Cast Thy Bread Upon the Waters: A Novel

By Gabriel Plesea

In mid-1970's, Jon escapes from Ceausescu's dictatorship in Romania and settles in New York City. Faced with an extremely dynamic and pragmatic environment, and enjoying liberties he had not known before, Jon decides he must earn an American university degree to both enhance his knowledge and have a better chance in a highly competitive job market. He pays for his studies by taking odd jobs, where he meets people and learns the ropes of earning, American-style, one's living. However, the integration process is an arduous task. At times, Jon's enthusiasm crosses moments of disillusion, duplicity, and letdown. Luckily, his campus experience helps him overcome real or imaginary obstacles, bringing him in tune with local custom. Very much like in a bildungsroman narrative, Jon's "American" story is one of reshaping a personality into a more complex human being. His efforts are duly rewarded with finding true love and a reason to be happy thereafter. The biblical prediction-that he would find again the bread he had cast away-is thus fulfilled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 22, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595634385

Gabriel Plesea

A writer, translator and journalist, Gabriel Plesea was born in Bucharest, Romania. He holds Master's Degrees from the University of Bucharest and from Columbia University School of International Affairs. His work includes 4 novels, 2 literary criticism books, and 3 collections of articles published in various newspapers and magazines. He enjoys traveling, sports, reading, and writing. He is married to Dr. Ana Cristina Plesea, a DDS, and they both live in New York City.

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CAST THY BREAD

UPON THE WATERS

A Novel

Gabriel Pleşea

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS

Copyright © 2008 by Gabriel Pleşea

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-0-595-53380-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-63438-5 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

First published as Bitter Be Thy Bread, New York, GP, 1989

Published in Romanian, under the title Aruncǎ pâinea ta pe ape (Cast Thy Bread upon the Waters) by Vestala & Alutus Publishing Houses of Bucharest, Romania, 1994

To Anca

Cast thy bread upon the waters:

For thou shalt find it after many days.

Ecclesiastes, 11, 1

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

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The sign read simply COME IN, WE ARE OPEN! It did not say what it was—a pub, a cafe, a diner, a fancy restaurant, NOTHING! It took it for granted that anyone interested in a cozy, hidden refuge would know that that was the very place. In its own way it was. What had prompted Jon to take Jane there—the only reason he would have ever entered the crummy-looking place—was the group of three young ladies emerging through the somewhat rusty doors. It looked like they had a very good time in there, laughing and talking so excitedly.

It can’t be that bad, he said, let’s give it a try. I’m tired of walking the streets to find a place where we could have a chat.

However… she started to express her doubt, but, then, assented: All right.

Don’t worry! I wouldn’t dream to invite you to one of those dives.

Why not? she quipped.

Because you are such a distinguished lady. I am sure they won’t let us in anyway. We are too square!

Look at that door, the broken glass; it seems they are having a fight here every night.

Well, what can I say? Those young ladies looked all right. Let’s go in.

Those young ladies, she intoned amused. It must be your age, Jon. You are mellowing! Not the tough guy you used to be!

Yeah, that must be it: the age! But what are you talking about? The girls didn’t look like the ones you insinuate. Anyway, forget them! All I want is a quiet place where we can sit down, have a good coffee and a shot of something strong. That’s all! And speak with you. You look so detached. Your talk. You are so evasive… just like a Fata Morgana somewhere in the Sahara. You know what I mean…

For the last hour or so, he had been trying to make her be more explicit. He had been doing the talking—one of those days when he enjoyed hearing himself. Even so, this was something of a comedy. Usually, he was the listener. He loved to let others talk and learn what else they had to offer. He liked to judge, not to be judged! There were times, and this was one, it seemed, when he found his match. Now, he was the one listened to, scrutinized, suspected. After twenty-five minutes, he was quite surprised, horrified even, to realize that he was still doing the talking. He did not like it, he had enough, he wanted out! It was also true that, sometimes, he used to talk to himself, to hear his own words echoing inside his head. It was so nice, so pleasant! He could always agree or disagree with himself, without being terrorized that his thoughts could have some consequence at all. But now, he was theorizing, talking nonsense, and he was very much in danger of being taken for a fool. Yes, he needed a shot or two, just to forget about it all. And make her talk to him, dammit!

The door opened onto a short landing just above an abrupt staircase leading to a dining area. Down there one could see round tables, perhaps a little too small, covered with nice, colorful linen cloths. Descending, they could now see a bar to the right and plenty of room to the left. The place was clean and quite large. And busy too.

It must be one of those fancy cafés which prefer anonymity over recognition other than by their own habitués, Jon remarked. Let me see if we can get a coffee and something to drink.

He waved to a waiter, who led them to a table in the back.

