Prelude

For a long time I hesitated to publish this story.

In its first version I had changed her first name to Renate, so that the woman I had known as a student could not easily be recognized. I did not know whether she was still alive, and I did not want an intimate episode that had taken place more than sixty years earlier to disturb anyone’s life without good reason.

Yet the story continued to fascinate me, not only because of what I had lived through then, but also because of the questions it had left me. In time, I tried to discover what had become of her, but the traces I found did not yet amount to certainty.

Even so, the question had never truly disappeared.

Concert at the Palace Hall

The lights came on in the Great Hall of the Palace after George Georgescu had finished conducting Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Endless applause greeted the conductor, the orchestra, the choir, and the four great soloists: Emilia Petrescu, Martha Kessler, Ion Piso, and Marius Rintzler. It was not the first time I had heard the symphony in this interpretation. I had heard it some time before at the Romanian Athenaeum, but now the solemnity of the performance seemed to surpass every expectation. The temperature in the hall had risen, and the air-conditioning was struggling to keep it at an acceptable level. I was in shirtsleeves, yet the perspiration had begun to bother me. I hurried out, hoping the foyer would be cooler. I was still dazed and watched my steps carefully as I descended the countless stairs leading to the exit. In the foyer the temperature was indeed milder, and I slowed down. People streamed past me while I remained absent-minded, still hearing passages from the symphony in my head (Freude, schöner Götterfunken / Tochter aus Elysium...).

At one point my attention was caught by the slender figure of a red-haired young woman with graceful, delicate legs, wearing a flowing green dress patterned with red flowers and carrying a violin case under her arm. I thought she might be a member of the orchestra, although changing out of the black dress worn by the women players would have taken more time. In any case, she was a professional—and an attractive one. For the first time in my life I decided to pick up a woman, and I quickened my pace to catch up with her. I offered my most seductive “good morning”—it was Sunday and the concert had begun at eleven in the morning. “What did you think of the concert? I can see that you are a professional violinist...” I stammered.

Without stopping, she turned her head towards me and flashed me a piercing look. Good Lord! Her eyes were green—and almond-shaped as well. How I loved women with green eyes!

“Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked, sketching a smile that contrasted with the lightning glance she had just given me.

“I’m afraid not. But after such a splendid performance, I could not resist asking a specialist’s opinion,” I said, trying to maintain the role of the layman addressing an expert.

“I’m not a specialist. I’ve only just become a student at the Conservatory, in the violin department. My assistant at the Conservatory, Maestro Radu P., plays in the Philharmonic Orchestra, and I am expected to attend his recitals and concerts. I also get in free,” she said, slowing her pace.

“Don’t tell me he takes attendance,” I said, suddenly finding the subject interesting. By coincidence, Radu Paraschivescu was the cousin of a friend of my dear Aunt Anca, and this friend often told her about the cousin’s amorous adventures: a talented young violinist, certainly, but also a very handsome and much-sought-after man.

“Oh no, it is a professional obligation,” she replied, shifting the violin from one arm to the other.

“I see, but how do you make sure he knows you were at his concert? Do you go to him the next day and tell him how well he played?” I asked, pretending innocence.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dare,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“Then how?” I continued, curious.

“I make sure he sees me. He sits right at the edge of the stage in the violin section. He is second to the concertmaster. At the end of the concert, or during the interval, I go closer and greet him,” she explained, a victorious smile on her finely shaped lips.

“Does he answer you?” I persisted.

“Not always, but I think he simply does not notice, because he is so absorbed in what he is doing.”

“Forgive me, I do not want you to misunderstand, but after the concert all that concentration ought to dissolve. Still, it is none of my business to go into such details. What matters is that you apparently adore him—which is only natural, since he is your teacher,” I said, with a touch of malice.

“Oh, it isn’t quite like that,” she said, blushing without taking offence.

