The Devil Never Sleeps (11 page)
Read The Devil Never Sleeps Online
Authors: Andrei Codrescu
My fourth visit resembled none of the others. This time, I was treated like returning royalty, the full-court press accorded the prodigal son. Romania had turned officially West. A massive effort to secure entrance into NATO had given the country a new public image that resulted in numerous recognitions, though the invitation to join NATO was not among them. The Constantinescu government appeared on the verge of genuine economic reform. Thieving officials of the Iliescu regime, with their Securitate shadows, were being indicted, prosecuted, and jailed. An acute panic appeared to possess the newly rich class of communists-turned-capitalists who'd started using their ill-gotten gains too brashly. I am still using qualifiers here because, despite the observers' hopes that Romania may finally be exiting its eternal quotation marks, this is just wishful thinking. One may consider these quotation marks as a set of permanent historical handcuffs or leg chains.
Romania can be seen now as the contentious space of a number of microcosms. The most obvious microcosm greets the visitor at Otopeni Airport, a Ceau
escu-era showpiece in the bad taste of the megalomaniac, who nearly bankrupted the country building horrid monuments to himself. There is no difficulty in entering the country now because visas and searches have been dispensed with. On exiting, however, one runs into a variety of unwholesome practices. Romanian money cannot be returned without an
exchange slip, and then at considerable depreciation. The two coffeehouses where it is possible to spend the remainder of one's worthless lei charge five dollars a cup of coffee, which at 7,000 lei for a dollar amounts to a sack full of lei. The customs officers, with the same dour looks they've worn since their boss was snuffed, check the contents of suitcases and object mightily to baubles they choose to call “the national patrimony.” Unless, of course, a bribe is quickly proffered. Otopeni is a bad gateway to the country, proof that public relations is in its infancy if it exists at all. Another explanation is that the border police are owned by one of the many opposition parties that make up the legislature. This one happens to be of the old stripe.
escu-era showpiece in the bad taste of the megalomaniac, who nearly bankrupted the country building horrid monuments to himself. There is no difficulty in entering the country now because visas and searches have been dispensed with. On exiting, however, one runs into a variety of unwholesome practices. Romanian money cannot be returned without anexchange slip, and then at considerable depreciation. The two coffeehouses where it is possible to spend the remainder of one's worthless lei charge five dollars a cup of coffee, which at 7,000 lei for a dollar amounts to a sack full of lei. The customs officers, with the same dour looks they've worn since their boss was snuffed, check the contents of suitcases and object mightily to baubles they choose to call “the national patrimony.” Unless, of course, a bribe is quickly proffered. Otopeni is a bad gateway to the country, proof that public relations is in its infancy if it exists at all. Another explanation is that the border police are owned by one of the many opposition parties that make up the legislature. This one happens to be of the old stripe.
I was no casual visitor. A chauffeured van belonging to the foundation waited for me, as did three distinguished writers I am very fond of: the foundation president, Augustin Buzura, a revered Romanian novelist whose texts are in every high-school book; his assistant, the poet and novelist Carmen Firan, a spirited and beautiful woman with a long career of political public relations; and my wonderfully crazy publisher, Leonard Oprea (Nardi), whose unleashed style may be the freest form of foolishness in contemporary Romania.
I was quartered at the Elizabetha Palace, where the resignation of King Michael took place in 1947 under pressure from the Soviet-installed puppet communist government. The Elizabetha Palace, like Otopeni Airport, was another microcosm. Situated in a huge park next to the Museum of the Peasant, it had been built in the 1920s for the sad Princess Elizabetha who didn't speak a word of Romanian, wept a lot, and wrote bad poetry. The proportions were all wrong: Vast rooms with curved ceilings and flagstone floors ended in immense doors carved with royal crests that gave unto other immense rooms and empty courtyards. The staff, invisible most of the time, clustered in dark side rooms with cell phones. “The boys” were not exactly waiters but they did bring coffee when requested, forgetting the sugar for which they had to run kilometers down the halls. After bringing the sugar, they ran back the same distance to bring spoons. The telephone did a crazy dance of lights, which, according to the operator, “just happened.” In the not-so-distant past, the palace had been some sort of top secret meeting place for the high ranks. Now, it appeared I was the only guest, but later I did see some rather disoriented Americans having meetings with local businessmen in various salons. Deer and peacocks grazed in the park outside the window.
