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The Impossible
Return ©
Gabriel Plesea, 2001 This is the English version of Imposibila reintoarcere (The Impossible Return), a novel by Gabriel Plesea first printed in Romanian at the Vestala Publishing House in Bucharest, 1996, ISBN 973-9200-33-8 |
In December 1989 a popular revolt in Romania topples the
Ceausescu communist dictatorship. The subsequent opening of borders and the
promotion of democratic reforms make possible the return of dissidents,
opponents and expatriates to their old country. After seventeen years in exile,
Ion decides to take advantage of the newly created situation and embarks on a visit to his
homeland. The novel, a narration of highly emotional encounters with relatives
and old friends, also gives an account of events in a post-communist Eastern
European country trying to break away from totalitarian mentality, practices
and politics.
To my folks back home
and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden
Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way,
to keep the way of the tree of life.
Genesis, 3, 24
They were all there. Ion had seen them through the swinging
doors separating him from the people waiting in the arrival hall. The walls
were of large matte glass partitions; behind them one could only see shapeless,
amorphous silhouettes and shadows. The customs officer asked for his passport
in Romanian: he had his hunch: this is one of ours!
"Well, I knew it!" he said triumphantly to a
colleague, not bothering to explain what exactly he knew. "Will you stay
with us for long?" he inquired while giving Ion back his travel document
bearing the State Department insignia along with the gold lettered Passport
and United States of America inscribed on its blue cover.
"Couple of weeks," answered Ion matter-of-factly.
And, seeing the customs officer looking at him somewhat bewildered at the idea
that one would come all the way from America only to stay two lousy weeks, he
added in almost confidential tone, "I may stick around longer; it all
depends on how things are going."
"But of course, of course," the officer agreed.
"Do you have anything to declare?" he added with a professional twist
in his voice.
"Not really: a trifle here and there, one small
attention…"
"Your luggage looks impressive, though. For a few trifles
that is," the officer observed with some irony, as if to let Ion know he
was an old hand that could not be fooled so easily.
Ion was not impressed. "I have a slew of cousins,
uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces. I saw them: they are waiting for me behind
those doors. It's the whole family!"
"All right: open these two here," the officer
pointed to Ion's attaché case and a piece of luggage that was quite large.
"Any electronics, tape recorders, VCR's, anything special, firearms,"
he listed.
Ion answered hurriedly trying to keep up with his questions,
"No, no, no, no!" The question on firearms in particular seemed
strange, the more so as even before getting to the passport control a detail of
military men equipped with metal detectors were checking all luggage and
persons, looking for firearms no doubt. With sleeves rolled up, the military
were all business, wearing camouflage fatigues and caps and toting AK-47
submachine guns, the type issued to Special Forces. Although one year had
passed since the Revolution, the military acted as if still on orders given in
the state of high alert during the events of December 1989.
"What kind of money do you have on you?"
"I have traveler's checks and cash."
"What's the cash amount," the officer asked,
continuing his search in the luggage.
"Some one thousand dollars," Ion answered promptly.
No longer interested, the customs officer waived to him,
"You can close up your luggage," and moved away, leaving Ion to put
his things back into the luggage as neatly as he could.
Done with the customs, he put the bulging pieces of luggage
on his travel carriage, a handy accessory that could be folded into a
convenient size so one could take in the cabin. A porter that came to help him
realized the traveler did not need him: he had placed his luggage on those cute
western contraptions. Ion hesitated. He thought of giving him the carriage, but
the man was so firmly holding the handle of his own carriage—a true platform on
wheels—that he gave up. Ion had no longer been accustomed to having his luggage
carried by a porter. In fact, you can hardly see one in stations or airports in
western countries. Finally he took his eyes from the man—most likely a peasant
from a small village near the airport—wearing a peasant's fur hat and a blue
overall. "He'll find a customer," thought Ion, and thus relieved he
started his way to the exit, pushing his carriage.