Still chattering, we came out together and stopped in front of the entrance, beneath a merciless sun beating straight down on our heads. The perspiration was tormenting me again, and I did not know what to do. I could not bring myself simply to say goodbye and go home. She was too attractive and had proved remarkably indulgent towards the boor who had intruded on her. I gathered my courage and offered to walk her home.

“Oh, there is no need. My residence hall is close by, behind those apartment blocks,” she said, pointing to the new buildings opposite the Palace Hall.

“Perfect, I’ll walk you there,” I said, and with a vague yet decisive gesture I half-reached for her shoulders, as though to guide her in the right direction. She did not object, and we set off slowly towards Poiana Narciselor Street, where the Conservatory residence hall seemed to be. Curious, I asked:

“If you live in a residence hall, that means you are not from Bucharest.”

“No, I’m not from Bucharest. I attended the music high school in the town where I was born, and then I sat the entrance examination for the Bucharest Conservatory,” she said in a single breath.

“And you were admitted, which means you must be very talented. The Conservatory entrance examinations are extremely difficult,” I said, trying to flatter her.

“You see, this was actually the second time I had taken the examination. I failed the year before and had to study with teachers for an entire year,” she said gravely.

“That changes nothing. You were admitted to the Conservatory, so you have talent,” I insisted, continuing along the line of flattery.

“Thank you. I hope you are right,” she said shyly.

By then we had reached the corner of Poiana Narciselor Street, where the residence hall seemed to be. She stopped, fixed me with her green eyes, and said:

“Thank you for walking me here. I’ll go on by myself,” she murmured, glancing around.

“All right, but I would like to see you again,” I said, arranging my face into what I hoped was a seductive expression.

“I’d like that too, but I am staying in Bucharest only a few more days to do some shopping—gifts, really, for relatives and friends—and then I am going home.”

“Home where?” I asked.

“To Reșița,” she said, smoothing her dress.

I was struck speechless.

“But miss, I’m leaving for Reșița next week as well, for my practical training. I have just completed my third year at the Polytechnic, and under the rules in force I must spend a month training in an important factory somewhere in the country. My group has been assigned to the UCMR works in Reșița, and in three days we are expected to report there.”

She looked taken aback, then recovered and looked me straight in the eyes once more:

“I would be pleased for you to meet my family,” she said, condensing into a few words a wealth of information that mattered greatly to me. Yes, she wanted me, and in earnest. Would she change her mind? Would I be equal to the situation?

“Then we need to stay in touch. Let us exchange telephone numbers and addresses,” I said as persuasively as I could.

Calmly, she opened her violin case. Beside the violin lay several sheets of paper, probably lecture notes. She tore off two strips, found a pencil in the case, wrote her Reșița address and telephone number on one of them, and handed it to me.

“My name is Renate,” she said, extending her hand. I took it and gave her my name:

“Luca—Luchi among friends. I am very pleased to have met you,” I said, daring on my own initiative to abandon the formal mode of address for the familiar one.

“So am I. I hope we shall meet again,” she said, amused by my modulation from the major key of politeness to the minor key of familiarity.

She then gave me the second strip of paper so that I could write down my address and telephone number. I did so at once, admiring her not only because she had agreed to see me again, but also because she had found such a quick way for us to exchange information. I handed her my strip of paper and we parted.

I did not watch to see exactly where she went in, because my mind was already flooded with thoughts that needed sorting out.

At Home

I walked slowly along Știrbei Vodă, intending to cross Cișmigiu Park, where I would be sheltered from the fierce rays of the sun. I needed to review what had happened during the previous half hour. I could not believe I had managed to pick up a girl of my own age so easily. I had never felt the urge to conquer women at any price, and women my age had consequently ignored me, regarding me as a boy. Nor did I possess that indefinable magnetism with which a true macho man exerts his power over his prey. As a man, I was full of doubts about my ability to win either the body or the love of a possible partner. My only chances had been with older women, who either considered me an acceptable companion when they needed a male presence or were won over by my shyness and adopted me almost as a son. That was why I could not understand why Renate had chosen me so quickly and with such determination. My curiosity grew the more I thought about her.