The official function that was the purpose of my visit centered around the
launching of my book of selected poems called
Alien Candor
, as well as the publication in Romanian of my book about the “revolution,”
The Hole in the Flag
. The poems had been published by the Romanian Cultural Foundation in a deluxe bilingual edition, with a rapidity that was certainly novel in Romania. Under Augustin Buzura's friendly but firm pressure, my translator, the poet Ioana Ieronim, had put into Romanian over two hundred difficult poems in less than four weeks. The book editor, Carmen Firan, had worked days and nights for two weeks to finish the book. The reason for such haste had been to create a volume in honor of my fiftieth year, and because I was already in Prague and could easily come to Romania, thus saving the foundation plane fare. There was another reason, having to do with the political necessity of showing the West the friendliest possible face. I am not exaggerating my importance here, for the simple reason that Romania has few well-known names in the United States. Ilie Nastase had been compromised by his association with Iliescu. Nadia Comaneci had made a big fool of herself when she'd defected to America on the eve of the “revolution.” Other exports were known only in high art circles, people like Andrei Serban and Liviu Ciulei, world-class theater directors. That left me, with an audience of twelve million people on National Public Radio. This was realpolitik, perfectly understandable. But there was also genuine concern for what Buzura called “the reintegration of true cultural values,” which is a nearly transcendent concern, and which resounds to the credit of Romania's cultural stature. Despite the cynicism, the poverty, and the politics, Romanians are lovers of art and literature. It may be impossible (and unnecessary) to separate art from politics in a country where national consciousness has been forged by poets for the last three centuries. This was the reason also why the publication of a handsome volume of poetry counted more than the publication of my (still-dangerous) political memoir,
The Hole in the Flag,
or of my essay, “The Disappearance of the Outside,” which had appeared the previous year.
launching of my book of selected poems called
Alien Candor
, as well as the publication in Romanian of my book about the “revolution,”
The Hole in the Flag
. The poems had been published by the Romanian Cultural Foundation in a deluxe bilingual edition, with a rapidity that was certainly novel in Romania. Under Augustin Buzura's friendly but firm pressure, my translator, the poet Ioana Ieronim, had put into Romanian over two hundred difficult poems in less than four weeks. The book editor, Carmen Firan, had worked days and nights for two weeks to finish the book. The reason for such haste had been to create a volume in honor of my fiftieth year, and because I was already in Prague and could easily come to Romania, thus saving the foundation plane fare. There was another reason, having to do with the political necessity of showing the West the friendliest possible face. I am not exaggerating my importance here, for the simple reason that Romania has few well-known names in the United States. Ilie Nastase had been compromised by his association with Iliescu. Nadia Comaneci had made a big fool of herself when she'd defected to America on the eve of the “revolution.” Other exports were known only in high art circles, people like Andrei Serban and Liviu Ciulei, world-class theater directors. That left me, with an audience of twelve million people on National Public Radio. This was realpolitik, perfectly understandable. But there was also genuine concern for what Buzura called “the reintegration of true cultural values,” which is a nearly transcendent concern, and which resounds to the credit of Romania's cultural stature. Despite the cynicism, the poverty, and the politics, Romanians are lovers of art and literature. It may be impossible (and unnecessary) to separate art from politics in a country where national consciousness has been forged by poets for the last three centuries. This was the reason also why the publication of a handsome volume of poetry counted more than the publication of my (still-dangerous) political memoir,
The Hole in the Flag,
or of my essay, “The Disappearance of the Outside,” which had appeared the previous year.
