My professor of logic was now also a journalist. I met him in a newspaper office filled with cigar smoke, with threadbare sofas and walls garbed in colourful posters. He flicked through my manuscript with a well-meaning eye.
‘We’ll publish it. Drop by tomorrow and speak with Trăznea.’
Trăznea, or Thunderer, was an opinion writer and man to be feared. A while ago he had written a few good lines about me. This encouraged me. I waited impatiently for the day to pass. Once again, I climbed the stairs to the newspaper office. On the secretary’s desk, a swarthy, impulsive man, with unruly hair and gestures, was speaking. Timidly, I remained next to the door. By his manner of speaking, I realised he must be Trăznea. He recounted a quarrel he had had with a cabman. He insulted the cabman from the beginning, and every time he brought him up, he piled on a new insult. When he mentioned the cabman’s horse, the horse became the object of lewd insinuations. He described the cab, the road, the rain. And he cursed them all in turn. The cabman had refused to take him. So, in the newspaper office he recounted everything he had said to the cabman. On hearing the cabman insult him, he had turned around and insulted the cabman. Naturally, the cabman had responded in kind. And a quarrel had ensued. He had ended up giving him a ride, soaked to the skin.
He winked at me. The professor introduced me.
‘And you are? We’ve given you a job in the newspaper office. You can write whatever you like, except politics or reportage.’
I was flustered and not sure how to thank him.
‘Let me give you a tip: never offer praise. Defame! In my experience I only ever get respect from the dramatists I besmirch in my reviews.’
He launched into another anecdote. And then he remembered he had not written the editorial. He broke off his anecdote to muse on what the subject should be.
‘Something that will draw blood.’
He snarled, with wet lips and white teeth. The doorman brought him a letter and news that a woman wanted to see him.
‘Is she beautiful?’
‘No, old.’
‘Why even bother to ask, then? Don’t you realise that I’m not here for anyone until I’ve written my article?’
He continued with his anecdote while reading the letter. I am not sure whether he finished the letter, but he did not finish the anecdote. Hitting on a subject, he stormed off into the next room. I remained and was introduced to the others: the secretary, a tall, brown-haired man, was absorbed in reading letters from the provinces. He did not acknowledge me, would not answer questions, and did not take his eyes off the manuscripts before him. Not for one moment did his right hand, stained with blue ink, let go of his pen. He erased, added, pasted correction slips in the margins, rang for the errand boy, sent bundles of manuscripts to the printer’s, ordered corrections, sent for the editor-in-chief’s article, upbraided reporters, harshly pressed the editors for their articles, requested a glass of water, demanded silence, and inquired of the cashier if he would give him an advance on his fortnightly pay.
I sat on the end of a sofa, overawed by the feverish activity of the newspaper office. In the next room the typists were at work. Telephones rang, doors slammed, buzzers jangled, apprehensive strangers came in and out. I asked the professor whether joining the newspaper staff might not be risky for me.
‘Journalism is fatal to people of your age, but you won’t be working as a journalist, merely gaining experience writing opinion pieces; you’ll learn to write succinctly, simply and to the point. This will be useful to you. If I see that it is warping your development or preventing you from studying, I’ll be the first to throw you out.’
After arriving home, I spent the evening writing for the newspaper. I promised myself that I would publish articles unlike anything usually printed in newspapers. But I would avoid revealing my own inner truths. ‘Some truths are for the newspapers, others are for books’, I told myself.
I delivered my articles twice a week, in the evening. That was when everyone assembled in the newspaper office. The professor of logic would listen to ‘Trăznea’ and smoke, with a choking, hacking laugh. Both directors would come; one with an amber cigarette holder and a stack of German newspapers, the other with a monocle, a white waistcoat, and an aloof manner. One greeted people with a ‘servus’, fiddling with his fingernails and narrowing his eyes. The other had a solemn gait, shook everyone’s hand, and smiled suspiciously.
A short, stout, red-headed reporter had taken a liking to me. He used to call me, ‘Kiddo’ and clap me on the shoulder. He knew everything that was going on in the city and knew the whole country. Whoever might be the topic, he could dish up details. He knew every plan, thought, and meeting of government members. He had read every private letter exchanged between the leaders or representatives of the opposition. He knew every intrigue from every important boudoir, every lover of the actresses at the national theatre, and every mistress of the heads of the other theatres; he knew every police chief, prefect, priest, and literary café. One morning I brought up a name completely unknown to the public, that of a colleague who had written an opinion piece yet to be printed. The reporter knew the article. And he knew whether or not its premiere that week would meet with success. He knew every train that was running late, just like a railway clerk. My admiration for him was honest, expansive, without envy. I thought how interesting it would be to study his visual and auditory memory, his associative processes.
At the newspaper office, my eye had also been caught by a stylish, seductive young man who had inaugurated a series of successful ‘political investigations’. He usually arrived around lunchtime.
‘Your copy?’ the secretary would inquire.
‘How many lines?’
