The Point Of Being No-body

This is a short story I have written during a Creative Writing seminar while I was a student. Of course, it is not perfect but I hope you enjoy it:)

– Gertrude, are you leaving again?! asked her mother with a hysterical voice while her body was leaning on the doorjamb of her room. The girl looked a short time at the woman standing in front of her and waiting for a response. She continued to search with anger something in the pile of clothes. There it was, her red scarf. She took it in her hands, smelt it and a scent of perfume invaded her nostrils. She turned in the mirror and arranged the scarf around her neck. Smiling in the mirror with a half of her lip. – Are you listening to me? her mother’s voice got angry. She was. She could hear that sharp voice deep in her brain as if a train had brake and its wheels made that sound. She couldn’t stand anymore. She took her coat and in a hurry, she avoided the woman and gone out of the door. The girl could only hear behind her: – …meds! Your meds, stupid child! and an outburst of crying filled up the air.

Her knees were trembling as she was sitting on the bench. Gertrude turned her head to the left, then turned her head to the right and with the corners of her eyes she was watching people. Staring at them in an intimate way, smiling from time to time. The weather was cold, she could see her breath evading from her mouth drawing a shadow of hot air. She was pretending that her mouth was leaving a dense steam locomotive. The holiday was about to end and she would go back to school pretending to be happy, pretending to be a best friend for some dumb chick which got in depression because she couldn’t buy herself a Prada purse. And her street was full of this species of human beings. People… bloody people! Where is your mind? Do I know you? Do you look at me as I am looking at you? Pretending to smile and say ”Hello!” to each other. Little fuckers! Her every day morning had this beginning: the alley on Váci Street, the bench, the air, the people. The air is cutting my lungs but look at this beautiful yellowish leaves falling down on the ground carried by the wind on the alley and all this people crushing them. People … again. Look at this one’s face. I bet he is a bloody rich lawyer. He is going home from work and he’ll find his wife cooking dinner. And there are only the two of them at the table because he is too selfish to have any children. How about this one? Walking as if he was the King. I bet he’s single. And proud. And what not. He is about to meet some new girl, takes her to a fancy restaurant, having dinner, bla, bla, bla, and bang! she’s laying naked in his bed, drunk probably. Blah! Look over there! An old woman dressed in black. Hmm let’s see: a widow? She has her eyes filled with tears. She is coming from … mmm … her second husband’s funeral. That’s it! She decided to be forever alone! Oh, oh, one more! What a slutty young lady. Short skirt, huh?! First time clubbing? First intoxication? First sex? Oh, craaaap! Bloody cigarette burned my lips. I’m going home. More stupid people later. This bench has frozen my but, that’s for sure! An old man was sticking posters on the notice board on the Váci Street when Gertrude has raised her body. She struck him with her eyes like she could see his inner body, his thoughts. Who is this little man? The old man turned round and looked at her. Stuck. A moment nothing happened. Then Gertrude hesitated a second, turned her body in the old man’s direction and made three steps. – What are you doing? ! -Excuse me? asked kindly the old man. Now Gertrude could see his poor clothes, his unkempt nails. He was dressed in a shabby dressing gown and the pocket had some holes into which Gertrude could see his nails from the hand that he kept in his pocket. How on earth can a human being have these nails? Yellow…old…wrinkled. – Where do you live? Who are you? – Excuse me?! asked louder the old man. He is deaf! The bloody old man is deaf! – You are not from here! You don’t live on this street!! She could feel her lungs burn as she raised her voice. – My name is Jancsi! Jan-csi!!! And he left gesturing something with his hand in the air. Gertrude turned her eyes on the poster: Free hosting for young student girls! Call: 0036-23-40-40. She stopped reading. Free hosting? Really? Why would he give to YOUNG GIRLS free hosting? The fucking old man wants some action. Fuck me! The next day she was there, on the alley; she felt as she stayed on the bench that she had to wait just a little more, he would come, Jancsi must come. She was swinging her legs like a child as she was waiting. He must come. Dirty old bug! I’ll show you the perfect young student girl.