The ceremony took place in the foundation's stately main hall where a standing-room-only audience of over two hundred invited luminaries, spanning the range from writers to President Constantinescu's chief councillor, Zoe Petre, crowded to hear speeches by the country's chief literary critic (and unsuccessful presidential candidate) Nicolae Manolescu; the dissident poet and my friend, Dorin Tudoran; and the foundation president, Augustin Buzura. The media were out in force, from radio to television and news
dailies. The speeches were long and the crowd polite. “Why are speeches so long in this country?” I later asked Buzura. “If they are not, nobody thinks it's serious,” he said. He was serious.
dailies. The speeches were long and the crowd polite. “Why are speeches so long in this country?” I later asked Buzura. “If they are not, nobody thinks it's serious,” he said. He was serious.
Carmen Firan, in the hope of lightening up the solemn affair, had engaged the services of a popular satirical rock group called Sarmalele Reci (Cold Stuffed Cabbage). The band was not allowed, however, to perform their repertoire; they were asked to play jazz, which they did very well. The speeches, except for Dorin Tudoran's warm and personal essay, were over the top in my estimation. They called me “great” so many times I began fantasizing that Romania might be my back door to the Nobel Prize. After the speeches, I sat down to sign books and was attacked by the media. While most people waited patiently in line, the “important” guests broke in quite rudely, often dragging in someone else important I just “had to meet.”
The queue is a fundamental microcosm. It is composed of people who have no choice but to wait. In other words, “the people,” as politicians are fond of calling them. The people, in all lands and times, wait. My acquaintances and their acquaintances were all “important” and never worried about the patient folk who gritted their teeth but said nothing. They took it for granted that “the important” had priority. The American in me was embarrassed for the crowd's eternal patience. Why didn't anybody raise a fuss? Here was the result of forty years of communism, two decades of fascism, and countless years of masters and serfs: no respect for the rights of the seemingly unconnected. It was no trivial matter. Lines are the historical form of most social activity in Romania. For most of their history, Romanians stood in line for food, for amusement, for news, for recognition. Individually and nationally, Romanians have been the most patient line-standers in Europe. Historically, this patience was rewarded by the abrupt closing of the window just when they got to the front. Others, better “connected,” had gotten there first. Slowly, the idea that fairness is not rewarding must have seeped into the national psyche.
It may seem a lot to make out of an occasion that was after all “mine,” it may even be ungrateful, but nearly thirty years in America have instilled in me a physical allergy at such infringement on humble rights. Ironically, this
exacerbated sense of an individual's worth was a reaction born in Romania, where I seethed throughout my adolescence whenever an official claimed priority by dint of “importance.” For years, I saw red (to coin a phrase) whenever anyone in uniform, from policemen to school principals, stepped on what I believed to be my rights. This attitude continued in America, which is not as free of bullying by uniforms as one might like to think. Until such simple ideas as respect for the line are widely in use, there is little hope for what we glibly call “democracy.” Of course, this may be a European, not an exclusively Romanian problem. Leaving Romania, at the Otopeni Airport, a couple of Frenchmen tried to get right in front of me with their luggage cart. By this time I'd had it, and I really enjoyed telling them to fuck off and wait in line like everybody else.
exacerbated sense of an individual's worth was a reaction born in Romania, where I seethed throughout my adolescence whenever an official claimed priority by dint of “importance.” For years, I saw red (to coin a phrase) whenever anyone in uniform, from policemen to school principals, stepped on what I believed to be my rights. This attitude continued in America, which is not as free of bullying by uniforms as one might like to think. Until such simple ideas as respect for the line are widely in use, there is little hope for what we glibly call “democracy.” Of course, this may be a European, not an exclusively Romanian problem. Leaving Romania, at the Otopeni Airport, a couple of Frenchmen tried to get right in front of me with their luggage cart. By this time I'd had it, and I really enjoyed telling them to fuck off and wait in line like everybody else.
