Florin Deleanu
The Elephant in the Room
Mihai’s sudden death has brought more than grief into my life. Truth has become more nebulous than ever, meaning has been rendered almost meaningless. It made me question a period in my life which, like many of my contemporaries, I had swept under a soft rug of easy answers and comfortable forgetfulness.
A yellowish haze, occasionally pierced by sickly sunrays, had been hanging over Bucharest for days. The dirty snow heaps covering the platforms of the North Railway Station were slowly melting into a muddy slush. I was supposed to meet there with Raluca, Mihai's sister and only surviving family. She showed up late, just in time to catch her train and entrust me with an old leather suitcase.
‘Mihai told me to give you this stuff, ‘‘his most treasured possessions’’ as he called them. He said you'd know what to do with them….’ Raluca kept on shouting from the stairs of the departing train, her figure and words fading away in the deepening haze.
Can't remember how I reached home. I just wanted to know what was in Mihai's suitcase, what his ‘‘most treasured possessions’’ were. They turned out to be thousands of pages of magazine clips, interviews, archive materials, scientific papers, and Mihai's diaries. Why on earth did Mihai entrust me with such stuff?
Yes, we’d been bosom friends since childhood, sharing many passions and follies. But we chose different paths, and college put distance between us. Mihai became the star student of the psychology department. I stuck to my passion for literature, something he couldn’t quite understand. ‘Literature – the world’s most overrated lie,’ he’d often tease me.
Mihai was a scientist to his bones. Relentless work and meticulous attention to fact and evidence earned him a position at one of Romania’s top research institutes, something rare in a country fraught with nepotism and sycophancy. No doubt, one day he would have become a world-renowned scholar had it not been for his unwitting involvement in an infamous ‘affair’.
Mihai was one of the hundreds of intellectuals, artists, and state officials who became the victims of the bizarre ‘Transcendental Meditation Affair’, one of the most brutal purges of the post-Stalinist era. That a communist regime would mete out harsh punishment to those guilty of involvement in ‘activities dangerous to the system᾽ comes as no surprise. What makes this episode uniquely grim is the erratic persecution of dozens of innocent people who had been ordered or invited by the communist authorities to involve themselves in activities which would later be labelled ‘treacherous’.
Mihai had played by the book from the banal beginnings of the events to their Kafkaesque epilogue. In 1979 he was assigned to draft a report on the Transcendental Meditation practice for the National Council for Science and Technology. This was two years after the first officially sanctioned TM sessions on Romanian soil. Mihai favourably assessed the potential benefits of relaxation and concentration while stressing the need for more data and experiments. He also duly reported on ‘the religiously coloured rituals accompanying the practice’. Like most of us, he didn't really believe in Marxism-Leninism but knew all too well what the communist authorities expected of him. Failure to note the religious elements would have meant signing his own jail sentence.
Mihai never found out what happened to his report. He’d almost forgotten about it until one day in January 1981. Together with twenty-two of his colleagues at the Institute for Psychological and Pedagogical Research, he was officially required to take part in an experiment. They were supposed to learn the TM practice from a Guru visiting Romania at that time and thus assess its potential more accurately.
It made sense. The first-hand knowledge gained over four intensive sessions helped them draft a detailed report, this time submitted to the Ministry of Education and the Central Committee of the Communist Party. It basically re-iterated Mihai’s earlier conclusions: the core techniques are beneficial, but the accompanying rituals do not tally with ‘the atheist values of our society’.
‘Scientifically done, elegantly played,’ Mihai told me months later over a glass of noble rot wine, his favourite. The authorities didn’t react to their report. TM had meanwhile become a fad among intellectuals, artists, even Party cadres and their pampered kids suffering from socialist ennui.
Until one day in February 1982 when the lightning of terror and nonsense struck. A vitriolic article published in one of the Party’s propaganda magazines denounced the TM as a subversive cult. It also implied that the TM ‘followers’ were not only violating the atheist ideology but had also betrayed the Motherland as agents of foreign powers. A wave of purges uprooted the lives of hundreds of ‘followers’ and affected the fates of thousands of people hardly connected to the events. Not all were hit with the same intensity. Some were severely reprimanded but their lives, shaken as they may have been, held together. Others lost any semblance of life.
You would think Mihai and his colleagues were unharmed, wouldn’t you? They had, after all, cautioned about the incompatibility of the TM rituals with ‘the atheist values of our society’. In the days following the first public attacks, Mihai was quite optimistic about their future. His naivety was to be shattered soon.
First, the Director and the Vice-director of his Institute were made to recant their ideological errors. They did it as this was the only way to survive. But they also implored the Party officials to check the reports submitted by the Institute to the authorities, the same authorities that had ordered them to investigate the TM. This only made things worse. They were sacked, excluded from the Party, and barred from working anywhere else.