Could we have two black coffees and cognacs, please?

Coffee and cognac? the waiter asked skeptically. They must be strangers, he thought. What brand?

Anything! Let it be Martel! I don’t know! Just bring one here, will you?

I’ll have a Courvoisier, if you don’t mind, Jane interfered.

But of course! I am so sorry, Jon apologized. I didn’t mean to be impolite… It’s just that I wanted… Never mind! Look! Why don’t you bring us Courvoisier and Kentucky straight bourbon? For me, make it double, please! All right?

You are confusing the guy, Jon! What’s the matter with you? What is it you wanted?

I just wanted to get rid of the fellow; I’m fed up with this nonsense: ordering drinks and the like! If you’re asking me, all strong drinks are the same!

Don’t they say that about women too? she tried.

Oh, please! How’s that? All cats are black in the dark? No, of course not! It’s all so silly. Anyway, I don’t know very much about cats either.

That’s funny!

What’s funny?

Well, you seem so knowledgeable…

He thought she was trying to make him say more on the subject. However, what was there to say, after all? He just did not intend to get into that delicate chapter. On the other hand, it was not fair. He started it, and now he was trapped in this silly discussion!

It might be my bragging side… Not me really, if you know what I mean.

I don’t know what you mean!

Actually, what are you trying to learn?

Maybe she just wanted to know what to expect. Why bother, if his company was not what she was looking for.

I’m wondering whether there is any future in all this.

Who knows? After all, there is no past, and there is no future: we only have the present!

All right! What is the present, then? Sitting here and waiting for coffees and drinks? No, it is not! There was a past a few hours ago and there will be a future an hour from now. And so on and so forth. The past may well influence us. It may influence our present and our future. Also, the present may influence our future, don’t you think so?

It is too complicated to think in those terms…

Why?

Because, right now, I just like being here, chatting, and feeling good.

Aha, that was it! Cats lying, slumbering in the sun, and enjoying it! Or, was he a male spider, a cerebral one for that matter, thinking hard whether it was worth having sex with his partner, and taking the risk of being devoured afterward? Just forget it! Dammit! That was not a good example; he had to do it if he wanted to perpetuate the species. Moreover, Jane did not look like a devourer. Jesus Christ! Wasn’t he thinking too far ahead already? On the other hand, what was the meaning of all this? Spiders, sex, devouring…

Your coffees and drinks, the waiter interrupted Jon’s meanderings.

Thank you; that will do. We may want to eat something later.

Enjoy it, the waiter said, unimpressed with what might happen later.

You see? He doesn’t care about future either; about our future needs, I mean. It makes me feel I am out of touch with reality. I must forget there is a future, and the past does not count! Cheers!

Cheers!

He looked at her, right into her eyes, and then took a sip. He had a strange feeling, like being pierced simultaneously by the alcohol and her look. Something melted inside him and, all of a sudden, he felt weak. What was he trying to do?

He remembered her from back home, in the old country. There, she was so distant, so untouchable in her splendor. Was it splendor or just pride—sheer pride—that sprang all around her? Along with an impenetrable enigma, too! Her thin, mysterious smile seemed to both invite and keep one at a distance. She worked at a publishing house as a copy editor, but he had heard she had published some short poems in a literary magazine. By all standards, she was successful and much appreciated. Many expected her to become one of the leading poetesses of the country. Then something happened in her private life. He did not know too much, and he was not that interested in finding out. The word was out that she was planning to divorce her husband, an important higher-up in the government and the party. Jon remembered him as one in charge with implementing the cultural policy as envisaged by the party. Maybe they could not agree on how to interpret the cultural phenomenon. Anyway, she did not look like one dedicated to writing poems about the latest victories and gains of the working class. She seemed preoccupied more with the transcendental than with the daily industrial or agricultural achievements. The gossip was also that a powerful critic had written to rebut her unpatriotic and anticommunist approach in her poems. What was to become of the socialist revolution in the cultural field if today’s poets busied themselves with trifles and degenerated themes characteristic of the rotten bourgeois culture? The critic did not know that Jane was married to comrade Popa. He ignored that Jane had kept her maiden name just to avoid any immediate connection between her creation and her husband’s powerful position. Learning who she actually was did not help the poor bastard, one of the many upstarts that tried hard to elbow their way to the top. He was sent back to where he had started: in a regional bureau, somewhere in the north of the country. The otherwise politically dedicated husband did not take it lightly when it came to protecting talent in his own family, even if that was counter to the tenets of revolutionary ethics.