After crossing Cișmigiu, I boarded tram number 3, which took me home. So absorbed was I in my thoughts that I almost forgot to get off at the stop opposite our house. Once home, I found the coolness my overheated brain so badly needed. Grandmother prepared something for me to eat, I greeted Mother, and then withdrew to my bed in the entrance hall for an afternoon nap. I did not usually sleep in the afternoon, but I wanted to put my thoughts in order. Sleep would not come. About an hour later the telephone rang. Mother answered it and came to tell me:

“A girl wants to speak to you.”

Puzzled, I took the receiver:

“Hello, good afternoon. Who is speaking?”

“It’s Renate. Forgive me if I have disturbed you, but I wanted to hear your voice and, if possible, to see you,” she whispered.

“Of course, I would be delighted. When would you like us to meet?” I said quietly, so that Grandmother, who was nearby, would not hear.

“Today, if you can; otherwise tomorrow. I can come to you, if that is easier.”

My emotional intelligence could not withstand such a shock and, as so often happened when I gave myself no time to reflect, I made the wrong move.

“Tomorrow morning, at my house. We can have coffee and talk. You have the address. Do you know how to get here?”

“I think so. Would ten o’clock be all right?”

“I shall be waiting impatiently at ten. Please do not ring the bell; tap on my window. Good afternoon,” I said, trying to repair my previous mistake. A real man would have offered to meet her and perhaps escort her home, if she had agreed. Presenting her with a single option in which he himself did not lift a finger was not the conduct of a real man.

I do not know how that night passed, with all the dreams I had, whether awake or asleep. The next morning I waited for Mother to leave for work, asked Grandmother to make me a double coffee and not disturb me because I was “studying,” arranged Mother’s room—the most presentable in the house, with its enormous bed, oval walnut table, comfortable armchairs, and large windows overlooking the street, where I had told Renate to tap—and took up my position behind the curtain. Punctual as promised, Renate stepped off the tram. She had gathered her hair into a bun, which suited her just as well as the style she had worn the day before. She wore a thin linen blouse, green three-quarter-length fisherman trousers, and low-heeled sandals. “She likes green,” I thought.

Uncertain at first, she quickly found her bearings and walked decisively towards the window behind which I was spying on her, tapping lightly on the glass. I sprang up and ran to the veranda, where the front door was. Waving to her through the window, I opened it. She came in and we found ourselves standing awkwardly face to face, neither knowing how to break the ice. She was the one who broke the silence:

“It is going to be just as hot as yesterday.”

Relieved by the direction the conversation seemed to be taking, I agreed:

“That is why I suggested we meet here. As you can see, it is cooler indoors,” I said, thereby also redeeming yesterday’s awkwardness.

“I understood that,” she said, trying to excuse me.

“Let us go in here; we shall be more comfortable,” I said, inviting her into Mother’s bedroom. The coffee pot was waiting on the table, with two porcelain cups on matching saucers. Beside it stood a carafe of chilled water from the cooler and two crystal glasses. It was, in short, the piece of staging I had managed to devise.

As I poured the coffee, I went straight to the point, blundering once again:

“I am delighted that we are seeing each other again so soon, but please tell me—why the hurry? Has something happened that I do not know about?”

“No, nothing important. It is only that yesterday I felt so good with you during that walk after the concert that I wanted to see and hear you again as soon as possible. I am not going through a very happy period. If I was wrong to come, please forgive me,” she said apologetically, her eyes fixed on her sandals.

“I take it you have no friend, man or woman, whom you can see,” I said, trying to learn more about her life.

“No, at least not at this time of year. Since coming to Bucharest I have not managed to make friends, and I feel rather lonely. I can hardly wait to return to Reșița,” she said, and for the first time a tear appeared in the corner of her eye.

I rushed to embrace her and said in the gentlest voice I could summon:

“Renate, perhaps you have already met the friend you are missing.”

Renate raised her eyes to mine and, grateful for my words, replied:

“Do you think so? That would be wonderful. You are exactly the kind of person I wanted beside me: gentle, intelligent, decisive. I am so uncertain and pessimistic...”

