NORMAN MANEA
THE HOOLI GAN'S
RETURN
Norman Manea is
the author of
fourteen volumes
I
n the autumn of 1986, before I left Romania, I
failed to convince my old parents, listening to me
took an eight-hour journey by train from
with depressed skepticism, that my going away was
Bucharest to Suceava, into the very heart of
only a temporary separation.
Bukovina, to say my final goodbyes. As I entered the
The day before my return to Bucharest, I
of fiction and
train compartment, I had no difficulty in identifying
received the rebuttal to my naïve attempts at conso-
essays, most
my fellow passenger, a stocky man dressed in a suit
lation. In the morning, while I was still lying in bed,
recently The Black
and tie, an attache case on his lap, engrossed in the
my Mother was led to my room. Her condition had
Envelope. He
Party paper. Unmistakably, he was the "shadow"
worsened in the past year. She was blind and could
has received
who would accompariy me to my destination and
walk only with support.
Guggenheim and
possibly stay with me the whole time I was there, and
Their small apartment, in a socialist-style block,
MacArthur
see me safely back. It was a cold, gray November
consisted of two rooms, a living room and a bed-
Fellowships, and is
day. In the end-of-world atmosphere that was
room. My mother slept on a couch in the living
writer-in-residence
Romania in those years, it was obvious that the once
room; the woman who looked after the house slept
bustling little town of my youth had also fallen on
nearby on a cot. My father had the bedroom, where
hard times. The people looked diminished, muted.
we both slept in the same bed during the short time
One could read the sadness and bitterness, the smol-
of my visit. In the morning, we all shared breakfast,
dering anger, in their dry, wrinkled faces, in their
Bukovina-style, Kaffee mit Mikh, in the living room,
tense greetings, even in the most commonplace
where all the other daytime activities took place,
exchanges. It mattered little where or under what
meals, visits, chats.
at Bard College.
A
12
mask my "shadow," or perhaps his replacement, was
She had not waited, as usual, to speak to me at
lurking. Those under surveillance and those doing
breakfast, but wanted to see me earlier, while my
the surveillance appeared equally condemned to the
father was away at the market or the synagogue.
slow poisoning of their dead-end world. I expected
She wanted to talk to me alone, without wimesses.
no pleasant surprises, the situation was the same all
She knocked on the door, then walked, hesitatingly,
over the country. Suceava, however, seemed perme-
supported by her helper. Her heart condition had
ated with a funereal sadness, which only added to the
obviously drained her frail body. She was wearing a
burden of my pending separation. I would have liked
bathrobe over her nightclothes, her feet were in the
somehow to have been able to lessen that burden. I
slippers I had brought her as a gift from Belgrade.
tried to focus on the amusing aspects, to convert the
The thick robe was a surprise. All her life, she had
dour details of the daily routine into the stuff of
complained of being hot.- Now it seemed she was
jokes, but to no avail. All conversations kept coming
always cold and concerned with staying warm.
back, not to the conditions of squalor and terror that
Supporting herself on her attendant's arm, she
were everywhere, but to the reason for my visit. I
came over to my bed. I signaled to the woman to
NATIONAL FOUNDATION FOR JEWISH CULTURE