He walked a few steps, and then stopped. He felt something
strange taking hold of him. He realized that in a few moments, beyond those
doors, he was to meet people he had left behind seventeen years before. He
could hardly believe it. "Seventeen years!" he whispered to himself.
He resumed walking, pushing his chin up, as if to control his emotion.
Past the doors he faced the huge crowd, lunging forward as
billows to the shore. Luckily, there was a rope, or something of that sort,
preventing the mob to run him over. He heard his name called from several
directions, all at the same time. With his eyes he searched the callers, but
gave up, it was too difficult to identify his own folks. What happened to him
was happening to ten other travelers and it was impossible to determine if the
hands or the faces pushing forward were for him or for some passenger behind
him, or to his left or right. He continued to walk to the end of the corridor
formed through the crowd by the magic rope. Ion felt his hands being grabbed,
then his head being pulled so as to face him or her, other hands
tried to unclench his own hands from the carriage handle. ."I'll carry it,
I'll do it!" he heard a voice that wanted to assure him that there was no
danger in releasing his hold. Ion had no choice and let the handle go. Right in
his face appeared one's face, all a broad smile sporting a wide tooth gap right
in front. Ion recognized this one: he was his cousin.
"It's me: George," assured him this living example
of good nature. "Remember the times we solved crosswords for the Rebus
magazine contest?" And, hurriedly, as if astonished by his sudden
discovery, "But look at that pair of Addidas shoes you're wearing, my dear
Ion. I'm dumbfounded! What size you're wearing? I love them. I feel like taking
them off your feet and run."
"You're talking nonsense, man. These are not Adiddas,
man. Don't you see it says U S A on them?" spelled out somebody, some
nephew on his cousin's side that he left as infant or has been born in the
meantime, because he could not remember him. One thing was sure: the youngster
knew his stuff.
"You make sure you come to visit my house. You'll see
water leaking from the roof," one voice invited him. An aunt, as he could
figure out just from her pitch, because the face he could not recognize.
Ion stood there dumbstruck. This unexpected welcome was too
much: he felt tired. He did not want to offend anybody, but he realized he
could not resist too long to this manifestation of love. Love? Sheer madness
rather. Totally out of control. He did not expect to be met at the airport by
so many. How did they find out he was coming? With many of them he stopped
corresponding a long time ago. And others he had not seen or talked to even
when he was in the country. He was not quite sure he was related to all those
that showed there to greet him. He decided he had to get out of there, get into
a cab, go to the hotel and have a good rest. The flight had been incredibly
long.
He started to walk to the exit accompanied by his motley and
clamorous welcoming party. The people in the hall watched this bemusing show
already too embarrassing for Ion: Furtively, he looked around and became
somewhat comfortable when seeing two other groups pouring their effusions down
their new arrivals. He accepted his lot and continued his course to the doors.
Outside, on the sidewalk at the taxi stand, the party became
more boisterous. Each of them wanted to invite Ion to his or her home. He
regretted now he had not written them about his own arrangements. He had
reserved a room for a fortnight at the Intercontinental. He had no intention of
falling upon his relatives and, above all, he wanted to keep his own schedule.
"What do you mean, staying at a hotel?" asked a
voice that sounded very angry. "You have so many relatives, so many
friends and you stay at a hotel?"
"I made all my arrangements in New York," answered
Ion, convinced that his was a good excuse. But his people wanted more. "A
friend of mine, a businessman…" He knew he had to come up with something
solid. They would not let him off the hook so easily. The eyes were focused on
him with intense looks, as if expecting to hear a confession or the revealing
of a big secret. Maybe he could tell them how Ceausescu had fallen, what the
Big Ones had arranged at Malta. He surely knew. Ion saw their impatience and
decided he had to put an end to that comedy. His voice was firm, "As I was
saying, my friend, a businessman who comes here to conclude some contracts,
gave me the keys to the apartment he had reserved at the Intercontinental. His
initial departure was delayed for two weeks and I took advantage of his offer
to stay in his room. Actually, this is how I decided to take the trip."