“I do not agree with your description of yourself. Yesterday I saw you as decisive and confident about life. Why uncertain? Why pessimistic?” I asked, trying to reassure her.

“I shall explain another time. For now I only want us to feel relaxed and happy,” she said, wiping away her tears. She moved closer and kissed me, lightly at first, then with a resolve that quickly dispelled the awkwardness between us. I stood, took her in my arms, and answered with the same passion. From that moment on, words became unnecessary.

Our clothes came to rest, one by one, on the armchair and along the edge of the bed. We lay beside each other on the cool sheet in the half-light of the room, listening to the sounds of the street and to our hurried breathing. Everything had happened unexpectedly fast, yet neither of us wished to stop.

An Hour of Love

We made love with the curiosity and eagerness of two people who barely knew one another but who, hungry for closeness, felt drawn to each other by a force they did not try to explain. Renate gave herself without hesitation; I let desire carry me, astonished that an intimacy begun only the previous day had already gone so far.

Her passion delighted me and, at the same time, unsettled me. Even then, when I should have forgotten everything else, my mind continued to ask questions: why me, why so quickly, what was she seeking in this intimacy, and what was I seeking?

“Luchi,” she whispered, perhaps sensing my hesitation, “do not think about anything now. We are here, together.” I tried to follow her advice and, for a while, every doubt disappeared.

Afterwards we remained lying beside each other. Renate looked calm and content. She stroked my cheek and told me how much she had wanted to be there with me. I smiled, but did not know what to answer.

The questions that would accompany me over the following days were already taking shape. Was her surrender the beginning of love, or merely the need not to be alone? And was I in love, or only fascinated by the woman who had chosen me so quickly? From an open trapdoor in my soul, a little devil warned me with a chuckle: “Why torment yourself? It is just another affair. Tick it off and move on. So many women want you. Be a man!” I slammed the trapdoor shut and resumed my emotional questioning. From behind it the little devil shouted loudly enough for me to hear: “You’re a masochist. Only women behave like that.” Yet he never entirely convinced me.

And so we remained, each with our own thoughts, in Mother’s bed. Without fully understanding it, that hour of love had created a genuine intimacy between us, but also the ambiguity that would accompany the whole story.

Reșița

I travelled to Reșița alone, using travel warrants issued by the BTT. The train journey was long and tiring. On reaching Reșița, I had the address of the vocational apprentice school where we were to be housed. It occupied a massive three-storey Austro-Hungarian building belonging to the Reșița Machine-Building Works (UCMR), a factory that manufactured steam locomotives. The plant was in a transition towards no one quite knew what, because diesel locomotives were replacing steam engines. In recent years Reșița had begun to lose its strategic importance within Romanian industry, and no attempt at revival was in sight. One could sense this in the atmosphere of the town, in the lack of modern buildings and parks.

Our student group was supposed to carry out its practical training in the assembly hall. Every working day we had to report to the section to which we had been assigned and try to help the staff as best we could. In reality, we knew very little, and the staff did not need us; we hindered them more than we helped. But this was the situation in most student work placements. We had to record in our training notebooks everything we saw and took part in, and at the end of the placement we had to sit a practical-training colloquium, for which we received a grade equivalent to those awarded in our regular examinations.

As soon as we had inspected the building, with its long austere corridors lined by the vocational school classrooms now converted into student dormitories, each of us chose a preferred room and, within it, the bed we would occupy for four weeks. One classroom was reserved for the women, while we men had two rooms. Naturally, beds were chosen according to friendship: close friends selected places near one another.

We ate at the factory canteen; the food was edible, though hardly memorable. The centre of Reșița was not far from our lodgings, so in the evenings we could go out for a walk if we wished. At weekends we tried to organize trips to explore the surroundings, or, if it rained, stayed in the residence playing cards or went to the nearby restaurant with a garden. A small orchestra played there and one could dance—naturally, with the few female students, who were greatly in demand. In the evenings, before going to bed, our colleague Cristi Georgescu accompanied us on his guitar as we bellowed drinking songs at the top of our lungs, usually under the influence of alcohol, especially Milcov cognac.

