higher, because he, rising from our plane like the crest of a wave, into the third, unimaginable dimension, will curve toward us to see us, describe us, create us, syllable by syllable and turn by turn, the way we hang from the pearl statue of his body. We will see him only in sections, because he is perpendicular to our world, bowed deeply above it. We will see the succession of his bodies: at a few months, a year, three years, five years three months, five years three months one hour, five years three months one hour and four seconds … how he slices himself amazingly thin, with the mechanical microtome, into microscopic slides suspended in Amann’s lactophenol, then dyed green from iodine and fuchsine (since they are transparent sparks and would be completely lost in the transparency of our illusion), but we will lose all that is not coplanar with the disk of our lives, the way characters in a movie will never see the thick beam that projects them, or the hundreds of eyes that watch them in the dark theater. We will see him grow among us, but he will not be among us. We will interfere in his life, with discretion, in succession, and in helping him become what he is, we will leave nothing, but nothing to chance. The smallest incident: a worm writhing at the end of an invisible thread, an unforeseen snowflake caught on his chin, an inflection in the voice of any one of us — will modify a letter, line, or paragraph in the book he will write, and which is the only world we have. An inopportune sneeze, and one of us disappears. A fluttering eyelash, and he’ll never write a thing. Surveyed by us like ten thousand apostles, served by us like a cohort of angels, the boy will grow in wisdom and vigor, but how much he grows in glory, we will never be able to know. Because he will be at the same time among us and in a greater world, with an extra dimension of glory in the world for which we are only a flat, dull projection. And this world of glory is, in turn, nothing but the flat, dull purgation of a world of hyper-glory, with another god that writes in the golden howl of inspiration, written in turn by another … And the tunnel of gold, ever longer and heavier, stretches endlessly, like a string of pearls in which the string is only an infinite point of light, and the pearls are enclosed within each other, pierced through their blinding center. And it is bizarre that each of the pearly spheres is founded on the others, born of the one below it, just so that it once, sometime, can give birth to one more, in an endless flickering of the possible and the unreal and the real, in a dance of transparencies and opacities, around the thread reduced to that most ecstatic star …’

“The steel flower was now completely open, to expose in its center, sagging with its own weight, the throbbing brain of Fra Armando. The crowd, hungry for a miracle, looked longingly at him, like a loaf of fresh bread they hoped would be broken and set before them, so they would eat and be filled, and they would take of the broken pieces left in the baskets. Somewhere in the first rows, a scrawny woman held, with a kind of pride, a heavy glass cylinder where a yellow fetus floated, spongy and tranquil. I remembered the vial in my pocket. When I put my hand in my pocket, it was warm and hard. But I could not pull it out, because it was flesh of my flesh, my erect sex, my seed risen to the tip and ready to spurt. Did all the men in the crowd have erections? Even the boys, even the babies asleep in the floral scarves tied on their mothers’ backs? I glanced to my left, at a dwarf — sweaty, myopic, with a hideously red mouth: yes, his risen member was visible under his cotton pants. I no longer doubted this strange effect of approaching the sacred, as I knew that all the women’s and girls’ vulvas were sweetly moist. Because this happens however often we dream, regardless of the content of our dream, as though the great light of the dream were of the same nature as the smell of a cheek and the velvet of skin and the stiffness of another’s pubic hair, as though the dream were our interior partner, a woman if we are men and men if we are women: it excites us, it stirs the lubricating seminal fluids, it incites our minds with fantasies and tangles … To ejaculate in the uterus of our dream, to fecundate ourselves, like snails, to make love with ourselves between the kaolin walls of our skull — this is what we always wanted, and we have wanted it perhaps forever …

“ ‘He will be born here,’ continued the priest, ‘as here all of us are born, because here all our minds and sexes meet. Here all uteruses intersect and become one alone. The central point of our world is the central point of each of our beings. All women ever inseminated were inseminated here, just as all people, however different from each other, meet in the idea of a person. He will be born somewhere, sometime, from a concrete and living woman, but we must conceive him here, first. How could someone become a prophet, without having the model of a prophet? How could a god ever be born, if we did not know that gods existed?’