Ion turned and waved to a cab. But not one of the taxi
drivers pulling at their cigarettes moved. They could not help him. He was
surrounded by too much love. Finally, the tooth-gapped guy stepped forward and
straightened things out.
"Forget about the cab. Let's say it's OK with your hotel
business, but the cab stuff is out of the question. I have my car here. I'll
drive you to your hotel."
It made sense and Ion accepted the proposal.
"Let's move it, then".
They all made it to the parking lot. The tooth-gapped was in
the seventh heaven. He told Ion he had made the best choice. "And the
safest one," he added,
"Those cabbies are a bunch of thieves," he
whispered to Ion in all confidence. "They are waiting for these suckers,
the foreigners, to milk them of their dollars. Lots of them. Dollars only. They
don't want to hear about lei. As if they were born in dollars."
"What's the exchange rate for the dollar?"
"By the way, don't make the mistake to change dollars
with the gypcians that hang around the hotel. I can do it for you, and
at a good rate."
Ion realized he would have to rely on Toothgap—he now
remembered that was his cousin George's nickname—on so many things. He had no
choice: things have changed since he left the country. There was no point in
playing the wise guy.
"Thank you for your advice. I'll need local money. Maybe
tomorrow morning I'll ask you to change some dollars."
"No problem. Whenever you want it… Well, here's my car.
Bring that luggage over here," he ordered the young man who had pulled the
carriage and carried the hand luggage Ion had with him in the cabin.
George opened the trunk and Ion helped him put the pieces of
luggage in. Everybody else was watching every single move, ready to jump and
give a helping hand if summoned. They were not and Ion had only to thank them
for coming to the airport to meet him.
"When do we see you again?" asked a young man, most
likely another cousin.
"As soon as possible. Give me a day or two, so I can
pull myself together. In fact, let's set the date right now. We'll meet the day
after tomorrow in the hotel lobby at twelve noon. You are all invited to
lunch."
Ion looked at them intently, waiting for their acceptance of
the invitation. Instead, they gaped at him, as if faced with an
extraterrestrial. No doubt their relative from afar was out of his mind. Ion
needed no translator: he understood them perfectly. He would not, however, give
up and, in a voice that did not accept a refusal or further discussions, he
added: "We are all set, then. I'm waiting for you the day after tomorrow.
I mean all of you."
He turned and made it to the car, looking neither at them nor
at George. He simply climbed up in the car and waited. George followed suit,
sat down at the wheel and started the engine. He waved to the crowd to move
away and started down the exit ramp. As they passed, Ion turned in his chair
and waved them good-bye. They did not answer back: they stood there like some
statues planted along the road.
"You gave them something to think about."
"To think about?" Ion wondered.
"They'll question why you asked them to lunch at the
hotel. We talked about getting together and decided to meet at uncle Andrei's.
He has plenty of room, he has food, he has drinks, and he has all that's needed
for a big feast. At the hotel, at the restaurant it's going to cost you an arm
and a leg."
"It's my pleasure. We can go to uncle Andrei some other
time."
He looked at George, seeking his approval. But George
remained silent, minding his driving and watching the traffic.
The car was now speeding past the airport, through Otopeni,
the village where the national gateway was located. He hardly recognized the
place: the locality had changed so much. Buildings four or five floors tall,
with shops at ground floor level, stood along the highway on both sides, but no
person was in sight. Ion was wondering where the habitants could be, all those
people who used to flock the sidewalks along the national highway. To the left
he noticed the road going to Baneasa Forest. Then he saw the farms on the
outskirts of Bucharest, isolated cottages and former manor houses. Finally,
they reached the Baneasa airport, now used for domestic flights. Soon they
crossed the bridge spanning the lakes and were approaching the Miorita
Fountain. To the right, in a rapid succession, he reviewed the former Royal
Railway Station, the Minovici Villa and its gardens, followed by the immense,
domineering and ugly building of the Scanteia House, the former Communist
party's official paper headquarters and home of a slew of publishing houses.