The purge didn’t stop here. The Institute was dismantled since the staff refused to publicly condemn the ‘treason’ of their former bosses (but what ‘treason’ was that anyway?). Mihai was singled out as one of the primary suspects since he had been long aware of the ‘TM danger’. He was detained and tortured for months.
He never spoke about these dark hours, no doubt the darkest in his life. Now, for the first time, the nervously jotted entries in his diary – must have been added months after the detention – allowed me a peek into these gruesome memories. The sentences often break, unable to keep pace with the agony behind them. Sometimes the pages melt into a chaotic dance of lines and shades. I wonder whether Mihai thought of me as being somehow gifted to find a shred of meaning in this mire of confusion. It’s hardly the case…, but to all intents and purposes, that’s what one of the entries, one of the most intelligible ones, looks like:
MIHAI'S DIARY
Detention Days
~ Sometime in late May~
Dark again. Hours – or maybe minutes, maybe days – have passed since the last interrogation. Lost the track of time, lying on a cold iron bed, without a mattress. Or is it on the damp floor? Doesn't matter as long as they let me sleep. But no! Harsh hands pull me out into merciless neon light, drag me again into the interrogation chamber.
Question upon question, sometimes shouted, sometimes whispered. They amount to the same thing: ‘Confess what you did.’
‘I just followed the orders. And I did warn about unsuitable elements in the TM practice.’ That's not the first time when I'm telling this to the Securitate agents. And that's the truth. But they wouldn't listen to facts or logic.
‘That's not all! You also signed an application to join the cult, didn’t you?’
‘We all had to write our names at the entrance to the TM sessions.’
‘So, it was an organised plot, huh?’
‘No, it was an order from the Party…,’ a punch in the liver fractures my sentence.
‘You also pledged not to divulge your code name, didn’t you?’
‘That was a personal mantra, a Sanskrit word or syllable each participant receives as part of the practice…’ A kick in the ribs reminds me this isn't an academic presentation.
The door opens, someone approaching. Are these my last moments?... Then a soft, damp hand helps me sit on a chair and offers a cigarette. It's the major in charge of the interrogation.
‘I believe you’ , he says smilingly. ‘But tell me, did the TM guys ask you to spy for them?’
‘No! Categorically no!’
‘Okay, we’ll get to that later. For now, we need you to come clean about the special powers….’ He stopped, clearing his throat and looking almost embarrassed.
‘Can you or others fly, make yourselves invisible, pass through walls?’
‘You must be kidding!’
‘Just answer the question’, the major is looking at his agents oozing with passion to add a ‘twist’ or two to the question.
‘I’ve read traditional accounts about yogis who can do that, but if you ask me, it’s all bullshit.’
‘How about you? Your colleagues?’
‘No! I cannot fly or make myself invisible. Can you?’
BANG! – another punch, and another, and another…
‘How about passing through walls?’
‘That’s totally illogical. Would I remain here if I could?’
The interrogators are hardly in a mood for logical niceties. Next day, and the day after, and the day after… they keep grilling me, pounding me, asking the same stupid questions – again and again!
***
The following pages are filled with unintelligible scribbling, dark lines and scratches oozing with deep anguish reminding of the world of Munch’s Scream.
In the end, the Securitate, Romania's much dreaded Secret Police, let him go without a charge. But Mihai’s life was never the same. He had been barred from research indefinitely. The authorities assigned him to work as an unskilled cleaner in a chemical factory – ‘the only job available’, they said.
The 1989 Revolution restored his political and social freedom. But not his mental peace. He could have found his way back into the academia. Instead, he chose to teach social sciences to middle school students. ‘Helping future generations look rationally at the world,’ he told me with a tired smile as I ran into him sometimes in the early 1990s. ‘And it gives me time.’
Time was indeed what he needed most in order to deal with a burning question: how and why did it happen? Even the most tyrannical systems need a certain ‘logic’ no matter how devious this may be. Any language, even a primitive one (and totalitarianism is the most primitive language!), needs a grammar. He wasn’t the only one trying to solve the puzzle. Over the years, many victims, academics, and journalists have come with their own answers. Some have claimed it was the result of bureaucratic mistakes and negligence which allowed, even encouraged, the TM practice. No, it all started with a misunderstanding going back to no other than Elena Ceauşescu, the loathed wife of the hated President Ceauşescu. Actually, others maintained, it was a Machiavellian plot staged by the Secret Service to get rid of the potential trouble-makers among intellectuals and Party liberals.
‘These are only collateral factors. You know what's the problem with you and all the other amateurs looking at the bigger picture of history? You float on the surface, never nailing down the crux of the matter. Identifying single major causes triggering historical events should be left to professional scientists.’ Mihai was almost shouting at me as he hurriedly finished his beer in a grubby pub near the North Station.
