Coada in Gandacul de Colorado (https://www.gandaculdecolorado.com/coada-de-dragos-voicu/)

Having been born in the 80’s, my memories relating to the old system are made up of blurry images of running in-between buildings, some cartoons whose names allude me now and a policeman that caught me putting bull thistles in the exhaust pipe of a car. I also remember how I sat next to the window one December night listening to far off gunfire. And I, from personal experience, know a lot more about life before 1989 than those two, three years younger than I, to say nothing of those born since ‘89. For all these, but also for those my age, I recommend Coada (The Line n.t.) by Dragoş Voicu.
In a provincial town the people find out one summer’s day that at the store ‘silverware’ is to be brought and they run with money, bag, everything. The young Ionuţ is sent ahead by his parents to make his way through the crowds and take a place in line. But shortly after he leaves, the young boy hits a mass of people. The entire city knows of the goods; the entire city is there, standing in the line that lasts a whole year. Personally, this reminds me of an old joke:
John, an astronaut, is to go on a mission. Before laving, he leaves his mother a note: “Gone into space. Be back in two weeks”. Upon returning, he finds a note from his mom: “Gone shopping. Don’t know when I’ll return.”
The joke fits perfectly in the context of this novel. The people have come from the get go with chairs, knowing that they will have to wait a long time. The irony is that the ‘silverware’ is in fact chicken spines and wings, but this does not matter; people come because one must stand in an line, and anyway, in reading the novel, we come to see soon enough that this gathering is in fact the means through which the book presents to us an entire world of the past.
Coada (The Line) is the story of a childhood, but also of life in general spent in the Communist period. First of all, because the narrator relates his memories from that period, the novel presents to us the life of a child back then, with slingshots made from wires, with Turbo gum, but also with the scout activities, oaths and songs. For one such as myself that has not really felt on his own skin the effects of the Communist system it is shocking to observe the subtle methods through which the slightly older generations were manipulated. I recall from the book only the Ceuşescu cult, ‘the Comrade’ as he appears here, nourished through the songs that praise him, the TV programs that are only about him and so on. All these are described in the calm tone of a man who looks at the world through a child’s eyes, however the innocence of expression subtly masks the hardships, abuses and absurdities that existed then seemingly everywhere.
In the line, where Ionuţ spends every day after school, a self-sustained society is formed. Here friendships and even loves are formed, various discussions are carried out, and the young Ionuţ is there to relate to us everything he sees and hears. These characters around him are however more than simple people; for the intents and purposes of this novel, they are in fact archetypal symbols. Mr. Marin is the shopkeeper, Mr. Costel is the retired man, Mr. Georgescu is the teacher, Mrs. Nuţi and Florica are the working women, and through them we find out about the lives of various social classes. Thus, the shopkeeper (like any worker there) is interested in manual labor, without understanding much of science or art. The retired man is interested only in listening to the radio and relates the difficulty with which he was able to get used to like in the city (for a long time he couldn’t quite understand the concept of an in-door toilet). The Professor, feeling subjugated, writes fables with anti-Communist messages. The two working women are happy that they have a place to work and what groceries or materials they manage to steal from factories they use for commercial purposes. And alongside Ionuţ and the others walks a nameless policeman that represents the state forces that receive bribes from everyone and permit themselves just about anything. Through all these, the novel Coada (The Line) creates an overall portrait of society in the 80’s. Here the electric power in apartments keeps getting cut off, food is scarce, heat during winter is nonexistent. Without groceries in stores people turned to commerce through an exchange of gods stolen from work. And parallel to all the hardships and wants, the narrator presence the fact that the state grants freely to any citizen a house, a job and a gas cylinder, concluding with the absolutely ironic (sarcastic even) phrase “What a good State!”
What’s important however is to stand in line. It is a part of life; a way of life. The morbid irony is that when the old Costel dies, his body is not immediately taken away in the hope that his nephew will manage to come quickly to replace him and thus assure that he did not lose his place in line. And in the end, after a year’s wait, when the ‘silverware’ finally arrives and Ionuţ’s father (who periodically took his place in line) manages to fill the bag with the desired goods, the completed transaction is perceived unanimously as a great victory, the father is a hero, and the fact that Ionuţ remained faithful to the line to the end is the act that changes him out of a child into a man. (Alexandru Oltean)

Tara de sub fluturi (Dragos Voicu)

Tara de sub fluturi (Dragos Voicu).

Coada redivivus!