“Fra Armando turned toward the raging column of milk and sperm, whose vines rose and entwined in rapid vortexes. He spoke to it, his arms spread, in an unknown language. Sometimes, I thought I recognized the gutturals of Somalians, or Arameic glottals, the lip-smacks of the Dogons, or the fifths of the Javanese. ‘Mineymoe,’ he often shouted, like an obsessive cadence of speech, and when he uttered (barked? cursed in torture? ground his teeth?) this word, he also made a gesture with his hands, half masked by the golden ephod and the maniple that doubled his brocaded sleeves. It seemed he sank his claws into his sternum, yanked out his ribs with a demented effort and tore his heart from the roots to offer it, with incomparable terror and devotion, to the vertical Jordan. The flame ignited again, flickering and fluttering into the consistency and light of liquid gold, whipped, it seemed, by the barbarous consonants, the hisses and whoops of the great priest’s voice. Fascinated by his bizarre invocation, I had hardly noticed that the formerly still crowd had begun an agitation: one by one, a few dozen girls, naked to the waists, their hair in hundreds of braids, their pupils dilated by belladonna, came to the front, pushing their shoulders and hips past those around them. Some had their nipples pierced with glassy jade rings. Others had a violet swastika tattooed between their breasts. More than a hundred girls filled the space between the priest and the crowd. Wherever they stepped their bare feet on the gentle floor of transparent stone, they left a moist footprint, surrounded by vapor, which slowly evaporated.

“ ‘Mineymoe!’ growled the officiant for the last time, and the hundred virgins imitated, in an echo, the holy syllables. Their thick-lipped mouths, crudely tattooed to their gums with blue signs, hung open, showing their red, voluptuous tongues in all their length, under the arches of their shining teeth. It was a strange and frightening vision. With their eyes dilated and tongues stuck out to the maximum, the girls trembled. Entire groups of muscles on their thighs and arms, but also along their spines, beat with a life of their own, like the muscles of an epileptic, or a great hysterical seizure. On their muscular tongues small swellings appeared, amplifying the texture of their taste buds. They grew larger and larger, until they turned into white cysts, frightening to see, that burst one after another, drawing screams like labor pains from the martyrs’ throats. With still-wet wings, with a bead of sparkling liquid at the end of their raised proboscides, hundreds and thousands of butterflies emerged from the blisters. At first as pale as embryos, they quickly took on kaleidoscopic colors, velvety or metallic, and took flight from the rent tongues. Soon, the entire cavern teemed with them, but the largest and most beautiful, with eyes like Chinese fish and stalks fluttering a handspan past the ends of their wings, swirled lazily around the steel flower and brain at the edge of the abyss.

“ ‘Mineymoe!’ murmured the multitude, and I found myself whispering, along with them, the barbarous word. The virgins collapsed to the floor and lay like the dead. Only a shiver at times agitated their gelatinous flesh. Dozens of butterflies, with their wings full of peacock eyes or branches of coral, swarmed now onto the bare brain of Fra Armando, like a thick pollen of plush and velvet. Months before, in countless places on the earthly sphere, young girls had taken walks through fields of flowers. A large, heavy butterfly, out of nowhere, spiraled around them, and the two tumbled to the ground between marigolds and daisy chains. Then, impelled from within, as though it were winter and she wanted to catch a snowflake, the girl stuck out her little cat tongue so that the butterfly could land and caress her striated palate with its wings. The tentative steps of those six feet across the lingual mucous proved to be an unexpected pleasure, yet soon a vibrant pain took its place, because the winged beast had stuck its toothed ovipositor into the scarlet tongue’s flesh, inseminating it with eggs as small as poppy seeds. Then it took flight again and vanished, leaving the girl to sob among the flowers like one violated by a fairy-tale flyer.

“The cerebral shell of the priest began to radiate an aura of fire, which incinerated the lepidopterous wings like dry leaves. Then, like a hydrogen balloon, his pink and snotty encephalon began to rise, with the cerebrum and stem, pulling the spinal marrow out behind it, freed from the yellow canal of the vertebrae. His body, emptied of noble substance, fell to the ground like the robes of a courtesan, leaving this second, truer body to float, free and glimmering, in the thick aspic of the hall air. It hung above our heads, immobile, for as long as the unbearable torture of Cecilia lasted. For soon The Albino emerged from our group. His white Pierrot face accentuated his black features. He snapped his rawhide crop now and then against his military boots, and when he reached the crumpled body of Fra Armando, he used it to push the body over the edge, into the abyss. He turned sternly toward the crowd, advanced on the first rows, and lashed them as hard as he could, gasping, until the whip tossed squirts of blood and pieces of torn ears and fingers into the air. People shoved each other and screamed, until a large amphitheater, full of fallen bodies, flayed to the bone by rawhide, formed an arc around the Master some distance from him. The silence was total; not even the wounded, some with cut throats, others with crushed eyes, dared to moan. Frightening, in this silence, was the sound of his metal-tipped shoes on the hyaline tiles. As for the silence of the central cascade of lights, it was mystical and negative — compared to this kind of silence, the lack of any sound would have been a monstrous cacophony. It was a quiet outside of hearing, or the ear, or consciousness — it was Outside. Monsieur Monsú reflexively straightened his colonial uniform and turned toward the ivory flow. With the end of his crop, he drew a complicated, indecipherable weaving, which persisted for a second in the air, like an illusory macramé. The viscous column stopped flowing at once, and the silence, terrestrial this time and greasy, drenched us like sweat. The edges of the column were sucked slowly toward the center, until only a sphere, a pearl as large as a cathedral, remained, floating on the black abyss. The pearl collapsed rapidly, greatly increasing in density, to become in the end so spacious that its central diameter could be subtended by a person with arms and legs spread. Strange chemical processes were unleashed in the milky bead, until it changed into a tomb of blinding crystal that emitted prismatic flashes …