The “democracy” being invented in Romania is also defined by the new media, which were pushing and shoving to get ahead of itself and of everybody else to get what they wanted, in this case my “attention.” In the service of democracy, the free press was ready to trample everyone. In this respect, at least, Romanian journalists had caught up quickly to their Western counterparts. Foreign forms of rudeness were being imported to supplement the native ones.
It is said that Romanians are francophiles and, in one respect, they are. They accord the utmost importance to restaurants, restaurateurs, chefs, and waiters. The very definition of Being Somebody is contingent on having one's own restaurant, personally knowing the
patronul,
being known to the waiters. The expensive restaurants and clubs in Bucharest are another microcosm. Owned by well-heeled, well-connected figures with a spotted if not downright shady past, these establishments collect Important Figures just as the IFs collect them.
patronul,
being known to the waiters. The expensive restaurants and clubs in Bucharest are another microcosm. Owned by well-heeled, well-connected figures with a spotted if not downright shady past, these establishments collect Important Figures just as the IFs collect them.
After the ceremony, a distinguished company of foundation officials and their important friends, including former Culture Minister Andrei Plesu, artist Tudor Jebeleanu, and feared political columnist Elena Stefoi, gained entry to a splendidly appointed establishment. I had made the faux pas of inviting my childhood friend N.S. and his wife to join the august company. There was no complaint from my gracious hosts. N.S. and wifeâhe is a
poet, she an artist and translatorâare quite humble people, but neither their reputation nor their appearance meshed with the group's. This is not to say that anyone harbored uncharitable impulses: They were cordial. But reservations had been made, the place was inordinately expensive, and the private room where we were seated had been strictly arranged to accommodate the reservation. After some quite serious grumbling by the maître d', tables were rearranged to fit us all. When everyone was seated, the
patronul
appeared and started to rage, delivering an extraordinary political speech. From what I was able to ascertain he accused the current administrationâof which this crowd was clearly partâof destroying the aesthetic of his restaurant, something that previous governments, including that of the executed couple, had never been guilty of. The company, which began listening with amused twitters to the eccentric
patronul,
sobered up as he went on, falling into an awkward silence. The man was briefly stopped when a tactful Carmen Firan offered him a copy of my book, which I hastily signed. Unfortunately, he resumed and would have gone on if Andrei Plesu, with the brutal but perfectly appropriate gesture of a man of authority, hadn't stopped him with these words: “And surely, your wife doesn't love you either.”
poet, she an artist and translatorâare quite humble people, but neither their reputation nor their appearance meshed with the group's. This is not to say that anyone harbored uncharitable impulses: They were cordial. But reservations had been made, the place was inordinately expensive, and the private room where we were seated had been strictly arranged to accommodate the reservation. After some quite serious grumbling by the maître d', tables were rearranged to fit us all. When everyone was seated, the
patronul
appeared and started to rage, delivering an extraordinary political speech. From what I was able to ascertain he accused the current administrationâof which this crowd was clearly partâof destroying the aesthetic of his restaurant, something that previous governments, including that of the executed couple, had never been guilty of. The company, which began listening with amused twitters to the eccentric
patronul,
sobered up as he went on, falling into an awkward silence. The man was briefly stopped when a tactful Carmen Firan offered him a copy of my book, which I hastily signed. Unfortunately, he resumed and would have gone on if Andrei Plesu, with the brutal but perfectly appropriate gesture of a man of authority, hadn't stopped him with these words: “And surely, your wife doesn't love you either.”