He kept digging until one day luck smiled upon him. Mihai finally gained access to a diary left by ‘Comrade P.’, a man in whom President Ceauşescu confided more than anyone else except his own wife. After months of negotiations, Mihai was allowed to copy only the pages relevant to the TM Affair. That was enough for him to uncover ‘the crux of the matter’, something which he identified as going back to a fateful night in 1982.
Mihai was about to embark on the definitive monograph of the TM Affair when a massive heart attack put an end to his life. It makes sense that he wanted his findings known to the general public, but why I was the ‘chosen one’ remains a mystery. Of all his friends, I’m the least scientifically minded one. Maybe it’s because Mihai thought I’d be the most likely to say ‘yes’ to a dying man’s request. Or maybe he felt that ‘the crux of the matter’ boils down to a narrative. I really don't know….
For what it is worth, the only way I can convey the ‘crux of the matter’ is to weave the events of that fateful night into a story. For privacy’s sake, I have changed the names of all persons other than the public figures of the age. The rest remains faithful to Mihai’s findings.
The crux of the matter
~ A Night in Ceauşescu's Life ~
as reconstructed by Mihai D.
Wriggling from the entrails of wrath, barely discernible bloated faces, maggots crawling around eye sockets… Smothering darkness, numbing silence... Then bluish bodies, reeking vengeance, swarm out from the walls, hovering around him in strange acrobatic positions. He’s desperate for help, but the creatures muffle his screams. Skeletal hands pin him down, throttle him.
‘Look at you, Comrade Ceauşescu, mighty President, hero amongst heroes, not even able to breathe!’
He’s trying, struggling hard, but the creatures have sucked all drops of air. The world’s turning into a festering hell.
‘No.…’ – the ghost of a sound comes from his dry lips. At last! And he can breathe. Can he raise his fingers? Yes, he can. How about the eyes? They’re sore, sticky but finally they open. His bedroom looks unchanged. No spooky creatures around….
‘What was that?’ – his raspy whisper brings a modicum of solace as the brain is crawling back to life.
‘A nightmare?!.... Oh, yes… Must be the darned affair of the tras… transden…dental meditation. Even their name is a mess. What the fuck do they call themselves? Yogists, yogins, or whatever shit… A bunch of treacherous fakirs.’ He rarely speaks out loud, but this time he badly needs to hear something normal, even if it's his own voice.
If only Elena had been there! He looks at the empty side of the bed…. For a fleeting moment he sees her as she was 40 years ago, that radiant beauty at the outdoor party of the workers from the shoe and leather industries. A whiff of sizzling mititei and cold beer assails his nostrils. She was, of course, chosen the queen of the ball that night. And she’s remained his queen, his one and only love, the only woman he’s known, the only comrade he can fully trust.
She’s always been by his side, in politics and in bed. But she also needs to do her own work. Like now at this international chemistry conference on… poly… polymetres… whatever. It means a lot to her. ‘You sure you can handle it by yourself?’, she asked him at the airport before leaving. Of course, he can!
He stands up slowly. Shit! He won’t be able to go back to sleep. He opens the bedroom door and steps into the ornate hall leading to the private study which remains warmly lit day and night. He slumps into the armchair at the massive chestnut desk. Two mountains of files are flanking a large family picture. They’re all there – he, Elena, Nicu, Zoe, Valentin, Mum, and Dad. When was that? Must have been the year before his old man kicked the bucket.
They raised him and nine other children in two rooms. Day in, day out the same food on the table: mămăligă – he can still feel its stale taste – and whatever scraps Mum could put on the table. His old man never left enough dosh. Most was gone on booze and whores. And the thrashing, all those kicks and blows. He got more than any other sibling.
A sour grimace lingers on his face until THE TRANSCENDENTAL MEDITATION file on the desk catches his eyes. ‘How could this happen? And continue for five years? Who the hell approved it?’ Spornic sounded confused at the meeting today, rambling against mysticism in our society but avoiding any details. Only at the end she mumbled something about ‘a phone call from Comrade Elena Ceauşescu’. But when asked about proof of the conversation, she went pale.
The only evidence she had was a note from the Romanian Embassy in Paris. It introduced that fucking mystic – what’s his name? – the spy-ring leader who brought this nonsense to Romania?… Anyway, the note was recommending him as a specialist in a mental technique with ‘potential benefits to enhance the performance of the working men and women’.
How could Spornic be such a damned fool? He shouldn’t have made her Minister of Education. She’ll be among those held responsible. No arrest, though. She may be daft but she's loyal. A demotion will do. A revamping of the state and Party personnel should be done anyway. Too much basking in the privileges of power and comfort.
He opens the thick file: these treacherous yogis came in 1977, right after the big earthquake. Hmm, they also offered donations for the victims. Of course, they bait you with sweet crap like drug dealers. Then in 1978, the Ministry of Education approves the first TM classes. How could the Party cadres tolerate it, even encourage its practice? And nobody’s told him! Okay, he may have heard something in the briefings from the Securitate, but no serious warning. ῾Everything's under control᾽, they kept telling him.