Ion turned his eyes from that architectural aberration, so misplaced in a town
of nobler traditions by an erstwhile fraternal gift of the Soviets. The
building was an eyesore and Ion was chagrined, as ever, to see it still standing.
"Have they decided to do something about this old, ugly
pile?" he asked George.
"They talk of refurbishing it, redo the façade, and
modernize it somehow, who knows…"
"It's a national shame that a monument to the most
abject oppression and submission is still standing!" Ion bemoaned.
"Ion, just wait to see the newer wonder: the People's
House!"
"Bucharest, our pride, the Paris of the East…"
"Ceausescu used to go ballistic when hearing of the Paris
of the East. 'What Paris?' he'd say. And he ordered everything razed to the
ground, such as never seen in Paris."
"Listen George. Was it a revolution here, or what? From
what I saw on the television… They couldn't have faked all that: the revolt,
the street fights, Ceausescu's flight and execution…"
"It's all blah! You guys from abroad, getting drunk on
spring water. What do you know? The truth is that your politicians have sold us
out to the Russians again. Ceausescu himself said it before they shot him. At
Malta. He spoiled their schemes."
"Come on, George. It's not like that. If we talk about
truth, then we must admit that the guy was a hopeless cretin, to say nothing
about that wife of his. One may forgive a paranoiac, but a moron freezing and
starving his own people so as to sell everything outside, just to be able to
satisfy his egomania, this is both unforgettable and unforgiving. Starvation
and fear of Securitate have annihilated Romanians as people, as nation…"
"Ion, why have you fled the country?"
"As if you did not know… I was blacklisted. Nobody would
give me a job. They were all afraid stiff…"
"When you left, one could find food. Houses were heated
in winter time."
The car was now rolling down the Kiseleff Avenue. To the
right, the tennis courts at the Tineretului were still there. Ahead the
gracious silhouette of the Triumphal Arch was coming closer in sight. "After
centuries of sufferings Christianly endured…" Ion remembered the
inscriptions in the Arch's stone walls. "By God's will and… of King
Ferdinand and Queen Maria the Union was achieved…" The car was
speeding so he could only glimpse the Casin Monastery church. They continued
down the avenue and soon they arrived at Bufet. He thought of asking
George to stop the car, to take a few steps on Ion Mincu Street, where he grew
up. He did not. They passed by the school at Mavrogheni, built, like the Bufet,
on plans by architect Ion Mincu. The adjoining Mavrogheni church cupola was
hardly visible through the trees so rich in leaves now, in early summer. Then
came the Geological Institute, with the huge tree trunk, or a meteorite
chunk—nobody could tell—in front of the building. To the right, the discrete
building of the Museum of Natural History presented itself in old-fashioned
majesty.
The Victory Square—Piata Victoriei for locals—revealed itself
as dramatic as always from the shade of the richly adorned chestnut trees.
Although it was late afternoon, the sun was still reflecting its splendor of
golden rays in the tall windows of the monumental building, which served,
according to the whims of the country's rulers, as seat of the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs or of the Council of Ministers.
"What is it now?" Ion asked.
"Hell knows. It's called the Victory Palace these days.
The Council, meaning the government, meets here. The demonstrations take place
here… A mess," explained George not too convincingly.
They continued their way on Ana Ipatescu Boulevard, passing
by the old villas and stately mansions brought now to a state of decrepitude.
They were standing tall though, having resisted with dignity forty and some
years of proletarian terror. On those still in better shape Ion thought he
could recognize the flags of some African states.
In Piata Romana, the Roman Square, a tall cross was standing
out on a podium surrounded by a concrete wall covered with inscriptions
dedicated to those fallen at the Revolution. To the left, the repugnant
structure of the Academy of Economic Sciences—"V. I. Lenin" in past
times—where he was not granted "the honor" of being accepted,
although he got top grades in the admission examination. He did not get the
adequate "social grade" and was denied attendance in the Academy.