“The butterflies below the volatile vault fluttered their wings more slowly, like wind-up toys when their interior spring releases, until they fell to the floor, by the thousands, and rotted there almost instantly. And when the ragged keratin blackened and molded, we saw that the insects had skeletons and skulls, but their bones as fine as needles seemed to be made from the same blinding quartz as the tomb in the navel of the earth. After their aspic flesh scattered into the air, their bones crumbled too, each in two pieces, each piece in two fragments, each fragment in two granules, each granule in two sparks, violet and orange, each spark in two white bits of dust like ground sugar. In a few moments we were enveiled ankle-high by fine sand, shaped in waves, glowing in places with miniscule crystal.

“ ‘Nothing, nothing exists,’ The Albino uttered slowly in the deafening silence. ‘We are thin spiderwebs, inflated and torn apart by the wind. We are the fringe of interference on a soap bubble, multicolored, wet, despairing … We are mites in the skin of the soap bubble, laying our eggs and dirt … Our world has no weight or sense. We are simulacra of the unreal, itself in turn a simulacrum. This stage of the unreal becomes opaque and real only when seen as a whole, from the top end or the bottom, page after transparent page. But there is no top or bottom, and there are no eyes to see from that perspective. Page over page over page, our world is a book made of onion skin. And this skin has veins, and nerves, and glomeruli of stinking sweat.

“ ‘The people of old knew, and said, that every world is a book containing a book, and inside every Gospel is a Gospel. Once the sun stopped for an entire afternoon and another time shadow took ten steps back. Another time, everything was still, and pastors ate without eating and birds sang without singing … And Jehovah appeared in his pillar of cloud and fire, unexpectedly, between two pages of a pastoral as it happened, like a bookmark, one of those made by little scholars, decorated with stitches … It wasn’t time that stopped and turned back, but the long fingers scanning the pages, turning back to a passage they found dear.

“ ‘We are children and reproductions, but whose, whose? We are written in calligraphy, with gold and feces, but for whom? Who reads the poor story of our lives? Of course, only Him, the Writer. And he reads it once, in the moment he writes it. For the duplication of worlds is a process of writing/reading, as though an umbilical cord connects them, and through the cable, simultaneously, reading and writing cross from both ends, because if he blows his Spirit through the tube, inflating our bubble of soap, we, in turn, reflect his face in its curve, and through the tube we can see his zirconium larynx. And whoever swam against the terrible current of blessing, climbing like salmon toward the source, would escape the balloon of illusion and cross the cord that connects us to His mouth and His lungs. He would settle there, in the alveoli. He would multiply there madly, in Abraham’s breast. He would metastasize in the liver and balls. He would fill the Hierarch with the anarchic swirls. The god would die in unimaginable pain, and his howls would shape the deicide’s eternal crown.

“ ‘For all of us, at the end of time, murder and eat our God. Otherwise we could not become him, we could not be in him and he could not be in us. Devotion, therefore, is murder. Prayer is crucifixion. Love is torture. Adoration is strangulation with the wide hands of cherubim. Limitless pain is the deisis of our lives. That is why all gods were hacked and maimed and hung up by nails. Fra Armando has shown you the way of unification, I have shown you the way of dismemberment, and no one tells you: Choose!