http://andreeaiuliatoma.blogspot.com/2013/04/coada.html

2013, aprilie

Coada

Tinand seama de faptul ca Tara de sub fluturi mi-a produs o foarte placuta impresie, cand am dat din pura intamplare peste romanul de debut a lui Dragos Voicu- Coada, premiat de Editura Cartea Romaneasca in 2009, n-am stat pe ganduri si l-am cumparat imediat. Si m-am si apucat de el. Citisem eu ceva recenzii asupra lui, descoperind atat aprecieri, cat si critici, si asta mi-a starnit si mai mult interesul, cu atat mai mult data fiind existenta etichetei debutului, aceasta din consideratii de ordin subiectiv, voiam sa vad si eu ce si cum se apreciaza in cazul  unui scriitor aflat la inceput de drum.
Ca impresie generala, pot spune ca mi-a placut mult si aceasta carte si principala mea critica la adresa ei ar fi faptul ca este prea scurta, fara insa ca acest aspect sa aiba un impact negativ asupra continutului. Cred chiar ca daca fiecare scena ar fi fost mai amplu dezvoltata, ar fi fost oarecum stirbite farmecul si fluiditatea textului. Dar stati, ca nu v-am expus tema- despre ce fel de coada este vorba. Una din cvasiintalnitele cozi de oameni in perioada nu foarte indepartata, de care, cei ce au trait-o din plin, nu-si amintesc cu placere. Eu, care nu m-am scaldat prea mult in acele ape tulburi, n-am prea multe amintiri proprii. Astfel ca, raportandu-ma la ceea ce am citit, adesea am avut impresia absurdului, dar stiu din amintirile altora ca acel absurd era crunta realitate.
Intr-un fel, cartea aceasta mi-a amintit de „Sunt o baba comunista!” a lui Dan Lungu, fara insa a fi o imitatie. Se aseamana doar prin reconstituirea din amintiri a unei anumite epoci si, nu in ultimul rand, prin doza de umor amar ce o administreaza cititorului. Scriitura de debut a lui Dragos Voicu este una extrem de vie, cu imagini palpabile si personaje creionate in linii precise, personaje cu o coloratura cel putin interesanta, unele mai amplu expuse, altele doar in treacat, dar toate laolalta compunand un tablou complex a ceea ce a reprezentat pentru omul de rand acea epoca.
Coada- ca liant al atator destine, al atator oameni infometati, manati de dorinta de a apuca sa cumpere ceva, in cazul de fata- tacamuri-, pare nesfarsita. Are dimensiuni exagerate, impanzind orasul ca un sarpe format din oameni, ce par a fi croiti dupa acelasi tipar- imbracati aproape la fel, manati de aceleasi nevoi, confruntandu-se cu aceleasi probleme- intreruperile curentului, frigul din case si de pretutindeni iarna, prezenta tantarilor vara etc. Sa nu mai spun ca aceasta uriasa coada dureaza aproape un an de zile- desi nu se stie daca s-au primit sau nu tacamuri sau cand se vor primi, zvonul declansator a fost suficient pentru ca oamenii sa se imbulzeasca spre magazinul respectiv, intitulat sugestiv Redresarea, caci sunt convinsi ca o data si-o data tot va fi adusa marfa si e bine ca ei sa fie acolo, la rand.
La coada fiecare isi povesteste viata, astfel ca aflam si noi, o data cu personajul-narator- Ionut, la vremea aceea un baietandru de varsta gimnaziului- detalii interesante despre fiecare din colegii sai de coada: muncitori, un pensionar, chiar si un profesor. Tot coada este cea care inghite evenimentele importante din viata oamenilor- zile de nastere, nunti si chiar inmormantari, pentru ca nimeni nu vrea sa-si piarda cumva randul si, oricum, cei mai multi dintre locuitori sunt membri ai cozii. Discutiile injghebate in nesfarsitele ore, zile si apoi luni, capata si valente de filosofie populara- ni se fac cunoscute diverse mentalitati- a omului simplu, fara prea multa pregatire, a intelectualului- astfel ca una din discutii, cea despre fericire, infatiseaza conceptii surprinzatoare si in acelasi timp amuzante.
Unul dintre protagonistii cozii- un profesor de matematica, se dovedeste a avea, spre nedumerirea lui Ionut, adevarate inclinatii literare. Scrie tot felul de povestiri, pe coli de hartie pe care apoi le arunca nemultumit, dar baiatul le recupereaza si-apoi le citeste acasa, impreuna cu mama lui. Aceste incercari literare, presarate in carte, in diferite locuri, au un profund caracter liric, sunt intesate de metafore, unele din ele chiar bizare, mie nu mi-ar fi trecut prin cap nici sa ma fi dat de ceasul mortii, si se constituie, cred eu, in adevarate meditatii privind, viata, dragostea si moartea. Constrasteaza cu restul textului, scris din perspectiva unui personaj nu foarte pregatit din punct de vedere intelectual. In recenziile pe care le-am citit, am intalnit nedumerirea fata de insertia acestor fragmente de o alta factura decat textul de baza, ce le incadreaza ca o rama. Eu nu cred ca au fost introduse pentru a umple spatiul, chiar daca o legatura evidenta nu se remarca la prima vedere si, intr-un fel, povestea ar putea foarte bine sa curga si fara ele. Ceea ce cred eu, desi habar nu am de intentiile autorului si nici nu am citit opinii critice oficiale, este ca ele sugereaza evadarea prin literatura de sub jugul comunist, ca spiritul a ramas totusi liber in pofida celorlalte restrictii si deci, capabil sa viseze si sa plasmuiasca lumi feerice. Cert este ca mi-au placut mult aceste fragmente. Per ansamblu, chiar daca acest mic roman nu este vreo capodopera, este totusi o
carte placuta, interesanta, ce merita sa-i fie alocat un ragaz de lectura din
timpul nostru atat de incarcat. Bineinteles, eu nu am amintit tot ce se poate
citi pe parcursul sau, sunt destule aspecte pe care nu le-am atins, mai ales
finalul, care ofera un fel de concluzie de domeniul rasu-plansului. Dar cum nu
obisnuiesc sa fac rezumate si deja am dezvaluit prea mult, restul veti descoperi
si singuri daca aveti curiozitatea.

