Slowly Fading Away

What I know of my wife’s experience with the Romanian revolution reads like some battered journal found in the wilderness, some pages torn out to kindle the fire, some pages illegible, unprotected from the rain. With her mom now living with us, more of the pieces are being filled in, since I overhear their conversations, the same conversations that many of the old have with the young.

***

When I was living in Sibiu back in 94, I remember sitting on a bench outside a post office, waiting for my friend to mail a letter. An old man in full military regalia approached me. He looked me over, and asked sternly, in Romanian, “Who are you?”

I told him my name.

“What are you doing here?”

I told him that I was waiting for a friend.

What he meant was what I was doing in Romania. I tried to explain that I was an exchange student, learning about the country and the language, when he became transfixed on the ripped holes in my jeans. He started poking his finger through the opening and asked more questions. I could no longer concentrate on what he was asking, and instead stood up. My friend emerged from the post office at that moment and ran towards us, stepping in between me and the officer.

I couldn’t tell what they were saying, only that the officer seemed angry by having his interrogation interrupted. My friend tried to placate him as well as possible, pushing me away until at a moment we were both away, down the sidewalk. I turned back and saw the old man staring at us, but not giving pursuit.

I asked my friend, “Who was that guy?”

“Nobody. Just some crazy man.”

“You mean he’s not a soldier?”

“No.”

I looked back once more, amazed at the crispness of his uniform, the pride with which he wore it, the perfect line he made against the backdrop of Hippodrome and the rows of its concrete apartment flats. I wondered what part of my own past I would hold onto so dearly. I doubted I would ever pull it off quite so convincingly as this old soldier.