Bogdan Creţu
Biography
Nominated book : Mai puţin decât dragostea
Summary
When Vlad and Maria meet, they discover that their lives have unsuspected connections with each other. Vlad cannot forget the experience of the unhappy love for Sara, back in the last years of Ceaușescu’s dictatorship. The two lovers find out that they are placed on opposite ends of communism: she is the daughter of a former torturer, who tortured Vlad’s father in Stalinist prisons in the 1950s. Is love still possible? They hide in a mountain village, but they are caught, and because Sara is pregnant, her father accepts their relation. But Sara disappears from everyone’s lives, to punish her father and end the evil he committed. In parallel, the story of Maria, the daughter of a poor family, unfolds, with an alcoholic father and a mother who becomes a housekeeper in the house of Sara’s parents after her escape. As she is very attractive and lives in a brutal, post-communist world, Maria is the victim of a series of harassments that culminate in the rape of her husband. Less than Love is a book about how totalitarianism alters everything, from love to family; about compromise, about fear, but it is also a plea for memory, trying to recover relevant sequences of a past that still marks the present.
Excerpts
I-a luat câteva secunde ca să-şi dea seama. El era. Tatăl Sarei. Dom- nul Iacoban. Iancu Iacoban, Îngerul cu pulan, cum îi spusese.
— Într-un fel, ai ajuns aici datorită mie. Nu aici, în arest. Că asta e simplu. Aici, în viaţă. Pentru că eu l-am lăsat pe tac-tu să trăias- că atunci când nu era tac-tu. Eu l-am ţinut în viaţă. L-am scos din moarte. E ca şi cum l-aş fi născut. Tu pe toate astea le-ai aflat, deşi bine ar fi fost pentru toată lumea să rămână îngropate acolo, în zar- că. Şi nu doar că le-ai aflat, dar i le-ai mai povestit şi fetiţei mele. Ca să ce? Ca s-o întorci împotriva mea. Adică vii tu, fiul unui nenorocit pe care eu l-am salvat, c-am zis să fac o faptă bună, că eram de-o vârstă, da?, şi vii tu acuma şi ce faci? Îi bagi tot felul de tâmpenii în cap fetiţei mele şi-o iei de la mine şi fugi cu ea. Tu, un nenorocit. Adică vrei tu s-o târăşti şi pe ea acolo unde e numai locul tău. Că de-alde tine şi de-alde tac-tu e locul vostru să rămâneţi acolo, jos. De unde eu am zis să-l scot că mi s-a făcut milă, că parcă mă ve- deam pe mine bătut şi pişat pe mine de frică şi pe mama plângân- du-mă. Şi-am zis să fac o faptă bună, că mă simţeam bine să fac o faptă bună şi nu doar aşa, o dată, ci până la capăt. Adică să-l ţin în viaţă pe nenorocitul ăla, că asta, mi-am zis, atârnă mai mult decât toate relele pe le-am făcut pe lumea asta. Şi-acuma vii tu, ratatul ra- taţilor, mucos şi căcănar ce eşti, flămândul lumii, şi, în loc să cauţi să-mi mulţumeşti, tu ce faci? Tu-mi strici fetiţa, măăăă?
A urlat ultimul cuvânt. S-a arcuit deodată, s-a ridicat de pe muchia patului, şi-a dat seama ce face, s-a controlat. S-a aşezat la loc, a gâfâit. Căuta să se stăpânească. I se umflaseră venele pe gât, respira greoi, şuiera ca după un efort peste puterile lui. L-a cuprins un scurt tremur, a sărit iar în sus, până a dat piept în piept cu Vlad şi a izbucnit sălbatic:
— Băăăă, futu-ţi Cristoşii şi morţii lu’ mă-ta şi lu’ tac-tu şi lu’ tot neamu’ tău. Băăăă, tu-ţi dai seama ce-ai făcut, biserica mă-tii de bandit? Ţi-ai băgat pula-n fetiţa mea, băăăă!