De acelasi autor

http://taradesubfluturi.wordpress.com/

Coada tradusa in engleza!!! The Line (fragment)

 The Line

(Translation: Jim Brown)

1.

 The dusty silence of the neighbourhood was broken by Nea Stelică yelling:

“Lenuuuuuuţa! Lenuuuuuuţa!

“What is it? Why are you screaming as if you’re off your head?”

“Throw down the shopping bag, the money, and the stool. They’ve got chicken feet in at Redresare! Right now, do you hear?”

“What money’s this? ’Cause I don’t have any left.”

“The hell you don’t! Never mind, we’ll sort it out when I get back! Take a look, either in that broken vase on the balcony, or if it’s not there, in my toolbox there’s little box full of screws. Take the screws out and you’ll see the money tied up with an elastic band. But get a move on, ’cause the line’s growing. Dead slow and stop you are!”

Lenuţa gladly threw him down the shopping bag, money, and stool, her eyes shining with hope, and Mr. Stelică zipped off like a shot in the direction of Redresare.

The news had spread like lightning round the neighbourhood: they’d got chicken feet in!

The apartment blocks shook with the bustle of people rummaging for money, shopping bags, and stools so they could get off to the line as fast as possible. They were full of enthusiasm; I could see it in our apartment too. Mother had started singing and Father was whistling at high speed. This didn’t happen very often. They even kissed each other, sort of… in a hurry, knowing that they had to move very fast, to get as near the front as they could.

The sound of running feet came from the stair well, the sign that our neighbours had got ahead of us. Searching for a solution, Father decided that I should go to the line, because if I ran, I would get there faster and then they would come and take my place.. Consequently I grabbed the shopping bag, money, and stool, and I zipped off down the stairs. Once outside, I was swallowed by the streams of people flowing among dozens of apartment blocks, all heading for a single goal: Redresare.

Even now, I haven’t a clue why they called it that. It’s just what everybody called it. It was a sort of grocery store where sugar, oil, chicken feet, and even meat were in stock more often than anywhere else. People said the boss was a bald guy who was well in with people from the Party and that was why they got more produce. Of course he kept back something for them too. Sometimes they even got in olives, oranges, or bananas. My folks never managed to come back with anything like that; it was murder. In any case, bananas were the rarest of all, but I did eat them a few times. Mother had a contact, Suzi, who helped her out with the more luxurious stuff: coffee, cigarettes, little bars of soap, chocolate, fruit. She used to bring the bananas home green, and we put them on top of the wardrobe to ripen. We would lay them on a newspaper, lined up, one by one, equally spaced, and cover them with a blanket, as if they were little children. Every day we would check them repeatedly to see if they had turned a little bit more yellow. When they were ripe, it was festival time in the house. Father would divide the banana in three, and of course he gave me the biggest part. We never ate a whole banana. We would stretch them out for as long as possible. That was the best taste of my childhood. Chewing gum tasted good too. After we ate the bananas, we didn’t throw away the skins. We kept them to smell nice in the house. The bananas had coloured stickers on them that said Ecuador. I used to peel them off carefully and stick them on my schoolbag, on the covers of my notebook, or round a pencil. Even the stickers seemed to smell of banana. So my pencil case and schoolbag smelled of banana when I went to school, which gave me a certain air of importance.

My most beautiful dreams in those days were also about bananas. One time I dreamed that I had gone to Grandma’s in the village to catch butterflies for the insect collection we had to make for school. The way it was in my dream, in the fields, instead of butterflies, big fat yellow bananas were flying all over the place, the size of Turkish pumpkins, and I was catching them in my net and devouring them on the spot. In the yard, the apple trees, pear trees, plum trees, and apricot trees all had bananas growing in them, and the stacks of corncobs had turned into stacks of banana skins. In the vegetable garden, where I knew Grandma had planted carrots, bananas had come up in all their glory, with carrot leaves round their stems. A dizzying smell came at me from all directions. I thought I was going to turn into a banana too. In the morning, when I woke up, I could still feel the unmistakable taste of the most delicious fruit in the whole world.

One night, I dreamed that Father had filled my whole bedroom with bananas, and when I opened the door the bananas tumbled down and covered me all over. For hours I sat there alone, crouched on the cupboard at the end of my bed, eating bananas and carefully folding up the skins, so I could show them to my classmates the next day, because otherwise they would never have believed, not in a month of Sundays, that I had really had a room full of them.

 7.

We didn’t start school straight away. First we had quite a long period of agricultural practice. It was great fun for us. Our parents were a bit upset because they said it was taking time out of our schooling. Our grandparents said it was all right, that we would get used to working in the fields. Those whose parents had contacts managed to get medical exemptions and didn’t go on practice. One time Mother got me an exemption too. She gave a cleaning woman at the Clinic a packet of Kent cigarettes and a little bar of Fa soap and that did the trick.