How could they say that? He wouldn't be so sure after this darned report about yoga and meditation in India presented at the Politburo meeting this morning. Yes, it's right here in the folder… based on the work of a… M. Eliade who had studied yoga philosophy in India. It's not the first time he's heard the name… Hmm, can't remember where…. Anyway, who the fuck approved of his scholarship? He'll summon the Party secretary responsible for allowing this artsy-fartsy intellectual to squander our hard-earned currency on studying mystical nonsense.
Much of the report was mumbo-jumbo rambling about Indian culture, blah…blah. He doesn't give a flying fig for such stuff, but there was one paragraph which caught his attention: a list of ῾supernatural faculties᾽ these yogis are said to acquire, things like flying, making themselves invisible, passing through the walls.
Everything went blank when he heard this. All he’d fought for, all his glorious achievements, the socialist dream he’s been steering for decades, all are now threatened by a bunch of mystic freaks who can fly into his own house, come and harm his family, or maybe…. kill HIM! He jumped to his feet yelling:
‘How could you let this happen?᾽ He slammed his fist on the desk with blind fury. ῾You don’t deserve me! Don't you get it? A political genius like me is born once in a thousand years.’ The Politburo, the Securitate, they all need to be reminded of this truth.
The fury’s come back to him, he can feel it in his mouth. He jumps to his feet and paces up and down the room, trying to calm down. Come'on, it was just a nightmare! And that fucking paragraph just a list of superstitions. No need to fret about'em. He's a communist leader, a stout atheist, after all!
He heaves a sigh and heads for the window. Must be past midnight. He pulls the crimson curtains open. A full moon’s flooding the lawn. His eyes idly glance at the trees lining the garden, glittering under the moonshine. Interesting: three shadows heading over here. Must be night birds. Owls? But something’s odd. How can they fly without flapping their wings? The shadows are getting larger and larger. They are now hovering metres away from his window. Under the glow of the moon, they reveal themselves: they ain't birds…. it's three men flying cross-legged. They look just like those damn’d fakirs in the report photos. How could they cross the high walls unnoticed by the guards?...
His hand falls numb, letting the curtains drop. They’re out there… Will they come inside? He must press the red button at his desk. He gathers all his strength and dashes towards the desk when his leg hits a bump in the carpet and… Bang! Flat on his face, all goes black….
He opens his eyes, slowly: nothing unusual around… no treacherous shadows.… It hurts here and there, mostly the forehead. But he can move. Clumsily, he gets on his feet, looks around, then steps carefully to the desk. At last, his right hand finds the button, and then one… two… three nervous pushes, followed by heavy steps on the stairs outside, a loud knock on the door, and two agents dashing into the room.
‘Any problem, Comrade President?’, asks the older one, a stout balding man in his late thirties. He knows him but can’t remember the young bloke with a dark complexion.
What the hell is he going to tell'em? That he saw flying contortionists? He, the revolutionary hero, the great communist?! Something must be said, though.
‘Check outside the window! And have your guns ready… just in case.’
The agents approach the window, guns in their hands. The baldie pulls the curtains open carefully scanning the perimeter: only the lawn shining in the moonlight.
‘Nothing suspicious, Comrade President.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
A long, uncomfortable pause follows, the agents still holding the guns in their hands. A knock on the door saves him. Without waiting for the answer, Colonel Corcodel, the deputy head of his guard, enters the room, puffing heavily, his porky chin trembling.
‘Everything okay, Comrade President?’
‘I think… I saw three shadows outside.’
‘Must have been our boys, Sir. We have'em patrol every 30 minutes. And there are soldiers posted outside the perimeter. Nothing to worry about.’
‘How dare you contradict me?’, the blood-curdling yell makes Corcodel’s smile evaporate into dread.
‘I would never dare, Comrade President. We’ll double, I mean, triple the guards.’
Corcodel salutes full of zeal and motions the agents to leave the room. The young bloke spots the curtains left open and hesitates for a moment: should he pull them back?
‘What the fuck you doing, filthy Gypsy?’, Corcodel yells at him.
The lad looks aghast, barely managing a ‘sorry’, then scurries out. Corcodel turns to the President with a broad smile.
‘I’ll see the boys go on patrol right away. Meanwhile, shall I tell the kitchen to bring you something?’
Filthy Gypsy? So the lad's Gypsy! Hmm, they could be useful for stuff like this.
‘What did you just say?’
‘The kitchen, some brined cheese, tomatoes?’
‘I mean the lad. Is he Gypsy?’
‘As sure as crows are black. This one’s fresh from the Academy, they say best in his class. Something wrong with him?’
‘No. I just wanna talk to him.’
‘But…’
The President’s frowning.
‘I’ll get him right away, Sir.’
Corcodel steps out swiftly closing the door gently behind him.