S-a lăsat o linişte de mormânt. Vlad încremenise. Iacoban, deşi cu un cap bun mai mărunt, i se părea uriaş. S-a aşezat din nou. Şi-a pus mâinile pe genunchi, a tras adânc aer în piept, a măturat cu privirea prin toată camera, a fixat-o asupra lui. A continuat cu o voce răguşită, joasă:
— Eu puteam să-l omor pe taică-tu, bă. Puteam să-l omor şi nu-mi făcea nimeni nimic. Că el era duşman al poporului. Şi mai bine-o făceam, că acum n-ar mai fi ajuns fetiţa mea în halul ăsta, batjoco- rită de-un bagabont. Dar lasă, lasă… Ştii ceva? Ştii ceva, băăă?
Se precipita iar. A început să scuipe salivă. Şi-a şters gura cu podul palmei drepte şi a zis privindu-l cu ură:
— Ştii ceva? Io pe tine te pot omorî acum. Nu te mai scoate nici dra- cu’ din ghearele mele. E acilea, între mine şi tine. Ce i-ai făcut tu fetiţei mele o să-ţi fac şi io ţie. Cu piciorul de la pat. Ce zici? Ţi-ar plăcea?
S-a întors deodată cu spatele, a făcut câţiva paşi până la uşă, s-a bătut cu palmele peste coapse. S-a plimbat aşa, smintit, câteva mi- nute. A revenit. S-a aşezat.
— Dar ce rezolv? Cum mai scot io copilu’ de-acolo de unde l-ai pus tu? Ia să-mi zici tu mie! Tu l-ai băgat acolo, tu să-l scoţi. Auzi? Că m-ai nenorocit.
I-au dat lacrimile. A început să plângă de-a binelea. Parcă cerea aju- tor:— Ce vrei tu, bă, căcat cu ochi? Să fii tu tata la copilu’ fetiţei mele? Asta vrei tu, bă? Să fii tata la copilu’ fetiţei mele? Păi, ce-ai să te faci, bă? Eşti tu în stare să ai grijă de ea cum am avut eu? Vii tu şi strici totul? Adică, cum ar veni, tot voi ne futeţi pe noi acuma, nu?
Bolborosea, abia de se mai desluşea ce spune printre hohotele de plâns. Un gâlgâit de om înecat cu propria vomă îi ieşea din gâtlej. Vlad s-a socotit pierdut. Omul ăsta chiar era în stare de orice. Nu ştia cum să reacţioneze. Se simţea la cheremul lui, cum fusese şi tatăl lui cu 30 de ani în urmă. Dar parcă-i era şi milă. Era disperat. O iubea pe Sara. Amândoi erau disperaţi. Amândoi o iubeau pe Sara. Fiecare-n felul lui îi voia binele.
— Viaţa mea… Ce-ai făcut tu din viaţa mea… Poate că aşa trebuia să fie. Blestem. E blestemul ălora de i-am chinuit. Se răzbună acuma prin tac-tu. Adică prin copilu’ lu’ ăla de i-am salvat viaţa, care-mi face mie viaţa un chin acuma.
— Să ştiţi că pe Sara eu o iubesc, a rostit Vlad pe un ton hotărât. Şi ea…
— Ce faci tu, bă? O iubeşti? Auzi la el, o iu-beş-te. Păi, ce crezi tu, bă, căcat cu ochi, că oricine are, aşa, dreptul să iubească pe cine are el chef? Când vrea el? Că vii tu din neamu’ pulii, făcut de unu’ care l-am ţinut io în viaţă, şi-mi zici mie acuma că o iubeşti tu pe fii-mea, că aşa ţi s-a sculat ţie pula. Şi ce crezi tu, bă, că e iubirea asta? E aşa, că se dă cu raţia, ca s-ajungă la toată lumea?
— Eu şi Sara ne iubim şi mai rău faceţi dacă… a spus controlându-şi glasul Vlad.
Ce mai avea de pierdut? Ce-i mai puteau lua? Ce-i mai puteau face? Să-l omoare-n bătaie? L-ar fi făcut fericit. Mai bine aşa decât fără ea. A decis să se poarte ca şi cum ea ar fi fost acolo, în secţia de miliţie. Să fie demn. Demn de ea. — Da, da, a continuat domnul Iacoban. A venit vremea să plătesc. Credeam că am scăpat cu obrazul curat, că mi-am spălat păcatele cu banditu’ ăla de Păcuraru. Dar uite că nu e aşa. Şi acuma plătesc. Plătesc.
— De ce nu vreţi să staţi de vorbă cu mine şi cu Sara? Să ne ascul- taţi?