It was the perfect thing. The food was great, the smoke thick, the conversation witty, charged, and as laden with irony and double entendres as an oxen cart filled with Transylvanian hay. But while repartee set the general tone, small fires burst here and there. Dorin Tudoran brought up, with characteristic seriousness, the matter of Securitate and its still-visible shadow. The unresolved murder of Professor loan Coulianou in Chicago by what Dorin and I both believe were officers of Securitate took on the form of a serious argument. The natives preferred to believe that Securitate, for all its vaunted pervasiveness, was an outfit of bumblers and ninnies.
There were other restaurants. The first night, Augustin Buzura and Carmen Firan played host at a sweet, old-fashioned garden restaurant called La Gogoase (At the Doughnuts), owned by the mother of an expatriate who had returned from Chicago to cook (splendidly) the national food. We had stuffed cabbage with
mamaliga, mititei,
and fabulous supa de
peris oare.
mamaliga, mititei,
and fabulous supa de
peris oare.
Next night, after many drinks and hors d'oeuvres at my friend Denisa Comanescu's house, we headed (with two other guests of Denisa's: a Swedish poet and a pretty Romanian translator) to a rendezvous with my friend loan T. Morar at another fancy garden restaurant and club. loan was there with his wife and son, a brilliant young boy who spoke perfect English. He'd told me
before to try to come accompanied only by Nardi, my publisher, but as always in these circumstances, my bohemian instincts tend to think such instructions unimportant. I like crowds and enjoy rolling on while picking up playmates. When we all showed up, loan was most gracious and disapproval was, once more, expressed only by the
patronul,
who made it plain that he didn't expect so many people. I have no fear of the food sector, but then I'm American, which is to say, I can always go somewhere else. loan is an immensely popular writer and television personality but the
patronul
cowed him a little nonetheless. loan T. Morar is also an editor at
Academia Catavencu,
a savagely funny satirical weekly that had been the target of SRI (Securitate's successor) several times. Its offices were bugged, its writers threatened. In addition to unveiling with remarkable candor a myriad of dirty deeds by the mighty and their underlings,
Academia Catavencu
had also the distinction of stealing the mass readership of the nationalist hate weekly,
Romania Mare.
What the switch in allegiance showed was that the Romanian masses craved passionate opposition more than ideology.
Catavencu
combines satire with hard-hitting scandal, while
Romania Mare
specializes only in scandal and incitement to murder. One might draw here the conclusion that Romanians are closer to the peripatetic Sweikian humor of
Catavencu
, than to the murderous stupidity of the Iron Guard. But one can argue equally that Romanians are composed of two sides that do not know one another, existing in separate incendiary compartments: a self-deprecating, tolerant side, and a pompous, sentimental one.
before to try to come accompanied only by Nardi, my publisher, but as always in these circumstances, my bohemian instincts tend to think such instructions unimportant. I like crowds and enjoy rolling on while picking up playmates. When we all showed up, loan was most gracious and disapproval was, once more, expressed only by the
patronul,
who made it plain that he didn't expect so many people. I have no fear of the food sector, but then I'm American, which is to say, I can always go somewhere else. loan is an immensely popular writer and television personality but the
patronul
cowed him a little nonetheless. loan T. Morar is also an editor at
Academia Catavencu,
a savagely funny satirical weekly that had been the target of SRI (Securitate's successor) several times. Its offices were bugged, its writers threatened. In addition to unveiling with remarkable candor a myriad of dirty deeds by the mighty and their underlings,
Academia Catavencu
had also the distinction of stealing the mass readership of the nationalist hate weekly,
Romania Mare.
What the switch in allegiance showed was that the Romanian masses craved passionate opposition more than ideology.
Catavencu
combines satire with hard-hitting scandal, while
Romania Mare
specializes only in scandal and incitement to murder. One might draw here the conclusion that Romanians are closer to the peripatetic Sweikian humor of
Catavencu
, than to the murderous stupidity of the Iron Guard. But one can argue equally that Romanians are composed of two sides that do not know one another, existing in separate incendiary compartments: a self-deprecating, tolerant side, and a pompous, sentimental one.
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