He looks around: nothing out of the ordinary. But that wasn’t a dream! Those unearthly creatures were as real as the two agents or that damn’d idiot Corcodel.
A knock on the door. The Gypsy lad enters shyly.
‘At your orders, Comrade President!’
‘At ease. What’s your name?’
‘Ursan Benone, Sir.’
‘What do they call you at home?’
‘It's “Beni”, Sir.’
‘I’ll call you “Beni” then.’ The President flashes a bright smile, then walks slowly to a gilded cupboard and picks up a bottle of whiskey and two crystal glasses. He sets them on a coffee table flanked by two red velvet armchairs.
‘How about joining me for a night cap?’
Beni can’t believe his ears.
‘And I wanna have a chat.’
Beni follows meekly, mesmerised by the surreal turn of events.
‘I got this bottle from Carter in 1977. You remember Carter, the former president of America, don’t you?
He pours extra-generous shots of whisky in both glasses.
‘Cheers, Beni!’
Beni mumbles a ‘cheers’ and tries a sip. Wow, good stuff!
‘Don’t be shy. Let’s show this capitalist bottle how communists deal with it.’ He giggles and takes another quaff.
Beni takes a heartier sip. He’s been warned that the President is a sullen, unpredictable man. ‘If you wanna survive, make yourself invisible!’ – the first thing they told him when he joined the guard. But he's a jolly good chap, isn't he?
‘Where are you from, Beni?’
‘From Dolj County.’
‘So you’re from Oltenia, too. We’ll drink to that!’
Another round goes.
‘Are your folks alive?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What are they doing? Selling ware? Metalworking? Or fortune telling, maybe a bit of magic?’ He winks at Beni.
‘Father is a policeman in the village, mum’s working at the state farm.’
‘So, no magic?’
‘No magic, Sir. I’m in the Party, and so is Dad.’
The Gypsy’s lying – he knows it. He’s got this gift, seeing through people’s lies. Otherwise he couldn’t have become Secretary-General.
‘Sure you are. And like a good communist, you have shattered the chains of religion and superstition. But you know what, Beni? Back home in our villages, not everything was chain and pain. There were also traditions handed down from our ancestors, some of which weren’t exactly scientific but meant something to us. Take, for instance, the wisdom of the fairy tales.’ He pours another glass while studying Beni’s face. One more push, and the Gypsy’s mine.
‘Even the spells. Of course, we don’t believe in religion, do we? We are atheists, communist atheists, scientific atheists, radical atheists. But the folklore, the old ways – that we can appreciate. Right?’
Beni nods. Whatever the President says.
‘Let’s drink to atheists appreciating the old ways.’ They both take hearty sips, their faces turning red.
‘How about the old ways in your village, Beni? Have you ever seen something out of the ordinary?’
‘I have, actually my family kind of… well, I’m not really sure...’
Should he continue? Beni feels sweat beading on his face, but the President’s fatherly smile does reassure him.
‘Go on, no one's judging you.᾽
‘Well, actually when I was a kid, my family was attacked by a strigoi.᾽
‘What kind of strigoi?’
‘Dunno, the regular kind, I suppose. Anyway, the risen from the grave, the undead haunting the night.’
‘And how did you deal with it?’
‘We're actually lucky, got help from Mum’s elder sister who was… a traditional healer.’
‘Kind of a witch, right?’
‘Actually she wasn't a witch… witch. I mean, no cheating, no religious stuff. Just ancient wisdom, traditional remedies, herbs. And once in a while a bit of telling the future, spells for bringing back the lover, warding off the evil.’
‘Tell me more about the strigoi.’
‘I must have been 12 years’ old. It all started when Dad busted Lelea Miţa, the widow. Dunno what came over her but one day she knocks down an elderly neighbour, wounds her badly. Dad had to send Lelea Miţa to the Court. They sentenced her to three years in jail.’
‘What’s got that to do with strigois?’
‘Lelea Miţa had been widowed for some years. But the rumour had it that her dead husband was undead, a strigoi. People kept seeing him, mostly on Thursdays, the day he had died. He’d rise from the grave, go to his woman, maybe have something to eat or drink, and – they say – make love to her.’
‘Must have been a different chap banging the widow.’
‘No way! That was Ion, the woman’s husband. His face was livid like death, eyes bulging, shining red. And he was stinking like the living corpse he was.’ Beni unconsciously makes the sign of the cross.
The President’s face turns pale. Were the creatures outside some kind of strigoi? Before he knows it, his hand rises to the forehead, almost ready to sketch the cross sign.
‘Was he… flying?’
‘He could, I suppose, but does it matter?’
‘Not really. Go on.’
‘Ion, the strigoi, wouldn’t harass the people in our village. Maybe it was to protect him or his wife. Villagers could have taken revenge on her or pierced his heart with a stake. Whatever the reason, things were eerie but quiet. Until my old man arrested his wife. That must have stirred up his rage.’