During the first days I would withdraw into a corner to write to Renate, who was still in Bucharest and had not yet returned home, or to read her passionate letters. In the second week of the placement she informed me that she would soon reach Reșița, but would remain only a few days before leaving for the seaside with her parents. Meanwhile, my colleagues had planned an excursion for the following weekend to Mount Semenic, a tourist destination about forty kilometres from Reșița. I therefore arranged to meet Renate on Friday evening at the restaurant in the centre, the one with the orchestra, and invited her to join the whole group on the two-day excursion the next morning. She accepted. I could hardly wait to see her and hold her again. The days until Friday passed painfully slowly, but at last there I was, nervous and excited, seated in the restaurant with the women and men of our group, who had come to dance and drink beer.

At one point Renate appeared in the garden, attracting, or so it seemed to me, the attention of everyone in the restaurant. She looked splendid in a fashionable Veronese-green suit, with a tight skirt slit at the back that flattered her rather narrow hips, and beige high-heeled shoes. Since we had last seen each other, she had cut her hair short, and the new style suited her wonderfully. She was accompanied by her mother, an elegant woman who was still beautiful. They stopped at the entrance while Renate looked around, trying to spot me. I jumped up and went to meet them. I kissed their hands, and Renate introduced me to her mother, who gave her name as “Laura R.” We were shown to a table and sat down. My colleagues stared, unsure what to make of the situation. In their eyes I was hardly the type to behave like a ladies’ man. I, by contrast, felt immensely proud between the two women, although somewhat embarrassed by my canvas trousers and trainers, which stood in sharp contrast to their festive clothes.

I danced with Renate all evening, holding her as closely as I dared while taking care not to alarm her mother. As Renate and I had agreed beforehand, I had to make her mother believe that I was no more than a casual acquaintance from Bucharest. Smiling, I whispered ardent words to her; she received them with a smile of her own and squeezed my hand as hard as she could to show that she had understood. My colleagues on the dance floor drifted towards us and looked her up and down. I had the presence of mind to stop dancing and introduce Renate to everyone, especially to the women, so that she would not feel isolated during the excursion the next day. During the orchestra’s breaks, the three of us sat together at the table, receiving advice from Mrs R. about the trip and chatting about everything and nothing: the weather, fashion, summer diets, and so forth. Eventually Renate and her mother rose to leave, because Renate had to wake early to join us the following morning. I must have made a favourable impression on her mother, because as she left she entrusted her daughter to me and asked me to take care of her during the excursion. I assured her that I would guard Renate as the apple of my eye. Only much later did I realize that the phrase, which had come naturally to my lips, echoed an ancient biblical image: “Keep me as the apple of your eye.”

On Mount Semenic

Our student group gathered early in the morning in the town square, bags packed for the excursion to Mount Semenic. An old but still serviceable bus was waiting to take us roughly forty kilometres, almost to the summit. The group, including Renate and me, nearly filled it. After attendance was taken, the bus set off. The road to Semenic wound through dense forests, and the bus laboured up seemingly endless hairpin bends, leaving thick smoke behind it. The students watched through the windows as Reșița receded into the morning mist. Little by little the group came alive: conversations began, followed by hiking songs which, mingled with the laughter of youth, filled the air with cheerfulness. Renate and I sat side by side, barely speaking, but our contented eyes said everything that needed to be said. A hand discreetly clasped, a fleeting smile, a small gesture of affection—each moment together became a precious fragment of this new adventure.

It was then, on the bus taking us to Mount Semenic, that Renate told me she had had some photographs taken for her student ID card and gave me one of them. I kept that photograph for decades, through all my moves, from one home to another and from one country to another. When I wanted to use it for this page, I could no longer find it among the thousands of photographs in my archive. The portrait in Fig. 1 is therefore a reconstruction, made from memory, of Renate’s photograph.