In the morning we children all gathered in the schoolyard, each of us holding a little plastic bucket. We waited till the bus arrived; then we got on and went off to various destinations. I took part in picking tomatoes, green beans, grapes, and lots of other things. Each of us had a quota to make up. Every time we filled a bucket, we went to the comrade class teacher who marked a little line in her notebook. And so on until we made up our quota. Those that worked harder and finished first had to help the others who had fallen behind. That’s how it was then: “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.”

At 12 o’clock sharp, we had a lunch break. Then we formed groups with our friends, unwrapped the packages our parents had given us, and ate together. I didn’t eat much of mine, because I was more attracted by what my classmates had, even if Mother said it wasn’t so good. From the lunch-packs you could see who had contacts. Those who didn’t get on so well tended just to come with cans.

We boys liked it when the girls went to pee. How we tormented them! And how we enjoyed watching them from a hiding place!

Most times I went to pick tomatoes. We came back from the field with our buckets full. Mother gave me a shopping bag too, so I could take more. She used them to make tomato sauce and she preserved the green ones for the winter. In the bus on the way back we would sing at the top of our voices:

“Ailadiladada, long live the driver,

Ailadiladada, ’cause he took us there and back,

Ailadiladada, and didn’t leave us on the road,

Ailadiladada, and long live the bus,

Ailadiladada, ’cause it’s burned up all its  gas!”

When we arrived back in town all hell broke loose. We had tomatoes ready in our hands and zvirrrrrrrr! We threw them at the people in the street. We particularly liked ladies dressed in white. It was terrific fun!

I could never understand why they let us take something home with us, but not the peasants who worked alongside us. Especially when the “Agricultural Campaign” started, militiamen came to the field to keep watch in case anyone stole from the communal property. They would hide among the rows of corn and when the day’s work was over they would check that the peasants all left the field empty-handed.

One day they caught Grandpa Ghiţă in Scaieţi, right when I was there for a short vacation.

I had gone to bring him back from the field around 5 o’clock in the afternoon. After we had passed the corn rows, Grandpa saw a hare in a ditch. We went up to it and touched it. The hare was dead. Grandpa took it and stuffed it under his arm, inside his jacket. We had scarcely gone a few steps when we heard a voice behind us:

“Hey old man…! Stop where you are!”

I looked round and saw two militiamen. One was older, short and fat, with curly hair and his cap pushed back, and the other was younger, small and skinny, like a ghost. We stopped right there. The militiamen came up to us.

“Your identity bulletin for inspection!” they demanded of Grandpa.

“Long life to you, I don’t have my bulletin on me, because I’m coming from the fields, from the corn.”

“But are you aware that this is a border area and you must carry your papers at all times?”

“Chief, when I’m gathering corn what am I to do with my bulletin? I’d lose it among the stalks. But I have it at home. If you like we’ll go there right now and I’ll show you.”

“Oh, never mind that. We’ll let it pass, ’cause we’re understanding people. But what’s with the swollen jacket? Come here! Are you sure some corn hasn’t stuck onto you?”

“I don’t have any corn, but I found a dead hare in a ditch,” said Grandpa, pulling the hare out from his jacket.”

“Hah…, we can let you off with the bulletin, but this is a different matter, mate! We were out looking for one thing and here we come on something else. Are you aware that hunting is forbidden in this period?”

“But… by my sins… what hunting?”

“What do you mean ‘what hunting?’ when you have the animal hidden under your jacket?”

“But didn’t I tell you I found it? It was dead in a ditch. The boy saw it too! Look, it doesn’t have any marks of bullets or of blood, not even a broken paw, as if I had caught it in a trap. It’s head isn’t broken. I don’t have a gun on me…!”

The militiamen took the hare and felt it all over.

“So you think you know more about forensics than we do, mate? So, how did it die, if you make out you’re so clever?”

“Comrade militiaman, maybe it died of old age!” said Grandpa to the older of the two militiamen.

“Listen, old man… in all my career in the Militia I’ve never seen a hare die of old age. They only ever die either caught or shot, you can be sure of that! And even if it did die of old age, was the hare so stupid as to die like that, in a ditch, for you to find it? You listen here to me, old big-ears may be timid, but not stupid to drop dead by the roadside, let that be clear.”

“Then maybe it died of some disease!” stammered Grandpa.

“What disease, mate? This fellow runs all day, eats grass from the forest, doesn’t smoke… Have you ever seen a sick hare?”

“Come on, do you think I’ve every taken any notice of which one is and which one isn’t sick? I say they maybe get sick sometimes like the rest of us, ’cause they’re surely not made of iron. And if it didn’t die of old age or of some disease, then you tell me, how did it die?” Grandpa went onto the attack.

“Tut tut! That’s turning things on their head! Are you questioning us now!? I believe you caught it and killed it. For example you could have blocked its nostrils and stopped it breathing so it died of suffocation. That’s why it has nothing broken, because you suffocated it. That’s still hunting, you know! And because you hunted the hare in the closed season, you’re fined a hundred lei and the hare is confiscated. Come on, out with the money and I’ll tear off a receipt for you!”

“But I don’t have money on me; I’ve just come from the field.”

“Then we’ll go to your home and you can pay the fine there.”

We set off home, the militiamen holding the animal by the ears with the two of us following penitently behind them.

