I made my way home along cold, laved streets. I looked at the lighted windows and imagined warm, cosy rooms, with languid female footfalls on soft rugs. But I did not allow myself to feel any sadness.
*
Autumn, with its sadness and twilight, passed. Two years later, my memories are bitter and heavy. I write this story with peace of mind, hardened by the path that I have taken. But I write a story that is not yet finished. Life goes on, and I write only of the life that has been lived.
TWO: THE CHAIRMAN
I finished that autumn, alone. And then, all of a sudden, in early December, the attic came to life. Evening fell, but upstairs, in my attic, choirs intoned. It had all happened so fast – I am beginning to forget exactly how I came to meet the doctoral student with the broad forehead and nervous smile at the corner of his thin lips. He explained to me, walking down the boulevard, how the city did not yet have a student association, how at the university year after year passed without anyone attending or establishing one. An older gentleman wished to donate his fortune for a students’ club, if only an association existed, but there was no association, because students were happy to spend their years with old friends to whom they were connected by childhood or lycée. If only a room could be found somewhere, a room in which to organise.
‘I have a attic.’
The doctoral student demurred; young men and women are noisy, unruly. They would disturb and annoy whoever else might be at home.
‘But the attic is mine.’
He consented, but only for the choir. Happy, we went our separate ways in the night. The next morning, he climbed the wooden stairs and knocked on my door.
‘So many books, so many books.’
He told me everything he had done since we parted; he had recruited five friends to form a committee, written an appeal to the city’s students, taken receipt of the first funds from the old gentleman, and ordered membership cards from the printers. Medical student that he was, he gauged the volume of air in the room.
‘No more than two hours, for fifteen people. After two hours we’ll have to open the windows.’ He had been wanting to announce a student assembly in the newspapers, but had not found a room large enough. I quickly put on my coat, and together we set off to visit the headmaster of the lycée.
The old man attempted to be nostalgic: I had first arrived there nine years ago, a small, shy boy, but look at me now: a university student! Did I still recognise my old headmaster, the parent of my adolescent soul? The doctoral student bit his lips in impatience. But what good was any of this now? A new, fruitful and dynamic life was beginning. Could he lend us a helping hand? Would he agree to let us use the music hall for our first few meetings?
‘For university students, naturally.’
The student thanked the headmaster briefly but warmly, then left, heading for the university, the newspapers, the dean’s office, the cafeteria.
On my way back, alone, with bitter memories of the headmaster in my soul, I encountered the first snowflakes of the season.
‘December.’
Two days later, my little windows were lit blue by the snow. In my room, it was cold and dark. I brought up loads of coal and wood, dusted white. Sitting by the stove I read, in disbelief, the announcement in the columns of Universitare: ‘Today, at five p.m., students of the university who wish to join the city choir are invited to enrol at the provisional headquarters in the attic of.’
I ran downstairs.
‘We’ll be having guests at five o’clock.’
‘How many?’
‘I’m not sure; twenty or thirty. But we’ll be holding auditions – some will be leaving almost as soon as they arrive.’
Mother did not believe that I would be having ‘guests’ until she met a girl asking for directions.
‘Excuse me, is there a attic here, some kind of provisional headquarters?’
As luck would have it, it was Bibi. The doctoral student had not yet arrived. I was nervous and wondered if it was warm enough, if the armchairs were comfortable, if the bookshelves were tidy. Bibi had not expected to see me or, even more so, to see me there all by myself.
‘Are you the only one here?’
‘Yes, I am … well, you see.’
‘Ah, so this is your attic.’
‘That’s right.’
An awkward silence.
‘You were working when I arrived; let me take something to read, something from here.’
She took a copy of Corydon. I blushed.
‘Is it any good?’
‘It’s interesting.’
‘A novel?’
‘No. Gide.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Haven’t you read anything by Gide?’
‘Yes I have. A textbook: The Political Economy.’
Charmed, I explained, ‘That’s by Charles Gide.’
‘Oh! Sorry! And this is by Andrei.’ She smiled, looking through the book.
‘I know somebody called Andrei, a polytechnic student. He skis.’
I nodded.
‘Yes, yes.’
I invited her to sit down in an armchair between the bookcases.
‘Don’t you get bored up here all alone?’
I lied, presumptuously.
‘I wouldn’t say I’m alone, exactly.’
She took a long look at me.
‘That’s strange; you don’t look like someone in love.’
Pale, very pale.
I was saved by the doctoral student; he entered without a word, with a bag, damp from melted snowflakes, his forehead red from the cold.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to the young lady?’
How was I supposed to introduce her by her nickname, Bibi? But she introduced herself. I made a mental note of her name.
Within half an hour, the attic was full of students. The provisional committee assembled at the table. I recognised a few of them. Two from the Polytechnic: a second-lieutenant in his final year at medical school, and a stooped, skinny young man, who smoked copiously and weighed his words carefully. The others were strangers. There were only a few girls; they sat on chairs and the bed. We listened