The shadows… their red eyes were also smouldering with rage. Chills are running along his spine. His hand rises to his forehead, goes down to the navel, up to the right shoulder, then to the left shoulder – he hasn’t done the sign of the cross since childhood. Embarrassing but soothing. And Beni doesn’t seem to pay attention.
‘So, the strigoi came hard on us. First, the chickens in the backyard died. The dog barked like mad, then run away whining. Next night, the windows were rattling, an unearthly voice cursing like hell. Mum had put garlic outside on the door and an icon on the inside. He couldn’t come in for now, but sooner or later the strigoi finds a way to get you.’
The President's eyes turn towards the window, his chin shaking…. Thank God, no sign of evil creatures inside!
‘Next morning Mum called Auntie Trandafira. She was living in Târgovişte, took her half a day to come over. But she did arrive in time. The undead gain power as their wrath flames up. She splashed holy water on all the walls and animal sheds, added braids of garlic and crosses at each corner of the house. Then she smeared the door and the windows with blood from a pig slaughtered on the feast of Saint Ignatius.’
‘Why not just drive a stake through the strigoi’s heart?’
‘It was already dark. Going to the cemetery after sunset is suicide even for a witch, I mean, a traditional healer. The best thing to do at such a late hour…’
‘Why slaughter a pig on the feast of Saint Ignatius?’
‘They say it’s a special day, extra powers.’
‘That may be hard to get by right away.’
‘Right away?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Go on.’
‘We waited and waited until midnight. The ghoulish creature came but things were different. He first banged against the walls, but then started groaning in pain as Auntie went on with the spell. Again and again, forty times. By the end, it sounded like he was choking, then it faded into uncanny silence. Auntie continued chanting for a while, then slowly opened the door. We were scared shitless. What if he was standing there? But there was nothing. Auntie stepped out muttering the spell and walked round the house three times. He was gone, gone for ever, she said.’
‘Did you also check the grave?’
‘First thing in the morning. My old man dug down, and we all had a look at the stinky body, still unrotten years after his death. But he was lying face down.’
‘Face down?’
‘That’s a good sign. It shows the strigoi had headed to the netherworld where it belongs. Auntie poured holy water over the body, and we closed the grave.’
‘You know what? I’d love to meet your Aunt. I could send a helicopter to pick her up right now!’
‘Impossible, Sir. She died three years ago.’
For a few moments it felt there was a way out, unusual as it may have been. But things look bleak again. Are they really coming for him? If not today, maybe tomorrow? Or the next day?... But he's survived prison and torture, assassination attempts, cunning plots. He won't lose to a bunch of spooky fakirs? The old witch would have been perfect, but the lad’s the next-best thing. He definitely can help.
‘Tell me, Beni, my friend, do you recall Auntie’s spell? I’d love to hear it.’
The President’s calling him a ‘friend’? Him, a rookie, a Gypsy! How can he refuse?
‘It actually got burnt in my memory.’
Beni’s smile gives way to a solemn look as he starts uttering the incantation:
Strigoiule, moroiule,
Strigoiule, moroiule,
Hearken to the words I utter,
Hearken to the words that fetter,
As a sword they will cut thee,
As a fire they’ll burn thee,
In the Danube they’ll drown thee,
In the wind they’ll scatter thee
Until no more thou shalt be.’
The primitive simplicity of the magic brings memories of a long forgotten past when his childish heart could find solace in the belief that there’s Something out there, Something bigger, Something that could help him get through the pain and stain of this world.
He casts a glance at the window: it feels less menacing. This is surely the way to keep the creatures at bay. ‘I bet they didn’t see it coming! But wait…. The lad said forty times, didn’t he?’
‘You said Auntie chanted the spell forty times. Right?’
‘Yep. That’s because it takes forty days for a spirit to leave this world.’
‘Then for the sake of, say…, scientific precision, chant the spell thirty-nine more times.’
‘Thirty-nine more times?’
The President nods. Beni takes another sip and resumes the chanting.
The President makes himself comfortable in the armchair, letting himself flow with the chant.
‘…In the wind they’ll scatter thee
Till no more thou shalt be.’
Yes, the wind, a wind bleaching out the evil, protecting him like the soothing breeze of his childhood.… Mum’s holding him in her arms. He’s gazing at the leaves whispering in the wind, his tiny hands trying to catch them. Mum’s kissing his cheek, muttering sweet words, then a prayer to keep him safe. He’s floating in a sea of peace.…
until… an irksome noise – again and again! It’s a knock, then a voice:
‘Comrade President, I apologise but it’s past eight.’
He barely manages to open his heavy eyelids. Sunrays pouring from the window rush onto his face. He’s slept in the armchair…. Then his eyes set on Beni sleeping sprawled on the floor, the empty bottle next to him. His stiff neck turns slowly to the left…. Corcodel’s standing at the door, eyes wide open.