At the time, Jon was sort of pushing his own way in the ‘literary circles’. He had a translation already printed by the publishing house where Jane was working. He was under contract to translate another book, by an American author, but the project was uncertain because of copyrights and royalties issues. Even so, he went ahead and worked on it. He enjoyed the book and sort of identified himself with the hero of the novel. Meanwhile, the editors assured him that another novel, by Charles Dickens, a classic, that posed no ideological threat whatsoever, would be his next assignment.

Jane’s publishing house was adjacent to the building where Jon had his office: an institute of world cultural relations. They were located in one of the exclusive neighborhoods of the city. Their working hours appeared to coincide. He saw her descending from the black, official Mercedes when he arrived at work in the morning. The same limousine was dutifully, and watchfully one might add, waiting for her when he left the institute. Once, he saw her having coffee with her colleagues, who were respectfully entertaining her. Observing her, he thought she was free only at her job, in her coffee breaks or when she was writing her poems. That kind of existence could be depressing! What a bore! Jon would have liked the rumors about her marriage to be true, although he could not care less.

Then he left the institute for good. His boss, a higher-up in his own right, was going to a top position in the Academy. He was asked to head the Academy of Political Sciences and he accepted promptly. What else could he do? There are honors one cannot refuse, thought Jon. The boss summoned Jon one morning. He welcomed him as usual. Lighting up his pipe and waving to a chair in front of the sofa. Jon knew he could take any chair he wanted except the two his boss had received as a gift from the Mexican president: two wicker chairs, and a sombrero. Jon had always understood the sombrero, but never the chairs.

Well, Jon, how’s the work? Have you finished translating that book? I do not think they’ll ever publish it. The topic is too ethnic-oriented and the author is not so popular over there. You may be surprised, but I did meet people who never heard about this author. At any rate, they were pot-bellied Wall Street financiers with casual interest in the arts; just enough to secure them some tax deductions, I suppose. Now, let’s sit down and hear what your plans are!

What can I tell you, Sir?

Although it was wrong, as strictly indicated by Party directive, to address anyone with Sir or Madame, appellatives that would point to class discrimination in a bourgeois society, Jon never paid any attention to those indications, as he was quite willing to acknowledge his boss’s status. He was not alone.

You can tell me what you think, or you can keep your mouth shut! That’s the game, I know! I should know! When I was kicked out of the Party…

Oh God, here he goes again, thought Jon who knew the whole story by heart. It was a hobbyhorse. His boss never missed an occasion to mention it. He did it even when guests of the institute were around, which caused immense nervousness on the part of the relations director, a former tractor driver and a dedicated communist party member.

In his youth, the boss had studied English literature at Cambridge then, God knows why, he joined the Socialists even if he came from a very good and rich family. After the war, he voted for the Socialists’ merging with the Communists. He was named dean of the English department of the University, then minister of information of the newly proclaimed People’s Republic. He seemed to go higher and higher when disaster struck. He was accused of bourgeois tendencies, of undermining the revolution in the cultural field and, worst of all, of spying for the British. His chief accuser was the president of a state agricultural farm and a lover of folk songs praising the revolutionary process; the man was seeking a higher position. To gain credibility, he insisted that ‘comrade-mister-minister’ was surely selling secrets to the British because, otherwise, ‘how else could he procure tobacco—English to be sure—for his pipe?’. Comrade-mister-minister was expelled from the party and if it were not for his previous efforts to unite the Socialists and the Communists in one glorious party, he would have been thrown in prison or shot even. Gone were his position, career, status, and the good life. For years, he shunned any public appearance, and he furiously dedicated himself to scholarly pursuits. Decided to resist until seeing better days, he translated most of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets and a host of other English masterpieces. At one time, he was coaching students at the University’s English department, but had to stop even that because all his visitors were tailed by secret police for possible contacts with the British.

When Stalin, the boss of all bosses in communist party matters, died, and the country enjoyed some sort of token independence, people like Jon’s boss were again sought after. In his case, however, it took almost five more years just to be able to obtain a chair at the University. Not in the English department, that was still considered off limits for him. He was accepted as a reader in comparative literature. One by one, his translations were published and life was beautiful again. However, it was not enough. He wanted complete vindication, and he got it. His detractor—the former collective farmer turned minister—lost his job. His department was abolished and he was asked to retire. Jon’s boss considered suing him for calumny, but many of those who had backed the collectivist were still in power and could derail his comeback. At last, a new party boss emerged, who needed international recognition. As a readmitted party member, Jon’s boss was rapidly reinstated to his full rights and sent abroad on various goodwill missions.

Jon, I am going to leave this post. No, not like before, Marx forbid! I am going higher. There is no future for you here. They are going to reduce the staff and ultimately close the goddamned joint. It’s the only way to get rid of these incompetents here. I tried.