The old man didn’t come; Gertrude felt her pulse going wild, her blood running in her body. He did not belong there, on that street, he was not from there. Oh, where is that bloody old man?! He’s like the others I have met in District VIII. Degraded bunch of cockroaches. She turned her eyes on the notice board were Jancsi had stuck his poster. There must be an address. She looked impatiently at the surface of the board, touching with her frozen hands the posters, tear them angrily with her finger as if in this way she could separate Jancsi’s poster from the others and she would easily find the address. Gertrude stopped as she heard the silence people were doing while she was already on the cold sidewalk resting her head on the board. She looked at them with tiny eyes: What?! Fuck off you fat dogs! She did not say a word of what her mind had planted in her head. Nothing. One drop of sparkling liquid gushed from her left eye and her tensed maxillary framed two bulbs on her cheeks. Gertrude felt a tension in her teeth and felt that if she would tighten a little more her maxillary she would remain empty in her mouth. She kept silent. And stared at people as if she would beg them to vanish. She looked again at the note board. A piece of tiny paper was still stuck there. With two fingers she snatched the paper: … 40-40. Kálvária square, 8/A, NO. 28, District VIII. 8th district. Bloody me, the very same district! She remained there stoned. She knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to go there. She knew it! She knew it before, when her parents told her not to go there, because there are people, sinful, degraded people and those people would notice she’s not from there, from those damned hoods. They could hurt her. She didn’t want to listen then to her parents, neither now if they say it again. The roads seemed not to be large anymore, the roads seemed to cut her breath. Common balconies were invaded by clothes of all colours: reddish blouses, washed blue trousers, all were hanged on long ropes. The patio was surrounded by the tall Jewish blockhouses. Gertrude entered the main staircase searching for the apartment 28. The stairs seemed to be obsolete, the handle was made of iron but because of the time it became rusted. As she touched the handle she could feel the slime that ground there in the last years, she felt on the surface of her finger the slippery deposited slime and the rust scratching her fingers. For a second she stopped on the stairs, she could see the number 28. That’s it! The reddish door was embraced by a huge grating. The bell-push had a circular form with a little red button in the middle. Gertrude pushed the red button and a sharpening noise could be heard from the inside as one had dragged one’s nail on a blackboard made of glass. The door opened. Jancsi stood erect in front of her, without any gesture on his face. He turned only a little bit his right ear. Gertrude could see some white fuzz coming out of his ear. – What?! asked Jancsi, putting his right hand at his ear.

Gertrude didn’t say a word. I must yell so he can hear me. Everybody will know that I am here. Every little fuck stare at me, or grab me by my hands and legs, or undress me…again. But no, not again! Once was enough. She raised her hand aggressively in which she had Jancsi’s poster and showed it to him. Pointing it straight into Jancsi’s face. – Ah! said Jancsi. He understood for what the girl had come. He turned his back and with a finger in the air he made a sign for Gertrude to enter. Gertrude made a step in the room. The ceiling was high. Very high. The old man truss his dressing gown as not to fell down, looked at the girl and made a short sound of ironic laugh. Gertrude looked only at the ceiling and when she noticed there is no noise in the room she looked at Jancsi. The old man closed one blue eye and with the other he struck her with his look. – Do you want to stay here?! He asked. – What? No… with you? So you can touch me in my sleep? You filthy old man! Do you think I don’t know you, you putrefied people living in this area? Don’t you think that I know what you have in your perverted mind? You and the rest of you…are the same. You like touching young flesh, don’t you? Huh?! As she was saying all this to the old man, she got closer to him, raising her voice, pointing her hand as if she wanted to take him by his neck and strangulate him until his last breath would vanish leaving behind a stream of stench. She couldn’t do it. She knew it wasn’t Jancsi’s fault for what happened the year before. That night! That bloody night, when her parents told her not to go in that district. She went though. She did it. Jancsi opened widely his eyes, examined Gertrude’s clothes and shoes, and face. He shook his head in disagreement. – Then why are you here? To expose your expensive shit clothes?! OUT! He yelled, pointing with his finger the exit door.
Gertrude’s head was pumping the blood in her cheeks, she could hear and feel her heart beating in her forehead. Her maxillary got tensed again. She stared at him in this position of his, pointing the door . With her two hands grabbed the old man’s chest and pushed him hard. Jancsi fell on the floor. She could see him rolling his eyes as if he was searching for something in the room, his facial mimicry looked as if he was lost. She grabbed her knees with her nails and looked at him for a short time with her mouth wide open. She got closer to him, grabbed his face with her right hand and with her four fingers she pushed his tongue deep in his mouth. Just because I can do to you what they did to me. A moment Gertrude stopped. She knew it was wrong to be there, she knew it was wrong what she was doing, she knew she have forgotten her meds. She turned round and started to run downstairs.