“ ‘We will invent the being that will invent us, but not from pure light. Our world is no diamond. In the earth, the dead and crystals shine and reek. In our guts are worms, in the worms are guts, and in their guts are worms. Even the divine Dante pissed foully on the bark of the oak tree. But the humble prostitute delicately places an iris in the vase of earth. Thus the Creator will be man and light, and also woman, black and slave, with the mind of an angel and the heart of a bitch. This is the only way the hemispheres, schizophrenia, and paranoia will be left behind, and the sexes, man and woman, will annul each other, and the powers, master and slave, will become one, and wonder of wonders, good will be corrupted by evil so that it sparkles stronger, and evil will rise through good so that its darkness increases, and at their meeting, and above them, where they will arch out of themselves and come together, they will become identical, light and dark, in a single, ecstatic word:

BLINDING.

“ ‘Blinding!’ the crowd shouted, just as, minutes or centuries before, they had shouted, ‘mineymoe!’ I shouted with them, feeling the roof of my mouth go numb with fear. Meanwhile, The Albino transformed. The skin of his face, pale as one forever dead, now became transparent. His groups of facial muscles became visible, red and striated, and held at the ends by white tendons. Rings of flesh dilated and contracted around his eyes and mouth. Then we could also see through his muscles. His brain appeared through its phantom of mist and wind, phosphorescent green, and the seams of his bones were violet. Toward the end of his speech, even his bones became smoky, and then they went clear like frozen water. His brain, irrigated by black blood, pulsed under its glass bell like an immense toad. At its base, the pituitary gland glowed like a sapphire grain. I watched its slow and slovenly migration to the surface, on a peduncle like a snail’s horn, until it came through his brow, where it opened, the blue eye between his eyebrows, in a triangle that could have been divine, if the tip weren’t turned toward the earth. Monsieur Monsú’s neck and arms also became transparent, covered with crystal scales. A fascinating monster now stood in front of us and spun its hippopotamus-skin crop.

“Melanie, dressed in fantastical fabrics and fluttering her great wig of ostrich feathers dyed the color of carrots, passed to the front, holding a paper bag in her arms. She emptied it onto the floor and began to assemble, with the awkward dexterity of a child, the bizarre machinery of rods, indicators, bolts, pinions, and cuffs of a metal that shone dully like aluminum. She placed Leon the crystal, withered now like an old mushroom, on a stopper of spiraled lamé. Engraved tubes, metal strips, and electrical conductors in colored plastic connected various parts of the machinery. How could the bag have held all these parts, the entire assemblage? Where had Melanie gotten the syringes, the blades? The blue oxygen cylinders, with rusted pressure gauges, rose up like out of nowhere.

“ ‘Cover one eye,’ continued The Albino, ‘and see with the other: the world will look flat and wilted, like a drawing on a plate. Look with both eyes, and the hidden dimension will explode. The water will be deep and clear. One disjuncture is enough, a different angle of the two balls under the brain for the anaglyph to swell into bas-relief, hautrelief, into statues, and perhaps, if our eyes converge to the point where they can see into each other, the statue will also swell into something with multiple dimensions, an unimaginable object. Look now at this carpet of gaudy colors; this abstract leopard skin — and truly, at the distant walls of this hall, beyond the black precipice, will be painted an enormous shimmering rectangle in sapphires, emeralds, heliodors, and chrysoberyls — but look at it with dreams and distraction, taking it in at a glance, dissolving yourself in it. Your eyeballs will accentuate the convergence. The left image and the right image, phantomatically, will slide onto each other, will fit and join together, until the hologram comes to life and the wondrous chimera of the Book that contains us will be revealed in undying glory.’

“A colossal butterfly now spread its wings before us, inside a cube of blue light like an aquarium. On its purple velvet thorax glittered the brilliant tomb, suspended between heaven and earth, as though protected by the filiform legs. The vision lasted only a few minutes, until our sight grew tired and the incandescent spots became unformed again. Whither had the winged buffalo disappeared?

“In the same way, you can gaze at the gaudy spectacle of our world, the objects and deeds piled together, without reason, in heaps around you. Take each in turn and touch, smell, and think about it: useless. Chaos will constantly grow, because mystery is the father of an endless line of mysteries, and solutions are always partial and self-devouring … But think of everything at once, with a distracted and dreaming thought, until your cerebral hemispheres converge and the two slightly different images, rational and sensual, analytic and synthetic, diabolic and divine, male and female, glide onto each other. Suddenly the carpet of spots disappears and, clearly, in thousands of dimensions, we can think, for moments or millennia, of the undepictable face of Divinity. We will see then, face-to-face, what we have only glimpsed, partially, in mirrors and enigmas. Face to face: because our face is incorporated into His face. Eye to eye, because our eyeballs are in His eyes …