Shit! A junior guard – a Gypsy, no less! – sleeping on his floor. How could he show such weakness? A flush of shame wakes him up like a bucket of icy water.
Beni’s opens his eyes, smiling at him for a moment, then turns towards Corcodel. Startled, he wriggles like a cockroach struggling on its back.
‘What the fuck are you doing?,’ blasts Corcodel.
‘I, I was …’
‘You were what? Sleeping and drinking while on duty?’
‘Sorry, Comrade Colonel!’
‘You think “sorry” will save you from Court Martial?’
‘Court Martial?’ The President sounds surprised.
‘That’s the regular procedure for a guard caught sleeping.’
That won’t do. If court-martialled, the Gypsy won’t be here if… if needed. And he may talk!
‘No court-martial, Corcodel, I invited him to drink, and talk about… our villages.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘Do you expected me to report to you?’ He gives the fatso a cold look, then turns to Beni: will the lad keep his mouth shut? He looks like a rat saved from drowning. Can he trust a Gypsy?
‘Comrade Ursan, did you perform your duties?’
‘I did, Comrade President, but I must have fallen asleep…’
‘How about that duty: forty times, you know…?’
‘Oh, forty times – of course!’
The President’s face lights up with a fleeting smile. The fakir-strigois have been repelled. For now, at least! But how about the Gypsy? What if the lad blurts and the rumour spreads that he, the beacon of scientific atheism, asked for a spell against strigois? But he made it clear, didn’t he? They were just talking about folklore. And hate it as he may, what if the creatures show up again? A shudder runs down his spine….
‘Sorry to interrupt, Comrade President, but you have a visit at the heavy machinery plant.’ Corcodel’s voice sounds more servile than ever.
‘Oh yes, the visit...’
He takes another look at the Gypsy. He might need him again but shouldn’t show any sign of weakness.
‘You fall asleep on duty again, and it’s Court Martial.’
‘Yes, Comrade President! It won’t happen again – ever!’
‘You may go now.’
Beni salutes crisply, then walks out of the room.
‘Listen carefully, Corcodel. You hear the Gypsy talking bullshit…’
‘Like what?’
‘Like… it doesn’t matter. Anything out of the ordinary! You just report immediately to me.’
‘At your orders, Sir! Or I can take him into my van, go to the woods, tell him to take a piss, or whatever, and: Bang! One shot, all problems solved.’
‘No! I…, we may still need him.’
‘He’s just Gypsy scum. There are plenty of Romanian lads willing to give their life for you – as I surely am, and…’
Corcodel goes on bullshitting. The President’s not in a mood to listen. He’s just happy to be alive, to see the sunshine rushing in through the window. No more vengeful shadows, just a bright sky. They’re gone! And he must make sure it remains so, eliminate any possibility that they come back. He must strike first. He’ll do it during daytime when these creatures are weak. He’ll hit them fast and hard. Get them all, no matter how they got involved. Neutralise them before they’re able to use their evil magic.
‘Cancel the visit, Corcodel. And call Postelnicu, Pleşiţă, Dincă, and Popescu. I want them at the Party Headquarters in two hours max.’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘And Corcodel, prepare your van.’
‘Is it for the Gypsy?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Why need the van then?’
‘For the members of this new evil cult.’
‘Oh, those… insect members, the transnational mediators?’
‘It’s actually the tras… trans…cendental meditators, but never mind. What matters is they’re damned spies who betrayed our communist ideals, our atheist ideology. But the sneaky bastards can’t beat us, can they? We’re tougher and smarter.’
‘We sure are, Sir. And meaner!’
‘Those who confess and recant will be kept under strict observation to see if they’re special… somehow. Those who don’t cooperate and reveal their powers…’
‘What powers can they have?’
‘You never know what the foreign agents taught them. But we’ll deal with the traitors before they can use them. Anyway, the dangerous ones will be yours for the drive.’
‘They certainly deserve it, those degenerates who have betrayed our communist ideals, our atheist ideology, and – worst of all! – you, Comrade President, our beloved leader.’
‘Wise words, Corcodel.’
The President seems to like it. A greasy smile lights up Corcodel’s face: more praises and diligence with the van, and he’ll get promoted to general.
‘They forgot what it means to be a true Romanian, to hate foreign influence, degenerate superstitions. I, for one, love only our beautiful country, our pure customs. Like now, for example, with the Easter coming, I can’t wait for some red eggs and...’
The look on the President’s face has turned steely.
‘Corcodel, shut the fuck up and get your van ready. I need to see heads rolling.’
***
This was – according to Mihai – ‘the crux of the matter’, that single key-event which triggered the entire chain of madness. My duty should come to an end here, but sorry, Mihai, I can't put my quill to rest. This is now more than your story. It is mine, I mean, ours, too – we, all those who sat by, unable to comprehend, unable to take action (or at least imagining us so…).