In the street she could feel the cold air going through her clothes, her bones, her milky skin. She felt her boots dragging her feet and she couldn’t run anymore. She looked back to see if the old man is following her. Or someone else. Or just someone. She put her hands in her pocket. In the skin of her right hand she could still feel Jancsi’s teeth. She was cold. When she reached on Váci Street Gertrude laid on the bench and looked impatiently at people, rapidly moving her eyes from a corner of her head to another. People …b-l-e-a-h! – Gertrude?! Please! Please take your meds, I brought them, here, I have some water too. Her mother stretched her hand in which were Gertrude’s medicine. The girl took the pill in her two finger, opened wide her mouth showing to her mother that she was about to swallow it. – Thank you! You should have brought them sooner though. But is fine. I think … I want to go home now.



When mother died I wasn’t necessarily unhappy

When mother died the doctor told me “it happens“

Like, you know, it happens to all 13 year old children in the world

But…I…I wasn’t necessarily angry

when mother died they dressed her so ugly

so I had to undress her and put some other clothes on her blueberry coloured corpse

she wasn’t beautiful at all, you know…

I remember I went on the veranda

Looked so pitiful

But I wasn’t unhappy, was I?

Took a great deep breath into my lungs and told myself

`it is over“

When mother died my anger was over, unhappiness was over, pain was over

But when mother died

Some Claudia died with her

Only when mother died there were two crows cawing on the roof top of our house & there was a freezing weather

& glassy snow

& bitter

& all those fucked up feelings mixed together

And I….I cried

I cried

I cried

When MY – bloody mommy died

Recital de vioară

Deși în sală era puțină lume, muzica clasică răsuna înfiorător, lovindu-se de pereții izolați, îmbrăcați în lemn, de sala aceea mare în care ar fi încăput întreg poporul și s-ar fi meritat să încapă la un așa spectacol. Maria își lăfăi trupul ostenit undeva în spatele sălii pe un scaun tapițat în material roșu ca să poată arunca o privire per ansamblu asupra muzicii ce avea să-i hurduiască urechile în următoarea oră. Nu se mai purta roșu, dar nimeni nu dona bani să se schimbe tapițeria comunistă în care erau îmbrăcate scaunele încă dinainte de ’89. Întunericul se lăsă peste auditoriu, doar câteva lumini colorate mai invadau scena în formă de semilună.

Băi, poate adorm. Cum o fi să vezi un recital de vioară? Nu mai fusese niciodată, deși își propusese de atâtea ori să meargă la Filarmonică. Degeaba. Se putea observa îmbâcseala cu care își târa picioarele pe trotuar provocând un huruit cauciucat al pantofilor până în fața Filarmonicii și apoi trink! un afiș: Filarmonica vă invită…..bla-bla-bla……Specatocolul va începe la ora 19:00. FIX! Mă rog, e bine că am ajuns la un recital de vioară într-o sală imensă, gratis!…cu cinci minute mai devreme…

Două fete au intrat pe scenă îmbrăcate în rochii negre, lungi, elegante, strălucitoare, cu două viori în mână. Clasic. Părul lor, atât de frumos coafat. Maria deja își dilata nările putând să simtă mirosul sufocant de la kila de fixativ aruncat în părul violonistelor. Cele două fete își agățaseră viorile sub bărbie, își aranjaseră degetele mâinii stângi pe corzile metalice ale viorii, apoi ridicară bățul cu fibre albe care a început să se frece scuipând un sunet aproape plăcut în urechea Mariei. Ce dumnezeu cântă astea? Cât de penibil e să fii într-o sală și să nu știi ce se cântă. Uită-te la oamenii ăștia: zâmbesc de parcă ei ar fi compus tot amalgamul ăsta de zornăituri. Găsesc oare piesa asta pe youtube? Da’ cum franț s-o caut?