— Auzi, bă, la el, îmi ţine el lecţii acuma. Că ce să fac eu. Să-l ascult pe el, că el o iubeşte pe fii-mea. Că de-aia i-a sucit minţile şi-a lăs- at-o borţoasă. C-o iubeşte. Cine eşti tu, băăăă, să-ţi permiţi s-o iu- beşti pe fii-mea? Cine îţi dă ţie voie, băăă, s-o iubeşti tu pe fii-mea?
N-avea de ales. Nu e o opţiune. E fatalitate. E mai mult decât drago- ste. Cum să-i spună asta omului ăluia din care ieşise dintr-odată la suprafaţă fostul torţionar?
S-au mai scurs două-trei minute lungi de linişte. Domnul Iacoban a oftat lung. Era incredibil cât aer putuse să-nghită. Dacă s-ar fi sufo- cat şi-ar fi căzut pe mozaicul duşumelei, nu s-ar fi mirat.
— Eşti duşmanul meu. Da-da, tu eşti duşmanul meu cel mai mare. Din toată viaţa mea. Asta te face important. Te simt aproape. Pot să- ţi spun ce-am pe inimă.
A amuţit. Era acelaşi om care urlase ca o brută înainte? Şi-acuma devenise subit capabil de subtilităţi? Vorbea pe un ton urban, de om calculat, cizelat.
— Ia, stai jos. Stai jos aici-şa.
I-a netezit aşternutul în celălalt capăt al patului, i-a ridicat perna.
— Aşează-te acilea. Stai jos şi-ascultă-mă.
S-a sucit până şi-a găsit o poziţie convenabilă. Stătea mai mult pe-o bucă, sucit către Vlad. Şi-a împreunat mâinile şi le-a prins între ge- nunchi. Părea emoţionat.
— Vouă vă e mai uşor. Da-da, e mult mai simplu pentru voi. Pentru că voi sunteţi victimele. Aţi îndurat, încă înduraţi, dar asta vă dă putere. Nedreptatea care vi se face vă-ntăreşte. Că ce mare lucru să fii victimă? Stai acolo-n colţul tău şi suferi. Şi cu frica aia te-nveţi cu timpul. Ajungi chiar să depinzi de ea, să-ţi lipsească. Da, da, ştiu eu cum e, am observat cu atenţie: te simţi cu vremea protejat de ea. Ce, nu ţi-a povestit taică-tu? Sau s-a ruşinat? Pentru că e şi asta ceva in- teresant, domnule, foarte interesant. Ăl de-a încasat-o simte ruşine mai mare decât ăl de-a lovit. E lucru’ dracului. Dar să ştii de la mine, pentru că eu m-am uitat cu atenţie la ăi de-i băteam. Uşor-uşor pie- lea se tăbăceşte. Omul se deprinde cu durerea şi o duce mai bine. Suportă mai mult. Şi ştii de ce cred eu că se-ntâmplă aşa? Pentru că când eşti tu cel slab, îţi pui viaţa-n mâinile ăluia puternic. Na, mă, de-aici, fă ce vrei, pe mine mă doare-n paişpe. El să decidă. E treaba lui ce face cu viaţa ta. Ţine de inspiraţia şi de talentu’ lui. Tu te-ai desprins. Iei pumni, palme, bocanci în ţurloaie şi nuiele la cur şi suferi. La început ţi se pare că e mai mult decât poţi duce, dar te înveţi şi cu durerea. Treptat îţi dai seama că se poate trăi şi aşa. Care e răspunderea ta? Te doare-n cot. Toată răspunderea o are ăla de te chinuieşte. Ăla de te bate sau te pune la zid. Tu nu mai răspunzi de viaţa ta. Gata, te-ai eliberat şi de ultima obligaţie de pe lumea asta. Dacă scapi, lumea e a ta. Vei avea întotdeauna dreptate. Ştii ce-am mai observat? Că eu îmi făceam treaba acolo, da’ luam notiţe, băg- am la cap. Că măcar cu atâta să mă aleg din anii ăia, să ies pregătit pentru viaţă. Băgam tot la cap. Şi-am văzut că deţinutu’, oricât de tare l-ai fi bătut, când ieşea nu-ţi purta ură. Adică, vezi, domne, aşa ne-a fost soarta, tu ai dat, eu am încasat. Putea să fie şi invers, ce, parcă nu s-a mai văzut? Dar el se simţea cumva apropiat de tine. Că te văzuse zilnic, vorba ta o auzise, chiar dacă-l înjurai şi gamela aia cu zeamă de l-a ţinut în viaţă tot tu i-ai dus-o. Aaa, că l-ai bătut. Păi, l-ai bătut, că asta era treaba ta, să-l baţi, şi treaba lui era să o ia pe coajă. Dar nu l-ai omorât, deşi puteai să-l omori, nu-ţi făcea nimeni nimic. Că au mai fost şi demenţi de le plăcea să vadă sânge şi să simtă că ei decide cât mai are ăla din faţa lor de trăit, asta