We passed the reservoir at Văliug, a favourite holiday place for the people of Reșița. Renate explained how the lake had been formed from the waters of the Bârzava River, which flowed through Reșița, close to our lodgings. She had often spent weekends at Văliug with her parents and knew the area well. But the road to Semenic was still long; the hairpin bends returned, and the bus wheezed as it bravely attacked the treacherous curves. As we climbed, the mountain, with its gentle summits and dense forests, gradually revealed itself, while the air grew colder and cleaner. It rushed through the bus windows, filling our lungs with the fresh coolness of the mountains.

Looking out of the window, I felt my heart beat faster at the thought of spending two days in such an isolated place beside Renate. Yet my melancholy nature also supplied an insidious premonition that these might be our last moments together. She would soon leave for the seaside, I would remain with the memory of her, and after that—who knew what fate had in store for us?

The bus left us near the summit. When we arrived, the landscape took our breath away. Mount Semenic, with its bare rounded ridges and fir forests lower down, seemed a place from a fairy tale. The spectacular view and fresh mountain air revived our spirits. Full of energy, the whole group tackled the last few dozen metres separating us from the Antenna, the highest point on the mountain. From there the panorama was magnificent, offering a full 360-degree view. After the obligatory photographs, we scattered along the mountain paths, exploring and photographing the scenery. A visit to the Semenic chalet for coffee or a glass of lemonade was indispensable. The chalet keeper, a good-natured man, greeted us cheerfully. He did not have many customers that day.

Smiling, Renate took my arm, and I drew her close affectionately. We walked hand in hand, feeling close to one another in silence. Although we said little, the silence between us was comfortable and filled with hidden meaning. We both knew that our time together was limited, yet we decided to enjoy every moment. We entered the fir forests together, found secluded places where we kissed passionately and laughed without care, surrendering to the charm of nature and of each other’s company. We spent the whole day exploring the surrounding ridges, admiring the landscape, and enjoying the company of my fellow students.

The sun began to set, casting long shadows and colouring the sky in warm shades of orange and pink. Evening fell quickly, and we decided to light a campfire with branches gathered by those who knew mountain customs. Once the fire caught, we all crowded around it. Sausages and the crate of beer bought in Reșița were brought out. The sausages were skewered and roasted, while beer was handed to everyone who was thirsty. Cristi took out his guitar and began to play, accompanied by enthusiastic voices that supplied the evening’s soundtrack. The fire crackled, the flames danced, smoke rose towards the sky, and the mountain songs carried far into the distance, echoing from the slopes. Renate and I sat close together in silence, absorbed by the intimacy of the moment. She nestled against my chest, and I could feel the warmth of her body through my thick shirt. The playful firelight was reflected in her eyes. I looked at her with admiration and with a sense of transience. I knew those moments were fleeting precisely because they were so intense. Time therefore passed quickly for us. After the roasted sausages had been eaten and the beer bottles emptied, the fatigue of the journey and the day began to make itself felt. We made our way to the Semenic chalet, where the bunks awaiting us proved too few: there were two large bunk structures with beds one above another, but not enough of them for the whole group.

“Who wants to sleep outside beside the fire?” asked Virgil, the colleague who had appointed himself organizer.

There were no volunteers.

“Who is willing to share a bed with someone else?”

Several hands went up, including those of two women, four men, and the two of us. Then Cristi and Irina also offered to share a bed, perhaps because Irina was tiny and the hulking Cristi could not have found anyone else small enough. The calculations were made and it turned out that everyone could fit inside the chalet. The students crowded into the bunk beds while laughter and jokes continued to ring through the room. We were given a bed on the upper level of one of the bunks, opposite the windows. Although it was small and narrow, we were both slim and managed to lie down with relative ease. Cristi and Irina were also assigned an upper bunk on the other side of the room, near the window. No less enthusiastic than we were, they climbed together into the little bed.