‘Twenty-six cursive, twenty standard, one photographic plate, two subheadings, one two-line headline.’
‘What did the boss write?’
‘A “review” of foreign borrowing.’
‘Trăznea?’
‘Taxation.’
The reporter would seat himself at a desk, cracking jokes, lighting cigarette after cigarette. The next day I would read his ‘investigation’, in which he would state his case, draw conclusions, hint at doubts, launch his attack, foresee the fall of the government within the month. I admired his confidence, but could not divine who informed him so promptly and accurately.
‘Our people, boss! We have them in the Palace, the Patriarchate, the Parliament, the Prime Minister’s Office, the Capşa Restaurant, the Ministry of the Interior, the Customs Service, the Secret Service.’
The fat, red-haired journalist often became embroiled in arguments with the author of the ‘political investigations.’
‘Mon cher, I heard it from the ministry.’
‘Out of the question! Didn’t you see who I arrived with in the car?’
‘He led you astray.’
‘I beg your pardon, but the person who informed me.’
Usually, the parliamentary reporter intervened – a thin law graduate, who was hypocritical and caustic under a guise of feigned humility, would interject: ‘That man of yours, dear sir.’
The law graduate had once tried his hand at literary criticism. He had garnered success, but had made no money out of it. He had gone into journalism. For the last three years he had barely read a book. He listened to parliamentary debates and wrote daily thirty-page summaries. His hands trembled whenever he had a late-night session. It meant he would go to bed around three. He smoked a lot and coughed. He was forever suffering from a liver complaint. He spoke slowly, spitefully, and sourly praised contemporary authors. He was virtually neurasthenic. And he no longer had the courage to leave journalism.
‘A newspaper is far more dangerous than you might think. At first it takes a finger, then your hand, then your torso, and finally it comes back for your head. You go from literary polemics to polemics about political doctrine. Then, you rail against Parliament. From that day hence you are a slave to journalism.’
‘I’m forty years old’, said a reporter who back in the day had been the director of a newspaper, ‘and I suddenly realised I’d never accomplished anything. The years passed, I wrote day after day, and what did I accomplish? I pulverised myself, squandered myself, I kept putting off my law doctorate, my history degree. And now I can read nothing but newspapers. Any book that’s not pornographic or a political memoir irritates me. What sort of existence is this?’
‘Don’t insult journalism; it’s sacred’, stated Trăznea. ‘The journalist is born anew every morning, indefatigable, original, he lives in medias res, he is the heart and brains of the nation. All of our great men have been journalists – the journalist is a hero.
‘On the condition that he write for twenty-four hours a day, and not just for a year or a month’, said the Logic Professor. ‘Journalists need to relinquish the stupid notion of gaining immortality through writing. An article should be ephemeral; the ideal journalist is the anonymous reporter.’
‘That’s right!’ warmly intoned the two political reporters, dipping their pens in their ink pots.
‘I see you have time for idle chatter’, interrupted the secretary. ‘Where is your copy?’
The buzzers resumed their jangling, cigars were lit, glasses were filled with water, fresh writing pads were placed on desks.
‘Kiddo’, called the fat reporter, correcting his final sentence.
‘The ambassador of Switzerland is coming.’
‘When?’
‘Unannounced.’
‘At five fifteen’, specified the author of the ‘investigations’, without lifting his eyes from the page.
‘Who’s going to go?’
‘I’ve got a parliamentary debate.’
‘I’ve got the schools board meeting and university senate.’
‘I’ve got the study group.’
‘I’ll do the story; the prefect will give me a lift back’, said the red-headed reporter.
I went to do my corrections on the fourth floor of the printer’s. It smelled of ink, lead, alcohol, bread, and mould. The rotors of the printing press whirred under the typesetters’ boards. In the vast hall swarthy children ran back and forth with manuscripts and proofs. I waited for the damp correction sheets at a table with chairs covered in cigarette burns. The smell of the fresh shiny ink filled me with delight. I left inspired, excited, with my briefcase tucked under my arm, filled with ideas, the blood coursing through my veins.
I could not understand how newspapermen and printers could ever be tired. As for myself, I found I was more inspired and hardworking than ever. My courage grew, and I worked, far from the eyes of the world, in my attic.
Radu embarked upon the autumn more in love with Viorica than ever. She did not suspect a thing and dismissed all his declarations as jokes. Radu could not be taken seriously.
I bumped into them early one evening, on the boulevard. Viorica had just finished class, and Radu was waiting for her outside the university, smoking. I wondered what he talked to her about every night, given he had only seven years of schooling. Viorica seemed happy to see me and blushed. She answered coyly and evasively when I asked about her lectures, and courses, and romances. I had the distinct impression that Viorica was eternally in love. I was touched, because I divined she was resigned to never revealing her feelings. I was not sure if it was out of determination or shyness. Viorica kept her secret with a firmness I admired. Neither Bibi, nor Nişka knew anything. But we all knew she was in love.