e altceva. Dar nu toţi am fost la fel. Mie nu mi-a plăcut să lovesc, încercam să rezolv cu vorba bună. Că oameni suntem, nu? Şi nu se ştie când ne mai întâlnim. Când n-am avut încotro, am bătut, dar am căutat să nu rup oase, să nu dau la mir. Altfel, îi luam cu vorba bună, mă omule, uite, putem s-o rezolvăm mai simplu sau putem să ne muncim amândoi până ne iese-ochii din cap. Da’ să ştii că ţie s-ar putea să-ţi iasă şi sufletul. Şi sufletu’ iese greu, al naibii de greu, mă băiatule, nu e lucru simplu. Că şi asta am observat eu, că nu se moare atâta de uşor, domnule. E lucru’ naibii, e multă muncă, nu-l poţi omorî pe unu’ cu una, cu două, cât ai bate din palme. Aşa că io-i luam cu vorba bună şi cei mai mulţi cedau. Că la bătaie erau învăţaţi să reziste, da’ la vorba bună nu. „Bă, tu eşti cel mai al dra- cu’“, îmi zicea tovarăşu’ şef Goiciu, „tu îi faci din psihic“. Şi creştea inima-n mine. Că nu era oricine ăia de-i făceam eu din psihic. Era oameni învăţaţi, boieri mari, burgheji, oameni cu carte, de fusese ei stăpânii înainte să răsturnăm noi lumea.
S-a-nmuiat deodată. Şi-a schimbat poziţia ofensivă, şi-a sprijinit palmele pe genunchi, a scos din buzunarul hainei un pix şi-a înc- eput să-l frece între degete. Chipul i s-a luminat, a arătat dintr-odată ca un bunic blând, care spune poveşti. A oftat din rărunchi.
Excerpt translated by Monica Cure
It took him a few seconds to realise who. It was him. Sara’s dad. Mr. Iacoban. Iancu Iacoban, the Big Stick Boogeyman, as he was called.
‘In a way, you’re here ‘cause of me. Not here under arrest. ‘Cause that’s obvious. Here, alive. ‘Cause I let your dad live before he was your dad. I kept him alive. I saved him from death. Just as if I had given birth to him. You found out about all this, though it woulda been better for everyone if it had stayed buried there, in the zarcă (). And not only did you find out about it, but you also told my little girl about it. To what end? To turn her against me. That is, you, the son of a wretch who I saved, ‘cause I decided to do a good deed, ‘cause we were the same age, right?, now you come and what do you do? You fill my little girl’s head with all kinds of nonsense and you take her from me and run away with her. You, a wretch. That is, you wanna drag her down with you where only you belong. ‘Cause for the likes of you and the likes of your dad, your place is down there. From where I decided to pull him out ‘cause I felt sorry for him, ‘cause I could almost see myself beaten up and pissin’ my pants in fear and my mom cryin’ for me. And I said I’d do a good deed, ‘cause I felt good doin’ a good deed, and not just like that, one time, but all the way. That is, to keep that wretch alive, ‘cause that, I said to my- self, counts more than all the bad things I did in my life. And now you come, the biggest loser in the world, a snot-nosed turdsucker, piss-poor, and, instead of tryin’ to find ways to thank me, what do you do? You ruin my little girl, huuuuh?’