When we got home, Grandpa informed Grandma:

“Silvia, I’ve come with the comrade militiamen to pay the fine because I found a hare in the field.”

“What fine is this you’re paying?”

“They say it’s closed season for hunting.”

“And how did you hunt it?”

“Didn’t you hear I didn’t hunt it, I found it? Ask the little one.”

“And why should you pay if you found it?”

“They don’t believe I found it; they think I hunted it.”

“Well, maybe you caught a stone with your overshoes and you hit the hare as it was running past you. If that’s what happened, does it count as hunting?”

“Maybe I hit it, but I don’t think so, ’cause it was cold when I found it. If I had just hit it then, it would have been warm, not cold and wooden the way I found it.”

“Listen Ghiţă, you know what I say? They probably have to make up a Plan of Fines, ’cause they must have a Plan too, like you do in the Collective with how many rows to harvest per day. Here’s what I say: you go round to Motor’s girl and ask for a loan for the fine till we get our money from the Collective, and I say we should slaughter a hen, bring out some wine, and give the men a bit of hospitality, ’cause some militiamen have come into your yard, you know. You never know when you might need them. They probably know the mayor, the veterinary… Come on, do as I’ve told you!”

While Grandpa went to get hold of a hundred lei, Grandma brought the table and some chairs out into the yard and invited the militiamen to take a seat.

“Since you’ve crossed our threshold anyway, stay till we grill a hen on hot coals. And take a glass of wine to get your strength back, ’cause you must be tired too.”

“We just came so Nea Ghiţă could pay the fine for hunting the hare, but since you’ve invited us, we can’t refuse, ’cause it wouldn’t be polite.”

The militiamen put the hare down on the table, opened their jacked buttons and sat down heavily, next to the jug of wine. Grandma killed the hen, scalded it, plucked it, and grilled it on hot coals. She brought it to the table and invited the militiamen to tuck in. I didn’t get a bite of it and neither did Grandpa. Those “turkeys” licked it all up. They licked up a few jugs of wine too. We sat like fools beside them and listened to them talking about work. About 9 o’clock in the evening, they decided to go:

“Eeee.., it’s time we were getting on to your own homes,” said the older one. “Tanti Silvia, thank you for the dinner! Nea Ghiţă, We’re sorry about what happened, but just you be more careful next time. And now… we have to fine you! ’Cause what if there was someone else there in the corn when we were talking and they said we had let you off? We’d be out of a job. You’ve got to understand us too! Here’s your receipt!”

“Comrade militiaman, just keep the receipt, ’cause it’s of no use to us. Take the money and let’s hope it doesn’t happen again for us to make such a mistake,” replied Grandma, looking sternly in the direction of Grandpa. “And I’ve prepared a bag for each of you with some flour, cornmeal, eggs, whatever we have in the yard.”

“Thank you, Tanti Silvia, you’re a woman of gold for this village, take it from us! But listen, do you  have any dried peppers, those hot ones, around here? ’Cause I thought I saw some strings of them hanging on the fence, in the sun.”

“We have; of course we have.” Grandma quickly took two fine strings of hot peppers down from the fence and gave them to the militiamen.

“Eeee…, we take our leave of you good people and wish you good health, ’cause health is better than everything,” said the militiamen once more, and went out through the gate.

We went through the gate too, to escort them. They were swaying from side to side as they walked, with the hare under the arm of the younger one, with their bags of flour from Grandma and each with a string of hot peppers over his shoulder.

“Did you really mean to give them each a bag?” asked Grandpa.

“Oh, be quiet, Ghiţă. That’s how you get by in this world!” answered Grandma, and shut the gate after the militiamen.

 11.

I was back in the line. I had barely changed places with Father when the mathematics teacher took charge of me:

“Well, are you ready for school, sonny? Because tomorrow, that’s it, nose to the grindstone!”

“I’m ready, sir!” I answered him, looking at the ground and hoping with all my heart he wasn’t going to ask me a mathematical question.

“Say, what’s two plus two divided by two?

“Two,” I answered quickly.

“Wrong,” said Mr. Georgescu. “Take it from me that two plus two divided by two makes exactly three.”

Nea Marin joined in the discussion:

“But how can it make three, teacher? Has my drink got you drunk? The kid’s right. It makes two. Like if one day they bring me, recorded in the storeroom files and everything, two asbestos boards, you know, the kind they use in laboratories, yes? Say it, pal, yes?

“Yes,” said Mr. Georgescu.

“Right, and then they bring me another two, a few days later, let’s say a month, maybe half a year, ’cause you don’t get that stuff supplied so easily, yes?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Georgescu.

“Right, first there were two, the asbestos boards that came the first time, and then two more the next time, so I’ve got four in the inventory, yes.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Georgescu.

“Gooooood! Right, and now the boss comes along and tells me to divide the asbestos between two end users, yes? Don’t I give them two boards each? I mean, two, those first asbestos boards, and two, the ones delivered later, divided between two end users makes two, I mean two boards to each end user, doesn’t it? ’Cause how am I going to give them three, like you say to each of them, if I only have four, in the storeroom, in the inventory, that I have to divide between two end users? I’d be caught with a shortfall and end up in jail if I followed your thinking, teacher!”

