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Mircea Cartarescu
110
living with my parents, in
Ştefan cel Mare. At least my
mother knew where “they
distributed” the egg ration,
where
“they
brought”
cheese.Wewouldgoatdawn
or even at night behind an
apartment building across
the street and we would
stand in a queue in terrible
frost, in themiddle of animal
like crowds, for a chicken
carrion or a bottle of watery
milk. It was, however, food, I
was, however, with my folks,
I had someone to exchange
a word with. Now and
then I would come straight
home and spend the night
in my bedroom in Maica
Domnului. Howmany times,
in that eraof endless sadness
did I not wake up with the
feeling that I am in a cell,
narrow like a vault, buried
deeply underground? How
many tens of times did I not
think I could hear the knocks
of an impossible escape
through thewall? Howmany
notebooks did I fill in those
times with half-moons, spur
gears, crosses and triangles,
obscure however essential
language, like the notations
of logicians? The terror
of being in the world, my
animal-like fear in front of
the nothingness of our lives
would then show up in its
entire desperation. But the
knocks in the wall would
stop before they could be
deciphered and the endless
night would replace them.
_____