He yelled the final word. He suddenly sprang up from off the edge of the bed, realised what he was doing, and controlled himself. He sat back down, gasped. He struggled to rein himself in. The veins in his neck bulged, he was breathing hard, wheezing as if he had just overexerted himself. A tremor went through him, he jumped up again, until he was chest to chest with Vlad and he broke out wild- ly:
‘FFFuckin’ Jesus Christ and fuck yer mom and dad and yer whole goddamn family tree. Heyyyy, you realise what you done, you fuck- in’ punk? You stuck your dick in my little girlll!’
A silence like the grave fell. Vlad froze. Iacoban, though he was a head shorter, seemed like a giant to him. He sat down again. He placed his hands on his knees, took a deep breath, gave the entire room a sweeping glance, and fixed his gaze on Vlad. He continued in a deep, hoarse voice:
‘I coulda killed your father, you know. I coulda killed him and no one woulda done a thing to me. ‘Cause he was an enemy of the peo- ple. And I shoulda done it, ‘cause then my little girl wouldn’t’ve end up like this, mistreated by a lowlife. But alright, alright… You know what? Heyyy, know what?’
He was getting worked up again. He started spitting. He wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand and said to him with ha- tred in his eyes:
‘Know what? I’m gonna kill you now. Not even the devil can tear you away. It’s right here, between you and me. What you did to my little girl I’m gonna do to you. With the leg of this bed. Whaddya say? You’d like that?’
Suddenly he turned his back to him, he took a few steps toward the door, he slapped his thighs a few times. He walked like that, crazed, for a few minutes. He came back. He sat down.
‘But what would that fix? How can I get the kid outta where you put it? You tell me! You put it there, you get it out. You hear? ‘Cause you destroyed me.’He had tears in his eyes. Then he started actually crying. He seemed to be asking for help:
‘What do you want, huh, you little shit? To be the father of my little girl’s kid? Is that what you want, huh? To be the father of my little girl’s kid? Well, what do you think you’re gonna be, huh? You got what it takes to take care of her like I do? Think you can come and ruin everything? That is, so to say, you’re the ones still fuckin’ us now, eh?’
He was babbling, Vlad could barely make out what he was say- ing through his sobs. The gurgle of a man choking on his own vomit escaped his throat. Vlad considered himself lost. This man really was capable of anything. He didn’t know how to react. He felt at his mercy, as his father had been 30 years earlier. But Vlad almost pitied him. The man was desperate. He loved Sara. They were both desperate. Both of them loved Sara. Each of them in their own way wanted what was best for her.
‘My life… What did you do to my life… Maybe it had to be this way. A curse. It’s the curse of the people I tortured. They’re getting’ revenge through your dad. That is through the kid of the guy whose life I saved, whose makin’ my life a livin’ hell now.’
‘You should know that I love Sara’, Vlad pronounced decidedly. ‘And she…’
‘You’re doin’ what, huh? You love her? Listen to him, he loooves her. Well, you think, you little shit, that anyone, just like that, has the right to love whoever he feels like? Whenever he wants? Just ‘cause you, from some fuckin’ trash family, spawned by a guy I kept alive, come and tell me now that you love my girl, ‘cause that’s what your dick got up to tell you. And that’s what you think, huh, that this is love? That it’s like that, that it’s rationed out, so everyone gets some?’
‘Sara and I love each other and you’ll make it worse if you…’ Vlad said, controlling his voice. What else did he have to lose? What else could he take from him? What else could he do to him? Beat him to death? That would’ve made him happy. Better that than living without her. He decided to act as if she were there, at the police station. To be dignified. Worthy of her.
‘Yes, yes’, Mr. Iacoban continued. ‘The time has come for me to pay. I thought I had gotten off scot-free, that I washed away my sins with that hoodlum Păcuraru. But turns out I didn’t. And now I’m payin’. I’m payin’.’
‘Why don’t you want to talk to me and Sara? To hear us out?’
‘Would ya listen to him, now he’s lecturin’ me. Tellin’ me what to do. That I should hear him out, ‘cause he loves my girl. ‘Cause that’s why he messed with her head and got her knocked up. ‘Cause he loves her. Who the hell are you to love my girl? Who the hell gave you permission to love my girl?’
He had no choice. It wasn’t an option. It was an inevitability. It was more than love. How could he say this to that man from whom the former torturer had suddenly surfaced?
