Power to the People
Which People?
This story is set in the Romania of the communist 80s.
Gregory, the Minister of Civil Infrastructure, shows up unexpectedly one afternoon in the seaside auberge of the Artists National Syndicate. Despite the ‘no vacancies’ notice at the reception, he is provided with the best suite, always kept vacant for such cases.
He is Ella and Michael’s protector, and the magician who has arranged their suite here, since neither of them has anything to do with art. Not that Gregory does. But his connections.
Ella and Michael are engineers in one of the many technical institutes creating the parchment scrolls of the country’s building blocks. They are in their mid-thirties, and the heart and soul of every small gathering. Even as outsiders in the art circles, they’ve befriended everyone they run into, whether in the dining hall or elsewhere on the premises.
Soon after Gregory checks in, they gather in Ella and Michael’s room over a bottle of ‘export’ red wine that Gregory brought along (export stuff is the only worth having).
Lili and Violette are invited too. Ella whispered to Violette, “Greg is here, dress up a bit, he wants to see you!”
Lili, just out of high school this summer, feels like one of the distressed young ladies who used to be chaperoned in a busy seaside resort. Her mother’s friend, Violette, brought her over to this place reserved for a closed circle of artists, so she can get a feeling of privilege for a change. Home can stay home, for a while.
Violette, herself a painter, is married to a much older art expert and is a lady of the world: she has a profusely smiling manner and knows everyone around.
Gregory is slouching in the most comfortable armchair that has been found in the house. His small eyes often blink, drilling through you. He has a glass of wine at hand, and tartines that Ella herself has made in the kitchen, with special permission from the senior staff. Gregory had brought export champignons, which had to be prepared properly.
He seems to Lili quite well-read for his political rank; he brings up the dissident poet in Soviet Moldova and Borges’ new novel. He drops interesting concepts for a party official, such as the democracy of ideas or social justice.
After a few glasses, he starts stroking Violette’s arm while holding his other hand on Lili’s knee, almost fatherly if it wasn’t for that sticky look in his eyes. He stutters about the sublime of the mountains, where he spends most of his free time, about the body getting ionized from the ozone and preserving the ions for several days. Lili glances at him with pity, but only for a moment, as his eyes are glued to hers.
He mutters in a coarse, vaguely plaintive voice, “You’re gorgeous”.
He goes on about the beauty of the mountains and asks her to join him next time. Ella and Michael have been there with him, and it was divine.
Oh, Lili thinks, so I’m not the only one with an older chaperone in my free time. We come in pairs here: me and Violette, these guys and Gregory, and Violette – well, she and her husband.
“Tell her, Michael, how divine it is,” he urges Michael, so Michael starts, “It’s so beautiful, there’s fresh air and wildflowers...”
“Not like that!” Gregory snaps at him. “Tell her in more beautiful words. You’re so dumb with words!”
Michael laughs and resumes, “It’s divine; the scent of the flowers lingers in the air, and when you reach the plateau, all you can see is flowers, and down there at the mountain foot, you can see the plains of Transylvania – it’s absolutely divine!”
“There, there!” Gregory mumbles with a satisfied smile. “I am fond of beautiful words, not like you, engineers - do you know the difference between an engineer and a dog?” he asks, smiling.
Lili shakes her head, although she knows the joke so well. Michael supplies the punchline himself:
“They both have intelligent eyes but cannot find their words,” and grins, while Gregory is laughing in a squealing staccato as if he’d only heard the joke for the first time. Ella comes in with a plate of chips, and Gregory acknowledges her.
“There you are at long last. It’s taken you ages to bloody fry those chips!”
Ella replies, still worked up from her intense kitchen work,
“What was I supposed to do, Greg, the gas flame on the cooker is that thin,” and she points to the nail of her little finger. Gregory bends over the plate, sees the chips are stewed rather than fried, and suddenly makes towards Ella as if about to slap her. Ella dodges and laughs in a wailing voice,
“Ha, ha, ha, come on, Greg, what can I do? Why don’t you call the guys in the gas works!”
“What would you all do without me, you sit here waiting for me to bring wine and champignons, and then you also want me to call the gas works so you can get decent chips?”