Even after so many years, he remembered the truly revolutionary satisfaction
displayed by lame Octav Popescu, the Academy's secretary, when he gave him the
news. The bastard!
The Magheru Avenue, as seen from the care, was unchanged. The
same bustling and the same crowds, most of the people loafing around. At the
Aro Theater, the immense panels were advertising an American movie. From the
moving car Ion did not catch the title, but could recognize the faces of some
noted actors, but not their names.
"Well, here we are," George announced. "Let me
see how I get to the hotel's entrance. I don't want to do the roundabout at the
Universitate. Rather, I'll make a left right here and then we go through the
parking, all the way to the entrance.
Ion did not interfere with George's driving; just mumbled
something in way of approval although he imagined his cousin was doing
something illegal. Apparently people were no longer afraid of cops.
"I haven't seen militia around. They used to be all over
the place."
"Make sure they don't hear you calling t them
"militia"; they get upset. Now they are "the police" like
in Western countries!"
They pulled to the entrance and to Ion's surprise a bellhop
appeared to carry his luggage. The boy must have had his good nose, because you
could not bet on George's car to know who the guest was. Out of the blue also
appeared two guys who asked him in two or three languages if he needed to
change money.
"Get out of my face!" Ion yelled at them,
remembering George's advice. The gypsies dropped the matter altogether: it was
not funny to do business with a Romanian.
"OK!" said George. "You go to the reception
desk, I am going to see where I can park my car."
"Just park it over there, by those cars in the parking
lot," the bellhop directed him. "There's a spot next to that
BMW."
"Can I do that?"
"Yes siree," the boy decided.
Ion tipped him five dollars. In New York such a spot would
have been a real bargain.
"Have you gone crazy?" George hollered, forgetting
where they stood. "That's my salary for a month!"
Ion ignored his cousin's state of shock and went to inquire
about his reservation. At the reception desk he asked for a room with a view to
the University Square, on a floor as high as possible. Watching the grimaces
the receptionist was making while searching in his register, Ion was wondering
what was the big deal to satisfy his request. This was off-season and the
prices were quoted in rates practiced in the West. Who could afford them
anyway? As if reading his mind, the receptionist said: "We have all sort
of delegations, we organize congresses. We are not idling here… I'm giving you
a room to your pleasing, though."
"Foreign guests, of course," Ion agreed and thanked
him. "The prices are New York prices and I hope the services are
likewise," he commented.
He thought a hotel is a hotel, and a business at that and
this one was no exception. After all, all he needed was a place where he could
rest after his very long and tiring flight from New York.
George joined him and both headed to the elevators
accompanied by the ever-amiable bellhop. Ion was trying to accustom himself to
the smell of the place. In the air was present the fragrance so familiar in
hotels of good reputation, but this was challenged by another, insidious odor.
He could not tell what it was, only that it became more persistent, replacing,
as they went farther in the hotel, the pleasant scents in the lobby.
They reached the floor, high enough, where the receptionist
had given him the room. The bellhop put the key in the lock then opened the
door ceremoniously, inviting them into the spacious, large windowed room. Ion
was happily surprised to see his native city spreading out before him. From up
there Bucharest looked as attractive as ever. Slowly approaching the large
window he could rediscover more of it. The buildings were still bathing in the
day's twilight. He remained by the window a few longer moments, trying hard to
check his strong emotion at regaining his birthplace. As if out of respect
George and the bellhop had stopped a few feet behind, leaving Ion to enjoy the
view all by himself. Ion's urge to see more crisscrossed the city below, trying
to recognize streets, buildings, gardens, church steeples, until his eyes were
stopped by a massive, fortress-like structure dominating both the sky and the
city. That was, if he remembered well, towards Mihai Voda Hill.