“Mr. Marin,” said the teacher.

“Just call me Nea Marin, pal, ’cause that’s what everyone calls me.”

“Nea Marin, it’s a question here of the order of the operations. Multiplication and division are done first, and then addition and subtraction. So first we calculate two divided by two, which makes one. Then we calculate two plus one, which equals three. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

“Teacher,” howled Nea Marin, hitting the ground with his cap, “how can I divide the asbestos first when I don’t have any in the storeroom? How am I supposed to give it to the end users when I haven’t taken delivery in the first place, I mean, done the addition part, as it were? So you tell me first to divide, I mean, to give out the goods, and then to add, I mean, to take delivery. Won’t you get me sent to jail that way? And even if it’s not a matter of jail, how can I give out what I don’t have? ’Cause if I haven’t taken delivery, I don’t have anything in the storeroom, ’cause I don’t hold goods in stock and I don’t have a surplus recorded either. God forbid! To think I’ve lived to hear such a thing!”

“Keep your voice down, comrade, you’re disturbing public peace and order!” said a militiaman who was hanging around beside the line.

“I beg your pardon, comrade militiaman,” said Nea Marin, beating retreat. “But will you take a look at the problem we’ve got here? The teacher says that two plus two divided by two makes three. I say it makes two. You, being a public authority, like, and responsible for peace and order, what do you say?”

“I say you should mind your own business and keep peace and order in this line that has been formed for the purpose of the acquisition of alimentary produce. It is not the business of the Militia to solve mathematical problems. According to the division of labour, that is a matter for those concerned with mathematics, for example teachers, engineers, and researchers. You, comrade, what work do you do?” the militiaman asked Nea Marin.

“Comrade sergeant, I’m a storeroom clerk at the chemical plant.”

“And you?” he asked Mr. Georgescu.

“I am a teacher of mathematics at School Number 10.”

“Then it’s clear! The comrade teacher is right!” continued the militiaman. “How do you permit yourself, comrade storeroom clerk, to upset the division of labour and express your opinion on a problem that is not within your competence? Are you aware that in so doing your have exceeded your professional attributes in a manner with potential criminal implications?”

“Comrade sergeant, I beg your pardon,” said Nea Marin feebly, rubbing his beret in his hands and sweating abundantly.”

“I’ll forgive you this time, but if it happens again I’ll fill in an unfavourable report and send you straight back to the factory,” said the militiaman, walking away from us.

Nea Marin was like a sponge full of water. He smelled even worse than usual now and he was scratching himself even more vigorously under the armpits. I was hoping he wouldn’t let off a fart under the strain. I think it would have laid us all flat.

Then Nea Costel broke in:

“Look, Nea Marin, I think it can be your way and his way. I mean theory is one thing and practice is something else. The teacher is talking by the book. You’re talking from your day to day work. And I can’t make out why you’re getting so upset, because it’s not such a big difference. What’s two or three to me? I mean if I live three more years instead of two, do you think I’m any happier? It’s true that if I don’t get three kilos of chicken feet but only get two I’ll be upset, but I’ll get over it, so what I say is that you’re both right.”

“What are you saying, Nea Costel? ’Cause I see you here, an old man with white hair. Look, have you ever been a storeroom clerk to know what it means when something’s missing against the inventory? You think if they come to do a stock check and see that instead of three asbestos boards I only have two, I’ll get away with it? Not likely, pal! I’m telling you. They’ll bloody well catch me with missing stock. If I’m one board short they’ll record a shortfall, meaning I’ve been screwed, and if I’ve one too many they’ll record a surplus, meaning I’ve screwed someone else and kept a board back for the purpose of stealing it. See what I mean? In my workplace, that sort of thing just doesn’t wash. It’s either black or white.”

Tanti Nuţa could no longer keep her mouth shut, and added her piece to the discussion:

“Teacher, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I also think Nea Marin is right. In our place, with the carpets, it’s the same. First we get together at the factory, the foreman goes through the safety at work stuff, and tells us what there is to be done, and after that we split up to work at different points. Are you saying that first we should split up and then gather together? That’s not possible. And I’ve been working in textiles for a good few years! Yes, and my man, who works at the Ministry does the same, ’cause I’m always asking him what  he does. You tell them, Tanti Florica, am I not right?”

“Oh dear, Nuţi, what do I know? That’s likely how it is. I never got much book learning, ’cause Mother had a lot of us children and we had to work to put food on the table.”

“What, Tanti Florica? Do you need to have book learning for everything these days? Work teaches you how to get by in life! I never went to high school either; I went to the textile workers’ school and I married my Dide, but I’ve known a few people, and I’ve got myself a few connections; we’ve furnished a house for ourselves and here we are now putting money into the Savings Bank for a Dacia car. And what if I don’t have book learning? Let everyone stick to what he can do! Those that like work should stick to work, and those that like books, to books! I’ve always liked work, I can tell you!”

“Oh dear, Nuţi, that’s likely how it is.”

“You hear that?  Never mind likely, it’s just how it is. I’m telling you.”