When the light was switched off, moonlight entered through the large windows and the chalet gradually fell silent. For a while, feminine protests came from Cristi’s bed, followed by giggles and squeaks, enough to provoke a few whispered jokes from the others and, finally, a feigned silence.

In our narrow bed, with the others sleeping or pretending to sleep around us, we drew close again in silence, with the caution and complicity demanded by the circumstances. Beneath the thick blanket, the world shrank for a while to a feverish search for infinite pleasure. It was a night of tenderness that remained in my memory for a long time.

Morning arrived quickly. The sunlight entering through the chalet windows woke me. The room was wrapped in silence, with only a few birds chirping cheerfully nearby. I remember opening my eyes and seeing Renate asleep beside me. She was smiling peacefully and seemed content, which moved me deeply. I bent over to kiss her, and then she opened her large green eyes. She looked at me for a long moment, smiled, and a breath of melancholy crossed her face. Was she too aware that this excursion would remain in our minds as the high point of a passing relationship?

Soon the chalet filled with laughter, and one by one the students began to go outside, stretching their stiff limbs in the cheerful sunlight. After a quick breakfast supplied by the chalet keeper, the group gathered with its luggage in front of the building and set off on foot towards the bus stop at the foot of the mountain. The return journey was quiet, each of us absorbed in private thoughts.

We reached Reșița at the expected time and got off the bus in the same square from which we had departed. Renate’s mother was waiting for her. I looked at Renate for a long moment, trying to thank her without words for that unforgettable experience. I think she understood, because she kissed me lightly on the cheek. She promised that we would see each other again in the autumn, when she returned to the Conservatory. I wanted to hold her tightly, as though sealing a pact and somehow warding off the inevitable that pressed upon me, but her mother was watching from a distance, slightly puzzled by the length of our farewell.

Epilogue

Although we had promised to write, her letter never came. For a long time I experienced that silence as a betrayal. I told myself that, if our encounter had meant as much to her as it had to me, she should have given me some sign.

At the time I did not want to admit that the silence was not hers alone. I too waited for her to make the first move. I was too proud to seek other ways of reaching her, and I defended myself with a formula that seemed to close the matter: “It was just a summer fling.” In truth, the pride I mistook for dignity concealed a fear of rejection and perhaps the fear of discovering that I had preserved a meaning for that summer which she had never given it.

The years passed. For a long time the memory of our encounter remained linked to erotic pleasure and to the simple fact that I had felt happy with her. In old age, erotic regrets gradually became emotional ones. I no longer wished to revive a finished story; I wanted to see again the person Renate had been and ask her a single question: “Why did you never give me any sign?”

While searching for her, I found traces of a music teacher and school-textbook author who had the same surname and an unusual first name formed as an anagram of Renate. The similarity of the names, her profession, and several other coincidences led me to believe that she might be the same person. Yet the detail that would have linked her unequivocally to the young woman from Reșița was still missing.

Eventually, through a friend, I contacted a private investigator. He identified the author beyond doubt and told me the year and place of her death: she had died eleven years earlier. She had retired upon reaching the statutory retirement age, immediately moved to the provinces, and died seven years later. The Bucharest documents he found did not, however, establish her place of birth—the essential information needed for the certainty I was seeking. I asked him to continue the investigation. Perhaps I shall receive another answer; perhaps I shall not. Perhaps she was Renate; perhaps she was not.

The news did not entirely surprise me. I had considered the possibility of death or the illnesses of old age during the years when I had inquired in vain at the publishing houses that had issued her books. What disturbed me was something else: even though the final proof was lacking, I felt that the question I had wanted to ask no longer had anyone to whom it could be addressed.

The events of youth had ended in the summer of 1964. The story, however, had continued to live in a corner of my memory, and now its meaning had changed. Perhaps some encounters take place before two people have learned how not to lose one another.

If I could speak today to the young man I was then, I would not tell him to love more or to suffer less. I would tell him only not always to wait for the other person to make the first move. Pride seems a form of dignity when one is young. Only much later does one discover that it is often merely another form of the fear of ridicule or failure.