"What's that huge thing over there?" asked he
totally befuddled.
In his countless travels he had not seen the likes of it. The
Alcazar of Toledo came to his mind as a possible resemblance in its overbearing
dominance over the former Moorish capital, but that one displayed a sober
elegance, which was totally absent here.
"The House of the People," the bellhop announced
with lots of circumstantial pride. Most likely he had worked with the hotel
before the Revolution and remained stuck with his old habits.
Ion put his hand in his pocket, to give him a pourboire, but
George was faster and handed the guy a few notes of local currency. The bellhop
did not complain, but thanked and left the room.
"Be more careful with your dollars," George
preached. "It's not wise to show'em all over the place. If you want, I'll
give you a couple thousand until you change some money."
"It's good you remind me! Here, take the two hundred
dollars and change them. You can bring the Romanian lei tomorrow."
"Two hundred dollars? Ion, you are nuts! Who needs all
that money? Give me just one, then we'll speak. I'll bring in the local money
tomorrow, by ten o'clock. Is that good?"
"I would think so. For the time being, I have no program.
Make a few phone calls. Colleagues, acquaintances. I know we, the family, will
meet the day after tomorrow, as agreed. Would you remind them, please?"
"Okay, I'll take care of this. But, say, wouldn't you
like to meet somewhere else? Here is too expensive and it's not a big deal
either."
"I'll let you organize the thing. Money is not an issue.
Now, with all this talk about lunch, I feel like I'm hungry. Let's go eat
someplace. Is Capsa still there? Let's go there.
"Yeah, it's still there, but I'd like to warn you that
some of these places are no longer what they used to be."
"Hell! When I was in the country, the older people were
saying how great it used to be in their time, what a formidable place Capsa
used to be. Now I am hearing you, comparing things: how good it used to be
seventeen years ago! I'm totally confused."
"Ion, you may want to know that crazy Ceausescu was
selling everything out. After 1980 good life was finished: you could find
nothing. All was for export, to get currency, to pay the debt. He had a
fixation: show'em, to those in the West that we can do without them. You know
what? You want to go to Capsa. Let's go to Capsa."
"I'll just wash my face, freshen up and we go. But, if
you say it's not good there, we go somewhere else."
"You speak as if you had many choices."
"We'll manage: we are not going to starve!"
"Good for you. It shows you are still Romanian, just one
of ours. 'We'll manage, we are not going to starve'. This is how we've survived,
with the 'we'll manage' mantra."
Ion was no longer listening; he went to the bathroom. Left
alone, George walked closer to the window and looked at the city outside. He
tried to imagine and experience for himself what Ion might have felt when looking
at the city from the very same spot.
Outside it was almost pitch-dark now, and, with the exception
of a few streets around the hotel, you could hardly distinguish a thing.
Flickers here and there or occasional headlights of a car. The massive silhouette
of the People's House, appearing as a huge solid black cutout against the
starry sky, enhanced the darkness. From that height, George felt liberated from
the feeling of domination and oppression he experienced when passing by it at
street level. He realized that Ion, having seen it from a hotel's room on a
higher floor, could not possibly make the connections he, or any other
Bucharest resident, would have done looking at that much-hated edifice. It
certainly was better for him that way: he had no reason to feel guilty or
apologize for that monstrosity being there.
"I'm ready: let's go!"
They got out of the room. Ion pulled the door and was about
to walk to elevators.
"You don't lock the door?" George asked surprised,
his voice doubled by a horrified, almost comical face.
"It locks automatically," Ion answered and, to
reassure George, pushed hard on the handle. The door opened widely, pulling Ion
in.
George burst into laughter, happy that he could teach his
credulous cousin another lesson. This one said nothing and locked the door with
the key. In the elevator, all the way down to the lobby they did not exchange
one word. At the reception desk, Ion handed in the key and both got out
relieved each with his own reason from that outpost of Western civilization.