“Tanti Nuţi, you are confusing the order of operations in mathematics with the elements of the process of production and of the organization of labor in the factory where you work,” said Mr. Georgescu, feeling the need to justify himself. “In mathematics, I repeat, the order of the operations is very clear: first multiplication and division, and then addition and subtraction.”

“Listen, teacher, you listen here to me. Whoever made these rules didn’t like work: let that be clear! Because if he had liked work too, he would have seen that the problem is handled differently on the shop floor.”

An early autumn shower of rain started to fall on us out of the blue. As if at a signal, thousands of black shopping bags were raised above heads. It was dark above my head, but it was even darker inside it.

On Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/Dragos-Voicu/e/B00AZMMKXI

 

Ţara de sub fluturi de Dragoş Voicu

Ţara de sub fluturi de Dragoş Voicu.

Coada vanduta pe Amazon

2010 in review

The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads This blog is on fire!.

Crunchy numbers

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 2,600 times in 2010. That’s about 6 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 9 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 46 posts. There were 4 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 7mb.

The busiest day of the year was March 16th with 259 views. The most popular post that day was DESPRE AUTOR.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, life.hotnews.ro, coryamor.wordpress.com, cartearomaneasca.ro, and romanianormala.blogspot.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for romanul, romanul coada, serban tomsa, romanulcoada, and dragos voicu.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

DESPRE AUTOR February 2009
26 comments

2

„COADA” – văzută de ŞERBAN TOMŞA April 2010
1 comment

3

„COADA” ÎN PRESĂ February 2009
4 comments

4

ÎNTRE COPERTE April 2009
6 comments

5

DESTĂINUIRI April 2009
3 comments

Comunismul, ce poveste…

De curand am descoperit in revista FAMILIA nr. 7-8/iulie-august 2009 (pag. 30), revista de cultura care apare la Oradea (fain oras, am lucrat acolo demult),  o cronica despre „Coada” a dlui Marius Mihet.

Multumesc autorului si confirm faptul ca intuitiile sale referitor la intentiile mele sunt foarte exacte. 

http://arhiva.revistafamilia.ro/2009/Familia_7_8_2009_web.pdf

„

Comunismul, ce poveste…

 

Puţine, foarte puţine lucruri despre viaţa în comunismul agonic lăsate pe dinafară de Dragoş Voicu în microromanul său Coada. Mai bine spus despre societatea comunistă înregistrată prin ochii unui nubil, reactualizată ficţional de adolescentul ajuns la maturitate care priveşte –important de precizat – timpul istoric trecut cu detaşarea celui care a avut norocul să trăiască şi câte ceva din timpul libertăţii. Astfel că acest roman confesiv are de câştigat prin chiar subiectul asumat şi perspectiva narativă aleasă un plus de autenticitate în faţa cititorului pentru care anii ’80 din secolul trecut sunt pură ficţiune sau o realitate aproape neverosimilă chiar şi pentru cei care au trăit-o… Pe de altă parte avem un subiect cu tangenţe – azi – istorice, psihologice şi sociale. Din acest punct de vedere, cartea lui Voicu este o radiografie psihosocială. Romanul ar putea fi considerat foarte uşor un mic tratat de psihologie socială, numai bun de prezentat o lume care trece printr-o răspântie istorică devastatoare. Coada prezintă un fenomen sociopsihologic, poate cel mai reprezentativ pentru comunismul ceauşist. Evident, romanul face trimitere la cozile interminabile care nici nu prea contau până la urmă dacă făceau sau nu legătura cu un soi de realitate ideală ce se putea materializa pentru consumatorul fără consum…

Coada este de fapt o lume tragică pentru care iluzia bunăstării există şi, culmea, se şi multiplică. A face parte dintr-o coadă înseamnă – cum bine redă Voicu – a participa la lume, la viaţă. Poate chiar să-ţi descoperi rostul. Nu e pură întâmplare faptul că la coadă se fac nunţi ori se plâng morţii. Psihosociologia ne învaţă că nu există în societate nimic fără corespondenţe sau reverberaţii psihologice. Pe acest filon înţeleg să aşez şi cartea lui Voicu alături de cele deja consacrate începând cu sfârşitul anilor ’90. Aşa se întâmplă în romanele unor Bogdan Suceavă, Petre Barbu, Petru Cimpoeşu ori Dan Lungu – doar câţiva dintre scriitorii interesaţi de ficţionalizarea Epocii de Aur. Totodată, luate detaşat şi generalizate, toate relaţiile din acest tip de lume cu punctări psihologice tind să re-creeze mituri şi să definească realităţi tragi-comice. Imaginea de pe copertă – Îngroparea sardelei de Goya – este grăitoare. Un fapt social care devine, prin amploare şi repetiţie, o sărbătoare, un carnaval şi, la un moment dat, un circ. Această galerie de personaje rezultate fac şi în romanul lui Dragoş Voicu o lume, pentru mulţi, probabil, insolită, numai că, din păcate, ea ţinea de o anume normalitate. „Fericirea e să ai ce bea şi ce mânca” spune nea Marin şi coada defineşte pentru omul comunist din această seră carcerală posibilitatea fericirii, cum simte nea Costel. „Tacâmurile” pe care speră să le cumpere eroii din Coada reprezintă nu doar un Graal anapoda, cât un simbol absurd al condiţiei fericirii. Copiii se fac astfel utili în acest univers al maturilor pe care-i pot concura fără prea mare greutate. E un proces de iniţiere. Ionuţ Petrescu (naratorul) poate fi orice adolescent care a trăit cel puţin o vreme în comunism. El rememorează, cumva nostalgic, un timp care-i dicta o stranie, astăzi, definiţie a fericirii: „Pentru mine fericirea însemna să prindă tata banane la coadă şi să vină mai repede anul 2000 să se inventeze roboţii ăia cu gume de mestecat”. Tragismul întreg al cărţii se anulează prin neverosimilul transmis cititorului de astăzi – cel trăitor total în afara comunismului. El va citi amuzat confesiunea însufleţită a unui erou simpatic cu imaginaţie bogată. De aici tragicul întregii intenţii narative, cum se întâmplă şi în Aş crede în Dumnezeu, romanul lui Costel Baboş. Există o limită a confesiunii dincolo de care tragicul există în stare pură. Aceste naraţiuni, prin directeţea lor înşelătoare, îndeajuns de amuzante, anulează sobrietatea implicită. Efectul comic şi participarea conspirativă a cititorului dau acestor discursuri un plus de credibilitate şi, mai ales, de celebritate. Dar cam atât. Gravitatea istorică şi chiar sensul tragic rămân undeva în planul doi. Construcţia, densitatea şi tehnica narativă au de suferit. Nea Marin, nea Costel, tanti Nuţi, tanti Florica, Dorica de la Scaieţi, miliţianul Arnăutu, domnul Georgescu sau domnişoara Calomfirescu sunt exponenţii unei realităţi istorice şi sociale. Dintre personaje, profesorul de matematică Georgescu iese în evidenţă, el fiind dublat de un scriitor.