A few more long minutes of silence went by. Mr. Iacoban gave a deep sigh. It was incredible how much air he could swallow. If he had suffocated and fallen onto the patterned floorboards, Vlad wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘You’re my enemy. That’s right, you’re my biggest enemy. Of my entire life. That makes you important. I feel connected to you. I can tell you what’s weighing on my heart.’
He was stunned. Was this the same man who had just yelled like a brute? And now he had suddenly become capable of subtleties? He spoke in the urbane tone of a calculated, refined man.
‘Here, sit down. Sit down right here.’
He smoothed the bedding on the other side of the bed, lifted up his pillow.
‘Take a seat here. Sit down and listen to me.’
He turned around until he found a comfortable position. He sat more on one side as he twisted to face Vlad. He put his palms to- gether and stuck them between his knees. He seemed emotional.
‘It’s easier for you. That’s right, it’s much simpler for you. Be- cause you are the victims. You suffered, you’re still suffering, but this gives you power. The injustice being done to you strengthens you. How hard is it to be a victim? You just sit there in your corner and suffer. And you get used to that fear over time. You end up even depending on it, missing it. It’s true, I know how it is, I observed it carefully: eventually you feel protected by it. What, didn’t your dad tell you? Or was he ashamed? Because that’s something inter- esting too, yessir, very interesting. The one who takes it feels more ashamed than the one who deals it. It’s a devilish thing. But trust me, because I watched the guys I was beating carefully. Little by little the skin gets thicker. A person gets used to pain and can stand it more easily. He can handle more. And you know why I think that happens? Because when you’re the weak one, you put your life in the hands of the strong one. Fine, go on, do whatever you want, I couldn’t care less. Let him decide. It’s his business what he does with your life. It depends on his inspiration and talent. You let go. You take the fists, the slaps, the boots to your shins and belts to the ass and suffer. At first it seems it’s more than you can take, but you get used to the pain. Slowly you realise that you can live like this too. What responsibility do you got? It’s all the same to you. All the responsibility goes to the person torturing you. The guy that beats you or puts you up against the wall. You no longer got to answer for your life. It’s done, you freed yourself from the final obligation in this world. If you get out alive, the world is yours. You’ll always be right. Know what else I noticed? ‘Cause I was doing my job there, but I was taking mental notes. So that I’d at least get that out of all those years there, and come out with life experience. I filed everything away. And I saw that the prisoner, no matter how hard you beat him, when he got out, he didn’t hate you. That is, man,you see, that was our fate, you dealt it, I took it. It coulda been the other way around, what, as if that were unheard of? But he’d feel somehow connected to you. ‘Cause he saw you every day, he heard your voice, even if you swore at him, and you were also the one who brought him that metal bowl of broth that kept him alive. Ahh, but you beat him. Well yeah, you beat him, ‘cause that was your job, to beat him, and his job was to get clobbered. But you didn’t kill him, though you coulda killed him, no one would do anything to you. Maybe there were also freaks that liked to see blood and to feel they’re decidin’ how much longer the guy in front of them gets to live, that’s somethin’ else. But we weren’t all the same. I don’t like hittin’ people, I tried to get things done by talkin’ nicely. ‘Cause we’re all people, right? And who knows when we’ll run into each other again. When I had no choice, I beat people, but I tried not to break any bones, not to stick it to ‘em. Otherwise, I talked nicely to him, look, man, we can do this the easy way or we can both work until our eyes pop out. But you should know that maybe it’ll be your soul that pops out too. And it’s hard to get a soul out, a helluva job, my boy, it ain’t an easy thing. ‘Cause I noticed this too, that it ain’t so easy to die, no sir. A helluva job, you gotta really work at it, you can’t kill a guy just by snappin’ your fingers. So I’d talk nicely to them and most of them gave in. ‘Cause they were used to puttin’ up with beatings, but not someone talkin’ nicely to them. ‘Man, you’re the baddest motherfucker’, comrade chief Goiciu would say to me, ‘you finish them off psychically.’ And it made my heart swell with pride. ‘Cause the guys I finished off psychically weren’t nobodies. They were educated people, big landowners, the bourgie, people who read books, who were bosses before we turned the world up- side down.’
Suddenly he softened. He relaxed his aggressive posture and set his hands on his knees, he took a pen out of his pocket and start- ed to rub it between his fingers. His face brightened, he suddenly looked like a kind grandfather who liked to tell stories. He sighed deeply.