I rarely saw Nonora, and then only in passing. Both of us tried to act the victor. I feigned indifference, affecting an enigmatic smile. She laughed a great deal and told me about her successes at summer balls, marriage proposals at Mehadia, and the quarrel she had provoked between a certain superior officer and his wife. She spoke to me in a friendly way, with hints of gentle superiority. I was reminded of spring afternoons of sexual arousal, and grew impudent. Nonora did not mind. She read my thoughts, but did not know how far I would go; perhaps she was waiting for me to invite her up to my attic once more and was preparing some diabolical revenge. When she asked me what I did with my time, I answered that I was working, for the newspaper and for the University.
‘Really?’
The astonishment hinted at in her eyes and her smile humiliated me.
‘What about Nişka?’
‘Nişka is taking a break after her exams and besides, I see her so rarely. I told you that I’m working.’
‘That’s not what everybody else is saying. At least Nişka takes care to spread the rumour that you fell in love with her at the seaside.’
‘I don’t believe it’, I smiled..
‘Nişka employs a silly metaphor. She says you are a new Pygmalion and that in the end you’ll fall in love with your creation.’
‘Nişka is correct up to the part about love’, I added, embarrassed by Nonora’s malicious indiscretion.
On my way back home, I promised myself to write Nişka a reproachful letter. I did not write it.
One morning I met Mr Elefterescu at the newspaper office. I was surprised to find that he was not a student, but rather a proofreader on the night shift. ‘The Boss’ was embarrassed by my discovery. I did not understand how he had been able to sign up to the club.
‘Malec signed me up, the poor chap.’
Why did I feel so sad, thinking about the parties of the previous winter, in a attic now frozen by solitude, the parties with the chairman, Nonora, and Bibi?
‘And how is Mr Gabriel?’
He told me about the discontents of Malec’s wife, the fights between his wife and his sister, the exams he had missed because of his job, how Gabriel had broken down in tears one night in a beerhall, in front of everyone, how his wife had left the table and not come back, how Gabriel had searched for her like a madman the whole night. In the morning, he had not wanted to go to work. His wife had returned. His mother and sister had refused to let her in. She had tried to commit suicide; they had cried and then made up.
This tale of a mediocre and tragic life depressed me at an organic level: my head ached, I felt dizzy, I lost motor control. I was stifled to the point of suffocation by the reek of slow, inexorable ruin against slum or provincial backdrops. I did not know what to say, I did not know whether I should smile or commiserate.
Even Mr Elefterescu looked changed; he was older, more bitter. It no longer amused me when he called me ‘boss.’ He seemed humbled, stooped, wounded. I tried to remember the festival, the bottles we had drunk, my departure with Nişka in the middle of the night. I felt as if my soul had been torn into separate strips. I did not know how to conceal the despair and sadness that overwhelmed me. The memories seemed so out of reach, so distant. And I realised I was just as mediocre as everybody else. That the struggle was futile. I gritted my teeth. I had once more lost all awareness of what I was doing there in the newspaper office, standing next to Mr Elefterescu. He looked at me closely, unable to comprehend my agitation. It was as if our conversation had taken place in a dream, and once more I heard the depressing refrain of winter past: ‘Boss, boss, look at Malec!’
I clenched my fists. ‘This means I need a rest. I can no longer tell dreams and reality apart’, I thought. I was smiling.
‘And what brings you here, Mr Elefterescu?’
Astonishment.
‘Didn’t I just tell you? I’m a proof-reader on the night shift.’
‘Then all of that really did just happen’, I thought to myself, thankfully. The shameful feeling of agony, overwrought nerves, overflowing blockage persisted. I asked for a glass of water. The professor walked past, glanced at me, and sat down at a desk. Who taught him to write? I wondered. Then, I found myself tempted to move closer to see how it was his forehead did not fall with a thud on the stack of blank paper. I clenched my fists. All because of autumn and Nişka, I thought. ‘They won’t leave me in peace and now I’m forced to work in this state.’ I was so weary that I sank softly onto a chair.
‘Boss, you look pale.’
Mr Elefterescu was now talking right next to me. I calmed down; I wasn’t dreaming. I bit my lip to keep myself from repeating, and laughing: Malec? Malec?
‘What’s wrong?’
I had forgotten how to say the word ‘nothing’. I was rubbing my forehead, in bewilderment. The errand boy brought me the proofs. I gave a start. ‘I wrote this.’ I found a verb, and doggedly repeated it in my head: work, work I kept saying to myself: ‘I want to work!’ Mr Elefterescu gave a start. It all became clear to me, I took the proofs, and asked for an ink pencil. In front of me, at the table, the professor was writing his article. I could hear doors slamming, the distant rumble of tramcars, hurried footsteps on the stairs; I could hear the secretary taking down a press report from the provinces over the telephone: ‘Louder, Louder!’ I did not understand a thing. I want to understand! I realised that the man at the table was the professor of logic. Having taken a moment to recompose myself, I understood that I was in the newspaper office. My eyes shone with joy, and scorching blood coursed through my brain.