“Fra Armando’s brain pulsed like a pillar of fire over the people, emitting polygonal beams. Its medullar tail undulated gently, like a flagellum, in the gelatinous air of the immense, vaulted hall. A fine, fluorescent tattoo mapped out its complicated pathways of catecholaminergic, noradrenergic, and acetylcholinergic neurons: red, black, and violet lines strangely intersected and interwove. The brain began to glide slowly, propelled by spiral movements of its tail, toward the atrocious contraption that Melanie constructed with the meticulous, unconscious attention of a mantis religiosa. An operating table? electroshocks? torture? a rape machine from a libertine bolgia? Bearings and gears shone through a small window framed by hydraulic cylinders. In a bath of opalescent liquid floated a spongy fetus with wise, oriental eyes. Dental floss connected filiform electrodes to its head, and the cables were plugged into the machinery. Under a bell jar, connected also to the assemblage of switches, a leaden sibyl read from a thick book, following the black spiders of letters with an unspeakably dry finger. An appalling skinned cat, nailed to a wooden plank between two inductive bobbins, was the last organic component of the machine. A few ivory nerves had been detached dexterously from its flesh and spread on both sides of its martyred body, in a fine network, numbered and inscribed with thick, inky letters. The animal rolled its clear eyes, with vertical pupils, and now and then its whiskers twitched.

“Finishing her work, covered with yellow beads of sweat, the Magdalenian-era woman sat unmoving, like an ebony idol. She reeked of armpits and wild arum, and drew thousands of flies with metallic-green or blue-cyan thoraxes, which soon covered her like a living shirt of fluttering chainmail.

“The Albino, in his new incarnation as an underground insect, had lost his eyes, and in their place were two vague atavistic swellings under his skin of crystal scales. But the eye in his brow had lit up like a great sapphire and projected an intangible cone of light, which turned Cecilia’s chocolate skin a charming shade of blue. The nubile girl was already naked, rubbed with aloe and narcissus, painted black on her lips, nipples, and the delicate folds of her hairless pubis. Her lowered eyelids, painted with kohl and dusted with gold, projected constellations onto the colossal vault, madder than ever, creating a sweltering and luminous summer night. On her neck, on an iridium chain, was a row of seven raw emeralds, untouched by any jeweler’s tools. On each emerald, a Hebrew letter was written in reverse. Two murex shells hung on her ears, like earrings. A creamy yellow cornelian gem covered the divot of her navel. Her nails, however, were truly wondrous.

“Her hands and her feet had nails of an intense, ultramarine blue, unreal and fluid like in a dream. And each one had an image in its depths, in relief, miniscule and yet still clear, like those photographs of famous monuments (or shameless women) in optical lockets. However far you were from the black princess, you saw perfectly the Giottoesque painting in her nails, and if you concentrated on a detail (the dentil molding on a wall, the Cybele of an edge, the finial on the tip of a yellow bell, the embroidery of flowers and lizards on a vestment) you saw just as clearly the details in the details, down to the thousandth level, until, delving into the whirlpool of her polished nails, you reached the subatomic world of quarks, charms, and scents … Scenes from the New Testament were painted on her fingernails, against a naïve background of medieval palaces and sycamores: the Holy Virgin asleep in her room of bare stone walls, smiling in a dream and covering her bare shoulder, while the archangel, standing beside her bed, a three-cupped lily between its fingers, is too shy to wake her; Jesus as a child whittling a wooden cross, while all the other goatherders make whistles; him again climbing for the first time (at about seven years old) into a mandorla that will raise him to the sky, to be presented to the angels; the adolescent Jesus in the wilderness, curled up on the sand, holding a snake’s triangular head and looking into its transparent eyes; Jesus and John, sitting on a bluff, watching the Jordan reflect the twilight in its waters; the daughter of Jairus, one day after she was awoken from the dead, braiding her hair at the mirror and singing a song without words; Peter, on Mount Tabor, squinting at the crystal spacecraft and wondering where he could cut enough branches for three shelters: one for Moses, another for Elijah, and another for Jesus; the adulteress, alone in the place to which she was condemned, trying to decipher what Jesus wrote in the sand, while a white drop of seed hangs between her legs; Jesus eating in Matthew’s house with the tax collectors and the sinners, who are astonished by the triangular radiation from the temples of the Nazarene; Dismas, his arms painfully crooked on the wood of the cross, his face green with suffering, still smiling at the Marys, kneeling before the three; and trillions of stars scattered over Jerusalem, each foretelling an incredible Salvation, unintelligible, unimaginable, but true …