Lili isn’t hungry, but Gregory wants her to eat, and orders Ella to fill her plate with chips and tartines and her glass with wine.
“Do join us in the mountains next weekend!” he asks both Violette and Lili with glassy eyes.
Lili turns her head and grabs the glass of wine before her, suddenly thirsty, secretly hoping she could be dodging the question this way.
Gregory insists in his plaintive voice, sweet like jam:
“I beg you; you must see for yourself the plateau covered with flowers; it’s splendid, believe me, you forget about everything there, you come back home renewed, it’s sublime –”
Violette tries to stammer a few excuses, she still has the room here, at the seaside, for six more days –
“You’re not coming, bitch?”
Lili feels a knot in her throat and looks at Ella, who chuckles and says:
“Don’t get it wrong, Greg doesn’t mean it. He talks the same to me, you’ve heard him, but I don’t get upset, I’ve got used to it!”
“Shut up!” Gregory thunders. “Leave her alone, you bloody cow!”
He turns to Lili, switching back to his plaintive voice.
“Is it ok if I send the driver to pick you up at ten on Saturday, or you prefer earlier, or later? Whenever you wish, I have never forced anyone to do anything; the two of them can confirm that.”
He gestures to Ella and Michael with a brief, dismissive head bend.
He turns back on his armchair; all right, that’s been settled too, Violette and Lili are to join him in the mountains, although neither has uttered a word. He pours another round of wine, and they clink glasses again.
The rule hereby is no cheers or any variation thereof but just servus, the Transylvanian way of greeting, which Gregory, as a born Transylvanian, has imposed since day one.
He fumbles for something in the jacket pocket.
“I’ve brought you something, let’s see if you’re capable of reading it.”
Michael raises his eyebrows in delight while Ella claps her hands, squealing excitedly.
“You’ve brought us more!”
“Shut up, let Michael read; see if he’s up to it!” Gregory shouts.
Michael kicks off, but he stammers over the first words, and Gregory grumbles, visibly vexed.
“Give it to Ella, maybe she can handle it!”
Ella starts reciting:
“To Roxy, on her birthday. My child, with your face like an angel, may life be a breeze on your cheeks...”
“You put no heart into it. Give it to her. She’ll know how to read it!”
Gregory snaps the paper from Ella’s hands and hands it to Lili, who feels embarrassed to read a father’s poem to his daughter. These aren’t things to be read in public under the excuse of being poetry.
She starts reading in a low voice as if trying not to be heard:
“My child, with your face like an angel, may life be a breeze on your cheeks, your heart may remain white and pure like untrodden snow on the peaks. Your path in the years to follow under fortunate stars may unreel, my child with your eyes like the heaven, may life be a breeze on your cheeks.”
Gregory is watching her intensely, and after a short silence, he says, “You’ve read so beautifully. One can see you’ve got your heart in the right place!”
Ella is beaming.
“It’s superb, Gregory!” Michael volunteers with tears in his eyes. “You must know, Gregory, that this is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written; allow me to shake your hand, you’re a true man!”
He stands up gravely to shake Gregory’s hand, adding, “With this, I bow to you.”
Gregory reflects.
“When I’m tired – I’ve got a back room at the office, all bookshelves and a few paintings – nothing too valuable, just good quality; and when I need to compose myself, I take shelter there – only surrounded by beautiful things – no idea what I’m going to do with them when I retire, or they kick me out –”
Ella breaks in, protesting the idea of Gregory ever retiring or being kicked out as if this were the only right world, which is supposed to last eternally.
“Ah, they’ll never kick you out!”
Gregory replies, suddenly dignified and in a composed voice:
“Yes, when they kick me out of there, whenever that may be! I have always been free, I have never run after power. Power is immaterial to me.”
Lili feels sorry for his imposture. Or self-delusion?
Not genuine as a communist politician, but not truly a free thinker. He wrestles with ideas like an intellectual but indulges in bald power shows like a party official. Having cared to contemplate more of the world than his colleagues, he has distanced himself enough from his rank to see it as an oppressing mask. But not enough to see himself.
And you?
Does this story evoke any personal memory?
Can you relate in any way to the world these characters live in?
Is there a short label you could use to describe Greg?
Why do these characters come in pairs, you think, as Lili notices, including herself?