Produsele literare ale acestuia sunt păstrate de naratorul nostru grijuliu alături de relicvele propriului trecut. Naraţiunea este întretăiată astfel de creaţiile scriitorului Georgescu, nişte poveşti în egală măsură parabolice şi poetice. Ele prezintă opţiunea evazionistă din comunism. Redate de naratorul obişnuit, scrierile profesorului sunt de fapt pentru acelaşi cititor străin de comunism alte poveşti pentru că însuşi comunismul a ajuns poveste. Aici cred că e miza cărţii, dincolo de fresca socială: problema răului (comunismul) – mascat involuntar de amintirile înregistrate de un copil – „dispare” deodată cu proiectarea lui în poveste. Aici poate fi învins prin uitare, umor şi realitatea necreditabilă. Dintr-un alt punct de vedere e interesant cum această coadă poate organiza psihologia sau imaginaţia societăţii: zvonul „tacâmurilor” provoacă mii de oameni iar aşteptarea lor beckettiană sfidează timpul. Dragoş Voicu are calitatea – destul de rară în vremea de pe urmă – de a şti cum să fixeze amintirile în naraţiune. Fireşte, pentru cei familiarizaţi deja cu anumite realităţi, pasaje întregi din carte îi vor fi plictisit. Dar nu asta e intenţia lui Voicu. El stăpâneşte foarte bine, la fel ca Teodorovici sau Baboş, alternarea tensiunii cu umorul simplu dar de efect. Până şi visele lui Ionuţ vor intra în această schemă. Când au loc mai multe nunţi deodată la aceeaşi coadă nu e greu de imaginat amploarea carnavalescă. Pentru nea Costel, cel care moare la coadă, această activitate este procuparea lui esenţială: „la coadă era viaţa lui”. Revelaţia lui Ionuţ este

 

că ”Si coada e o şcoală a vieţii. Aici cunoşti oameni şi afli multe lucruri. Eu am trăit mai mult la coadă decât acasă”. Ori cum spune acelaşi nea Costel: „Aici toată lumea îţi povesteşte viaţa. Asculţi un om – citeşti o carte, că fiecare are povestea lui. Pă dă altă parte, coada e ca o armată. Dacă n-o faci, nu eşti bărbat. şi să vezi tu ce rău o să-ţi pară când se termină”. Când tatăl lui Ionuţ reuşeşte să cumpere resturile de pui, „tacâmurile” delicioase, el este un erou iar copilul are un model în viaţă, finalmente, şi poate dispreţui liniştit pe ceilalţi. Ajuns poliţist peste ani, după 1989, naratorul Ionuţ refuză să citească dosarul cu note informative în legătură cu coada. Pentru narator, singura realitate adevărată este cea trăită. După cum singura memorie valabilă este cea personală. Cred că romanul avea numai de câştigat daca discursul era fragmentat cu notele informative – multe amuzante se-nţelege, dată fiind condiţia autorilor – şi nu cu încercările literare ale matematicianului îndrăgostit. Dincolo de toate, însă, mi-e limpede că Dragoş Voicu nu a avut intenţia să scrie un roman complex. Coada e povestea lui Ionuţ, băiatul care devine bărbat la coadă… O carte simplă, directă, plăcută şi savuroasă pentru cei care pot privi perioada trecută cu seninătate şi ironie. Talentat şi bun manager al imaginarului contagios, Dragoş Voicu ar putea scrie un roman adevărat dacă s-ar dedica mai mult literaturii.”