Bucharest Street is immortalized by tram between Ștefan cel Mare Road and Eminescu by Mircea Cărtărescu in Volume Two, the bodyfrom the trilogy Fascinating. On this street, in the house of ‘cherry purple’, ‘the color of lupus erythematosus’, ‘in the yard’, as Bucharest residents say, sits Soile, an aptly named mysterious figure. The house Soile lives in with her mother has old outbuildings or damaged parts. An unnecessary wooden staircase leads to a former walled door. By analogy with the architecture of the house, Suella’s body is not complete: the baby was born with a terrible tarantula instead of a heart, surgeons extracted it and replaced it with a transplanted heart, but it must be fed more with guinea pigs. It was purchased from Obor, where the old door must also serve as an access road. And this connection about these migrations, flaws, and mysteries is precisely what promises visions of a much greater beauty, unfathomable with the mind, not with the eyes.
When I was a child on the same street, I reviewed in her memory her Roman landmarks. The “old school” or “workshop” belonged to Cantemere High School, several blocks away, where the students practiced on some old workbenches and lathes, dressed in outer robes. The coffee and delicacy shop, with large bowls of green glass, upside down and filled with sweets of all colors at the best of times, unforgettable, olfactory, like acacia in bloom. And since Mircea Certurescu was my professor at a college seminar, I thought to myself I could talk to him about the street. My memories, dating back to the ’70s and ’80s, didn’t include the ice cream parlour or the corner barbershop with Stephen the Great. Not sure at all about the barber shop. The novel also brutally parodies any attempts to identify and possibly identify the characters, noting with an asterisk that the barber’s character, Nya Gika, represents the invention of poet and friend TO Bobe. The fact that the novel undermines the imaginary pact here is one, but worse for me it does not enhance my flashing memories and may instill in me other false and imaginary memories that belong to the irreverent Bobby…
In my attempts to fix other landmarks on the street, Mircea Certurescu somehow blocked the discussion (which did not happen during the seminar). Her memories elevated the street to the power of imagination, and floated, like Suila’s house, into another reality, “tall foundations sticking out of the ground”, “accompanied like jellyfish by the ends of electric cables and sewer pipes.” The unfathomable depths of the vault, among the first stars.” I was doomed to sway along with his own letter, which, when not written, is simply comforting. Like Hermann’s character, who discovered Soile, I have a feeling my childhood has Another mind predicted it a few years ago and put it on paper to give me reality.How else could I explain my childish preoccupations by guessing at the skin of little girl Gabriella, who suffered from duck egg poisoning with a massive rash that lasted for years, in the outlines of continents, countries, cities, or islands , with the globe at the aid station.. I was convinced that in the drawings of those hives there were hidden maps, tips, and signs, which at least reassured my little friend, and even gave everyone a certain importance in their eyes. Likewise, on the marked skin of the sun, Hermann discovered Constellations – “Those which I saw burn in the basement on summer nights, reproduced symmetrically, first in their most famous landmarks, Cloca, Orion, Big and Small Bear, The Chair of God, the Pleiades and Hades, the Zodiac, until the picture is complete year after year with many from U.S For small stars, whirlwinds and star belts, even everything that can be seen with the naked eye can be seen on the vault. become visible.
I also think I might know where Soila’s house should have been with twilight geraniums, though it was just a house with a wooden staircase to a walled door and a wrought iron fence? In any case, we know that it was on the right side, coming from Stephen the Great to Emenescu, which matches the house of my neighbor Lady Margarita, the widow and eternal aspirant to the Order, which for some reason was rejected. The house was old, with black and old furniture, the shaded courtyard, but was exalted by the fuchsia, which I called earrings, not geranium, while the stairway in question led to a locked door, under the roof, to the attic, which had been rented before, but became Suitable for living under the rain. Among the huge fuchsia pots, set on concrete pillars cut to the left and right of the entrance, as well as on the thresholds, my Terrible read saints life. I especially loved the life of the devout Paraschiva and especially the martyr Filofteia, and both young girls were beaten by their parents. I used to live in that yard when I had no children to play with in the street. I watched carefully when the widow Margarita was making food or soap, and she never asked me to help her. She gave me sweetness, interpreted my dreams, and captured me with my eyes. She would take me all the way to her, just as she would pick up kittens or puppies on the road.
And the other houses on the street were and still are as he describes it Fascinating:
“In Tonari, little houses, some real huts, alternating with grandiose buildings, between wars, designed in the purest world style. But how careless! How thin! How deep is the friction of time paper, wind, and oblivion! A forged iron fence pierced the trunk of a tree.” He had poured himself into the iron grate, and passed his cortical tumors out into the street, and folded and bent the black bars, and kneaded with spears at the top, and made one with them. On the roofs the grass grew with straight and long threads, with nails as hard as lead on top. Yet there seemed to be Dividing line: Especially on the left side of the street, there were little houses buried underground, like huts, and windows from the street when pedestrians rode in. It was wet, with the ground on the ground, inhabited by families with many children. I met them, though I was coming from Right ‘beach’, because I was going there with my mother, who, as a nurse, was on antibiotics, and a lot of people had tuberculosis. I say ‘beach’ because the street was like water, full of rainwater, which was all flowing down the side With poor houses and lions.My mother used to take me to There, because I knew the kids, with whom I played on the street anyway. This angered my father, who was afraid he would move on to me. But my mother knew that if I ate well (I didn’t eat) and didn’t get wet (I didn’t stay) I wouldn’t get sick. And someone had to do “honours”, performances. I had no playing biases, and it didn’t matter which side of the street it was alive. But during the “visits” I was positively affected by the fact that these people also care about each other, that they care, and from it it can be seen that I expected that it would not be so. Perhaps because the children never spoke of their families and did not take us home because I saw them, in my mind, separated from their families, whom I may sometimes hate for the humiliation of being so poor? And from there the people rose, and the son of the florist became a captain.
Our lives depend on our neighbors. They were proud people who did not want to be indebted to their mother, but had no money to pay. And my mother was working in the hospital, she wasn’t the district nurse, who was supposed to come in with the injections, but she didn’t come. In order to reward their mother, they happened to stand in line for us. As the line approached, they sent a child to yell at his mother. His mother had money or no cash, and she had to go shopping because they got angry after standing in line for hours. Or he sends me, and I feel so good in the midst of them, because no one will dissuade me, as has happened more than once when I’m standing in line by myself. That’s what happened in the ’80s, the worst of the worst. I culminated that I thought again about those neighbors when I failed to schedule my mother to get the vaccine… How they would blush the phone for my mother… In the social reality of Tonari Street (critic Ion Frunzetti lives at No. 22, as violinist Ștefan Gheorghiu; at An adjoining alley, a few steps from Tonari, lived the sculptor Ion Galia) Things happened that defy segregation. The world was diverse before communism, because that meant mutual benefits: work was close, jobs were close. The workforce has liberated, but not completely marginalized. Craftsmen, shoemakers, shoemakers, carpenters, and people by day, who are good at everything, continued to live in the long streets between Tunari and Poland or Poland and Dorobante. In this ocean, riches were privately collected and broken up – and many others became poor… But the comfort of living together is seen as taking precedence over the discomfort of racial and social difference. Doors built at the end of steep stairs can sometimes break. I am grateful to Tonari Street for this idea of a larger and fuller world, which he gave me. And to Mircea Cărtărescu for the light he sheds on this poor dreamy existence in other and greater entities, unperceived by his eyes.
Romanița Constantinescu Lecturer in Romanian language and literature at the University of Heidelberg.
Photo: Wikimedia Commons