După încheierea numărului, violonistele s-au aplecat în semn de mulțumire și au ieșit din scenă. Lumina își așternea trupul impalpabil în sală. Perdeaua roșie care acoperea ușa culisei a fost trasă la o parte. O altă fătucă – sau era una din cele două de dinainte? – a intrat cu vioara în scenă. Din sală a urcat o altă domnișoară îmbrăcată într-un sacou gri și o fustă neagră până la genunchi – nu-mi pot da seama ce poartă sub sacou – , având în picioare o pereche de pantofi negri care îi plăceau Mariei: Nu, mă, tocu’ ăla e prea înalt. Vrei să pic în nas cu ei? Fata în sacou gri  era scundă, nu foarte scundă, mediu scundă, cu un păr brunet, netezit, prins în coadă. Se așeză în fața pianului cu rotile, de-un negru lucios Petrof așezat în mijlocul scenei. Își aranjă cele două scaune băgate unu-n altul pentru a putea ajunge la pian. Își pregăti degetele fluturându-le în aer și apăsă câteva clape. Un sunet înălțător auzi Maria. Orgasmic pentru timpanul neantrenat. Din poziția relaxată pe care o avea, Maria s-a aplecat în față pentru a auzi mai bine! Dumnezeule, ce fain plescăie asta din pian! Apoi a început să-i fixeze cu privirea fiecare gest al mâinilor care se plimbau de-a lungul clapelor. Îi vedea picorul cum apasă o pedală aflată sub instrument, făcând sunetele să fie mai profunde, mai durabile. Bă, asta-i ca la tobe: Ta-na-na-na! Na-na (Și acum apasă!Yes! Am știuuuut!) na! Cum poate să apese cu tocurile alea pedala?! Oare o să i se dezvolte mai tare gamba de la piciorul drept decât aia de la celălalt picior?Păcat că nu pot să-i văd degetele fragede de aici, cum ating fiecare clapă, cum fiecare sunet se simte mângâiat de pernița rozalie al degetașului ei. Vioara se înfructă iar cu sunete, însă pianul se opri. Bă! Nu mai scârțâi! Ho, tu! Fata cu părul în codă își muta privirea în sală, dar nu părea să o observe pe Maria și sclipirea-i din ochi de încântare că nu ratase acest recital. Clar! De-acuma numa’ muzică clasică ascult!Numa’ Moțart, Beitovăn, Șopen…  Pianul emană iar muzică. Ce sunete! Oh, ce sunete! Maria se uită insistent la pianista care începea să crească în ochii ei. Parcă imaginii din fața ochilor i s-ar fi dat zoom și fata cu părul negru se afla acum chiar în fața Mariei, la niciun metru depărtare. Maria vedea mâinile gingașe isterizându-se pe suprafața clapelor: când în sus, când în jos, când în stânga, când în dreapta, dar nici urmă de deget! Apoi imaginea reveni la normal. Maria se afla tot în spatele sălii, pianista tot la locul ei, în scena-semilună.

Bună! Îmi cer scuze că te abordez așa, zise Maria, aș vrea …doar …să-ți văd … degetele.Te dor? Ah, îmi cer scuze, Maria, și-i întinse mâna. – Maria, îmi pare bine. – Maria, mAria,maria…. îi mișuna numele prin cap ca un vierme de mătase, apoi simțea cum mâna Mariei atinge mâna ei. Degetele, palma aceasta catifelată,mâna cu care a cântat atât de uimi-giga-fantastic la pian, mi-o dă mie! A mea, numai a mea! MARRRIA!

Întreaga sală: oameni, scaune, pereți, parchet, pantofi părea să ia forma unei amestecături de acuarelă, scurgându-se undeva sub scenă. Scaunele se topeau, lăsând o dâră vâscoasă, arămie. Numai ele două în semilună, mână în mână, privire în privire…

Melodia se auzea tot mai încet până deveni mută. Cele două fete s-au aplecat în semn de mulțumire și au ieșit din scenă. Bă, ce dracu’, îi șapte imediat, la opt am de spălat haine. S-a ridict din scaun, a dat la o parte cortina roșie care acoperea ieșirea și a părăsit sala în aplauzele isterice ale publicului.

Am hotărât să trăiesc pe blog…

Am avut mai multe încercări de a menține în viață un blog. De data aceasta sper să o duc la capăt. Mi-am lărgit orizontul: nu am să-mi postez doar poemele amărâte, scrise cu o mână incapabilă și incoerentă; societatea mi-a arătat că există multe lucruri despre care poți să scrii: cărți, educație, cultură, oameni. Am să scriu de problemele cu care mă confrunt în calitatea mea de student, profesor, cetățean, om.

Se pare că am crescut, probabil m-am maturizat (un pic) și întâlnesc situații pe care le comentez, le dezbat. Îmi construiesc discursuri argumentate în minte; ele se pierd, nu apuc să le scriu. De-acum am să dezbat aici. Acesta este spațiul meu. Spațiul minții mele.

În noaptea asta suferind de insomnie, am hotărât să trăiesc pe blog.

mamei i.

mamei i s-a rupt cearșaful sub picioare


pe vârfuri

în tălpi

în sicriu

și-a adunat pământul între unghii

strecurându-și viermi de catifea

în gingășia trupului tânăr


nu mai are efect de împrospătare

a gurii uitată deschisă

înaintea morții