True, your discovery opens new dimensions to our understanding, but do they define the entire geography of the ‘affair’? Something keeps gnawing away at the back of my mind. The TM Affair seemed more ‘comprehensible’ when I envisaged it as a mad rhapsody of bureaucratic errors and indolence, individual fear and misunderstanding, personal agendas and vendettas, stupidity and greed – all the ingredients that have spiced Romanian history for centuries.
But what do I know? Mihai was a first-class researcher, and science may indeed require pinpointing single key-events. On the other hand, what are we to make out of the testimony found in other entries in Mihai's diary, entries that may be as key as that fateful night. You don't believe me, do you? Here's an entry from his journal which will make you think twice.
MIHAI'S DIARY
Detention Days
~6th of August 1982~
They've dragged us outside into an inner court, lining us against a grey wall. Are they going to shoot? Dreadful moments… yet part of me is hoping they will. But we're just waiting there in the blistering sun, nothing happening.
Then two vans pull out in front of us. A fat, sweating colonel, with piggish eyes and triple chin, steps out of one of the vans, looks at us with disgust, spitting and mumbling something about ‘fucking insects’.
The major in charge of our investigation and two lieutenants rush out from the building, apparently taken aback by the visit. They’re apologising to the colonel, offering him refreshments inside.
‘No time for that, the Comrade just wants to see results.’
I was close enough to hear their conversation, at least shreds of it.
‘It's all in our official investigation report. Some pages still need typing, but we can hand it to you right now’, the major in charge reports. Then he starts whispering. His agitation and doubt-ridden face make him look rather human. In spite of my ordeal, I almost sympathise with him.
‘No special powers, nothing like flying, passing through walls…’, some of his whispers were reaching me on a shy summer breeze.
‘Nothing?!’, the colonel asks, rather disappointed.
'They surely are scoundrels who betrayed the Party line, but have no special powers!', the major answers with conviction.
‘Doesn't matter. I'll just pick up two’, the colonel winks with a smirk.
I kept starring ahead, never looking in their direction. It was smelling of barbecued sausages, of summer, of death. Who the hell is cooking in such a weather?
The major in charge shrugged his shoulders and stepped out of the way. The colonel turned slowly towards us, wiping his sweat, measuring us from distance. Then he comes over, staring at each of us, sniffing the air around – as if crimes leave a special smell....
The colonel pointed out at two men at the other end of the line. They were escorted to the vans by soldiers with machineguns. Hey, wait a tick: I recognise one of them. It's George, my colleague at the Institute! Why the fuck is he here? He hadn't been involved in any TM research, wasn't even invited to the meditation sessions! The only thing ‘special’ about him is his long hair and bushy beard which make him look like a hippie singer. Where are they taking him anyway?
That evening I'm told to get the fuck out of there (as if I insisted on being in detention). It's so sudden, so surreal. And no explanations – something I got used to. But I want to know whether it's all of us or just me. And where is George? No answers…. The prison walls remain quiet like a grave.
***
The entry is quite telling, isn't it? Am I the only one to see here a striking resemblance between the ‘fat colonel’ and ‘Corcodel’ in the ‘crux of the matter’? And indeed what happened to George? The only ‘scientific research’ I attempted was trying to locate him. Sadly, it appears, George has never made it back home. His family has been told by the authorities – both before as well as – after the 1989 revolution, that there are no records of his detention or whereabouts.
If there is any truth in my speculations, the entry in Mihai’s diary may suggest that ‘Corcodel’ (and the likes of him) picked up ‘suspects’ in an utterly arbitrary fashion, took them for a ride, and then just…. Did he determine their crime by merely sniffing them? Did he have a quota of executions? Or maybe his ambition and wish to curry favour with the President – both ‘virtues’ actively encouraged by Ceauşescu himself – made him carry out his duty with excessive zeal. (I wonder whether Corcodel got his promotion to general in the end.)
Mihai, however, didn't connect any dots here, didn't see any resemblance, any causal series of events worth of a scientific hypothesis. Or maybe he did, but there is no mention of it. Why?...
Perhaps, at the end of the day, we were all like the blind men in the old Indian parable, each of us touching a different part of an elephant's body, each giving a different description. None could, however, see the elephant in its entirety. And more importantly, with Mihai’s exception, we all failed to understand that the elephant in the room was as scared as the rest of us. If there is any value in Mihai's findings, it is reminding us of the sad truth of the universal fear permeating all totalitarian societies.
Valuable as it may be, Mihai’s ‘crux of the matter’ remains, however, a partial description of the elephant in the room. To my mind, the last pages of his diary suggest that the elephant was not only scared but also lacking control over how his anyway erratic decisions were being carried out in practice.
But what do I know? Maybe even this is a partial description of a reality which we shall never know. Mihai was, after all, right: ‘literature is the world’s most overrated lie.’ And it furthermore leaves truth and meaning open. Maybe too open to make me worthy of his trust.