“In contrast, Cecilia’s toenails had illuminations from the old testament: Zipporah putting her son’s foreskin on her finger and saying proudly to the winged man, “Surely a bloody husband art thou to me!”; and the Angel of the Lord was by the threshing place of Araunah the Jebusite, arming himself with the devastating instrument and spreading plague over the people, from Dan to Beersheba; the head, legs, and hands of Isabella, in a pile of bloody tissue, and a dog with human eyes gnawing a finger with many rings; Maaseh, a sweet Philistine with silk eyelashes, embracing his wife for the last time and allowing his heart to be crushed for the Lord; Job, old and happy, fat, with his skin as pink as an infant’s, a ladybug on his finger just opening its wings to fly; a bride not even twelve years old, already decorated, holding her hand, in terror, over the place between her boyish thighs and thinking of the night to come; the Lord, on his sapphire throne over the cupola like a field of heaven, looking, with strange eyes of unearthly anatomy, over the arid landscape of Judea perishing below him; Ezekiel, in the valley of dry bones, in despair, gathering the wild lilies suddenly growing from the headbones and chestbones full of dust; Daniel, pulled from the lions’ den, still smelling days and days afterwards of the beasts’ testicles; the Day of Ire, descending unexpectedly, like a thief in the night, over the villages, vineyards and orchards, laying waste to all in an ambiguous glory …

“The matron approached the nubile girl, took her hand with an unexpected delicacy and grace, and led her toward the mechanism on the edge of emptiness. She spread her across the narrow chassis and secured her wrists and ankles in cuffs. Crucified on an aluminum St. Andrew’s cross, Cecilia revealed her sex to our eyes like a black flower with crinkled petals, a feline sex, a sphinx’s vulva, unsuited for ordinary copulation. Slowly, with a sharp gesture of Melanie’s fingers, the hydraulic cylinders began to move, and the metal frame rose to vertical. Disturbingly beautiful, Cecilia smiled with the bright smile of African women, but also with something of a girl’s perversion, pleased to show everyone her secret flower. She leaned her head on one shoulder, and her eyes covered with a thin fog. Curled in its aquarium, the fetus suddenly opened its yellow eyes, and its barely sketched mouth began to speak unheard words, as it gaped like an exotic fish. The Albino, whose uniform had evaporated like gas into the air, slowly approached the operating table. His sex was erect and semitransparent. His testicles of filigreed ivory were visible through his scrotum like soft glass. We all imagined we were about to witness the ritual rape of a virgin by the horrifying cleric. We did not imagine, however, the unimaginable. And I cannot describe the indescribable. For hour after hour, the young woman’s body of flesh, blood, and nerves experienced the entire scope of human suffering and beyond. Happy were those pagan warriors fallen into the hands of their enemies, held in oubliettes for dozens of years and tortured daily under the senior’s eyes. Happy those who were burned at the stake, flayed alive, or devoured by cancer. But the girl’s screams somehow seemed to be screams of unbearable pleasure, and on her face her clenched lips and eyes revealed a devastating ecstasy. The only deed that words can describe, although itself appalling, seemed, in comparison with what had come before, to be a gesture of tenderness: with an expert flash of the blade, The Albino sliced open Cecilia’s stomach, without spilling a drop of blood, and removed her uterus, as clean as an anatomical specimen, watched over by the two ovaries like two spread wings at the ends of their tubes, between the fringes of soft skin, like two rhinestone mititei. Only then, as though the delicate organ held all her vitality, did her dark body die, soft and ashen, and rot beneath our eyes, until the bones scattered, yellow, over the floor. Only the radius of her left hand remained held in the metal cuff. Then those bones changed to dust, and the dust was absorbed into the glassy floor.

“Monsieur Monsú held the butterfly uterus in the open palm of his right hand. Its skin fibers gently pulsed. In the end, it took flight, not through the mechanical beating of lepidoptera, but by undulations within the gelatinous medium, the way transparent beings on the bottom of the ocean proceed dreamlike through the abyss. Fluttering over the emptiness, the little life form turned toward the diamond cell in the center of lights. It touched it after eons of hypnotic travel. It curled up there, in the flashing box, took root in its crystal earth and unrolled a peritoneum crown. Its center continuously developed an ovum, filigreed, pearly, with constantly changing designs and mirific protuberances extended into the ionosphere. In the end, the uterus itself, with its tubes and contractions, was only an almost-unobserved detail of the great bead, of the egg with a quartz shell.

“The egg appeared to be tattooed with a labyrinth of dully colored lines, which crossed each other and shifted, so that, at the beginning, nothing could be deciphered, aside from some illusory outlines, more guesses than anything, like looking in the filigreed dregs of coffee. As its volume increased and its surface widened, the strangest, most heteroclite designs began to spout from the tissue of lines. There was the face of a young man, with features in charcoal, his hair black vines curling along his ascetic cheeks. His severe, visionary eyes were slightly asymmetrical, the right inspired by a spark of spirit, while the left, tragic and matte like a covered mirror, had violet circles beneath. Below the fibrous threads of his moustache, his mouth could have been a woman’s, if its sensuality were not negated, dissolved, denatured, and reconverted by bitter folds at the corners. Every feature of this portrait was, if you looked closer, formed by other drawings, on a smaller scale, and those by others, all brilliantly clear, just when your eye touched them, so that you could dive endlessly into the spectacle of the world, deepening the visions within a single hair of an eyebrow, and you could explore skies with other stars, heavens, and gods within a pixel in the immensity of the cheek. It was All, and all ran in the heart of all, and the real hand and the possible drew each other, exchanging densities and destinies a billion times a second. It was the Mandylion, the Vera Icon, the image of the human face, acheiropoieta, the one we search for always, which we see in all the compositions of the world, because the world itself — for us, and gods, and Divinity — has a human face. From this, sunk in tragedy and the stench of the sulfur from Gomorrah, cultivating tens of thousands of horrible diseases in the furrows of our body, never being sure of tomorrow and writhing to breathe another moment, we yet smile, just as a two-month-old child will smile even at two eyes drawn on a white piece of paper …

“Fra Armando’s brain, slithering with its spinal tail, shooting beams like a spacecraft, migrated over the billion heads of the crowd toward the great sphere that encompassed almost all the space in the middle of the disk where we stood. The egg rotated heavily around its vertical axis, constantly displaying other canals, dry seas, and continents, throwing off other garlands of fire and reabsorbing them in its paunch of albumen and yolk. The brain approached the sun like a lonely navigator, seeming to slide along a subliminal pleat, on a guide tube hidden in another dimension. There was a whisper, unheard but possible to feel with the entire body, denser than the organ that perceived it — that whisper from the middle of the night, to which you can only respond, suddenly awake and afraid, ‘Here I am, Lord.’ The solitary sperm slid along the beacon, along the whisper of billions of decibels. The golden male fluttered along the guide tube of the shock wave of billions of gigatones. The entire hall, and everyone inside, quaked in trepidation. The ovum whispered, it whispered a name. Quiet, monotonous, unhurried, powerful as a seraph, the face in the egg whispered a whisper, whispered a name. Its own name. ‘Here I am, Lord,’ responded the brain and the sperm, and the response — happy in terror, frightened in ecstasy — was not a sound, but the advance itself.

“The tadpole, with its curved brow like a glass shell, finally stopped only a hand width from the enormous filigreed stomach. The hard membranes mirrored each other. Colored whirls appeared in the front-most points and encompassed, in ever larger circles, the trembling spheres. A dialogue was improvised, the channels and frequencies aligned, passwords exchanged, thousands of keys went into thousands of locks of air and void. They turned, raised pinions and cams, and released chemical barriers. And suddenly not the skin, but the space itself between them opened like a gate, suddenly there was no space between the membranes, and the sperm and the ovum were one, the brain and the sex were one, space and time were one.

“And space/time/brain/sex began to rumble. There were monstrosities. There were miracles. A mathematics of the bordello was invented, a sublime defecation, a conceptual vomiting, an angelic retching, a real dream, a dead life. There were hoots and howls, but were they laughter or crying? There was a revelation, but was it from a prophet or a madman? It was everything, but it looked like nothing … We stood stockstill and watched that agony, an agony not of death, but of creation, a sob, not of birth, but of the final swoon. We saw sounds of catastrophe and waste-laying, we heard colors of fire and ice. The explosion/implosion smelled like roughness. Atoms were solar systems and constellations were pheromones. Oh infernal paradise, oh darkened light!

“A cause/effect germinated in the middle of the edge of this nymphal melody. It flattened the flesh/air, it quieted its transparent opacities. It organized the future/past, it listened to words/things. From the winds of karma, from the frightening bardo of the dust of twilight, a child would come into being. It would be because it already was, already it saw its parents copulating like two locusts, already the whirlpool of space/time/brain/sex drew, with its blood-dipped finger, a Caudine fork, an Arc de Triumph. Two chromosomal sets would fuse, yes and no would wed in maybe, and then the egg, already past the barrier of being, would begin its gigantic conclusion, turning the ever more complicated pages of life, complicated not by what the text said, but by the structure of the pages themselves, as though the first would be a point, the second a line, the third a surface, the fourth a volume, the fifth a Möbius strip, the sixth a nest for the Tomistic swallow, and so on and so on, until the billionth page, where Divinity is raised to the power of Divinity. Mitosis and meiosis, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, morula, blastula, gastrula, and the three embryonic wrappings glittering like soft glass while they wrinkle, shape, reabsorb, form tubes and buds, separate at catastrophic points, meet again to sketch faces and limbs, organs and skins, systems and mechanisms. Fish, reptile, amphibian, mammal, the fourth week, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh. The sixth month, the seventh, the turn in the eighth. Floating on a lotus flower, in the middle of black waters, eyelids closed and face smiling — enormous eyelids without lashes, under which the ocular protuberances slide as quietly as porpoises. The skin of pearl, shining in wisdom.

“It heralds the Gospel for all. There is no other annunciation than a person’s birth. And every birth creates a religion, it is an annunciation. And religion itself has no other meaning than Birth. It shows us the Way, it reveals the Steps to us. It preaches Happiness. Already our eyes, fallen out of their sockets from such blinding blinding, will see the embryo, the child, wonder, ransom. Black and white, Asian, women, men, and children, we wait, on the edge of the abyss, rejoicing. We would take light from light and never die again …

“Then came the infinitesimal catastrophe. As before, at the beginning of the beginning, an elusive asymmetry within the initial conditions made the primordial force cleave in half, then into four parts, and then the infinitely hot and dense point exploded into the fireworks of the world, and the way a tremor of a butterfly’s wing on a guava leaf in the Antilles unleashes a tornado in Colorado, and the way you don’t know where the Spirit comes from or where it goes — in the middle of the middle of the scented zygote, in the chromozoidal ball of seraphim snakes, a whirl arises, a probabilistic wind, more limited than the space of a molecule. One letter inverts in an orthography, and something glides in the oily stereochemistry of that substance. The gaze of one of us (a skeletal woman with a number tattooed on her forearm? a hydrocephalic with bulging eyes?) might have been enough for the miniscule tragedy, because observation always alters the experiment. Or maybe Evil itself, as undefined and intangible as gravity, passed a turbulent finger into the heart of the god in genesis, the same finger that stirs the worlds. The same way, a quinine camellia sprouted in the middle of our rejoicing.

“The egg now folded a second center around the allogenic information, and a membrane fogged over like a cartilage curtain between itself and itself, like a mirror where the self can see itself, identical and yet completely different, because the right of one is the left of the other, and the second, for the first, is a monster, because its heart is on the right and it speaks with the right hemisphere of its brain, and feels pity with the left half. White and black are not more different from each other, or more alien. Our world became schizoid, because what was born in fact was Duplication, or Rupture — the surface of the mirror between two dreaming embryos, face to face, their enormous vaulted foreheads almost touching, looking at each other with smoky eyes. They would come into the world as monozygotic twins, and what would be born was Estrangement itself. We saw the apocalypse through the lenses of beads of tears. What was happening? Which one was our god? What would become of the world of this illegible book, this book?

“And then, Maria, while we contemplated the double proliferation of the cells (two morulas, blastulas, gastrulas, separated, or united, by that mirroring skin), we were torn apart by a devastating flash of lightning. The column of fire reappeared and moved among us, making us one with the disk’s shining floor, integrating us into it, digitizing our blood and our tendons and our nerves, transforming them into memory, pure memory, holographic, indestructible. I was home again, I was in Akasia, the universal memory that sees all, that knows and understands and feels compassion. The mother-memory that protects, that caresses. And the blinding, blinding disk broke from its foundation with the crack of the ruination of worlds, levitated toward the vaulted ceiling of the hall, shattered into thousands of polygonal fragments and splinters, and, Maria, it was given to our eyes, spread now evenly over all the surface of the disk, to see what you cannot, what you should never see, what never can be said. And the disk rotated around its axis, faster and faster, until a sphere of glory appeared, shimmering in billions of colors, with a living pool of light in the center. And the sphere set upon the crown of His head, over the black vines of hair, illuminating His sad, brown eyes. For it was He, in a dense world, in a dense light, along whose spinal cord, through transparent flesh, six chakras and six carnivorous flowers opened.

“The seventh chakra, Sahasrara, the diamond sphere, glowed on his crown.”

Content

Mircea Cărtărescu
Blinding: Volume 1

Part One

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Part Two

12

13

14

15

16

17

Part Three

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25