Jon knew very well that his boss had tried. He attempted to reorganize the institute into a bigger outfit, such as a new minister of information and, on that occasion, to fire those directors who had truck driving, farming or gardening backgrounds in their resumes, but were inadequately presented as champions of cultural relations among nations. What was common to proletarians all over the world? The classics of world literature or the ‘healthy’ work? In proletarian labor did they have deep and vigorous roots, not in culture. For that, they enjoyed high salaries and incentives too.

As for you, the boss continued, I have thought of something else. I cannot take you to the Academy. You are not even a party member and nobody’s going to make you one now.

That was true! Jon avoided membership by shunning responsibilities and showing himself less vocal. He just minded his business, did a good job, and never coveted something that would contradict his own principles and standards. He found more pleasure in playing tennis after work than in participating in all sorts of social and political activities that were prerequisites to any status or benefits.

I was asked to name one of my students enrolled in a doctorate’s program, a good and conscientious worker, to be staff member with the newly established UN agency here. Of course, the nomination must be endorsed by the University and approved by the UN agency director. I am on the committee called to review and approve the national support staff and last night, over cocktails at a reception, I mentioned your name to the director. Now, mind you, all this is confidential matter: I could not—although I was advised to do so—name that bellowing cow sitting in your office. I simply cannot see her doing anything else than drinking coffee and gossiping all day long. What do you say?

Of course, Sir, I would have loved to continue working for you here. This institute has gained some reputation under your guidance!

Fiddlesticks! Reputation? We pay for our guests’ plane tickets, hotel bills and travel expenses, just to make them come here: to see our country, and get an idea about it.

That’s true. They would not even consider venturing in these parts of the world, if we did not pay.

Because they are some asses! That is why! A country’s cultural heritage remains a cultural heritage no matter what. They should come, and come no matter what, to see…

He was on again, venting his grandiose idea that Westerners should notice that this country was intrinsically linked to the West, and not to the East, as they maliciously tried to convince everybody with their propaganda in their stupid press.

Make sure to tell the secretary I sent you there. Good luck! I know you’ll do a good job; I know you will not disappoint me.

The last sentence sounded menacing. However, Jon knew that the boss did not mean it that way. He also knew that his boss did not give a damn about it either. He was giving him a break. Just because Jon graduated from the English department of the University and once made some laudatory remarks about the boss’s translations from Shakespeare.

Would you care for another round, sir?

Care for another what?

Oh, dammit! There he went again with his meanderings in the outer space, away from the present, away from everything else around. Where was he anyway? He stared at his empty glass; the double bourbon had gone down the pipe. He felt a little bit dizzy, but otherwise quite well disposed and compassionate about human destinies and miseries. Yet, the feeling that something inside him was burning persisted. He raised his head. Her piercing eyes were there, watching him. She kept looking at him, her thin smile hanging on.

Yes, I care for another round, he told the waiter. And bring more coffee, please.

The waiter cleared the table, went away and almost immediately reappeared with the order. He put everything on the table and left them alone.

Just like you, I fall into such states quite often, she said.

In what ‘states’?

Completely lost in thoughts, memories, and nostalgia.

Does it help?

A lot!

Maybe it’s because I’m thinking of where I was and of where I am now, and whether what I did was right or wrong.

Everything will be OK, won’t it?

I’d like to believe that, but it seems it takes so damned long to see the sun’s true color.

The sun’s true color, he repeated fascinated. That’s nice, but what could be its true color?

What’s the ‘true’ truth or the ultimate truth? Nobody knows! Same with the sun. As simple as that. Nobody knows. I have this feeling sometimes, that I see a different color of the sun. Hey, haven’t you noticed at sunset, that the sun changes its hues from gold to orange to red to gray to nothing?

Yes, I noticed that. But still, and perhaps because of all this, I am now trying to imagine what could be the sun’s true color!

You’d better give up! This transcends our senses, I would assume. Anyway, one cannot keep looking into the sun for a longer time. It hurts.

Yes, it hurts like truth hurts.

Sometimes…

At all times!

Speaking of truth: What was between you and that bigwig back home?

Well, that’s a good example of how truth can hurt! It was nothing extraordinary about it. Popa…

He was surprised she called him by his family name, disparagingly somehow, as they used to in the literary coterie.

He wasn’t that bad. It was his ambition that drove me crazy. He always wanted to be the first: the first in his class, the first at games, the first in college years, the first to join the youth’s union, the first to join the party. He always wanted the biggest and the best slice of cake.

Is this why he married you? he interrupted, maliciously.

It wasn’t exactly that way. I married him! I almost got tired of his insistence. He used to beg me, kneel before me. I had to do it, otherwise his passion would have killed him, he said.

That was new! Popa, the cocky beau of high school girls, the youngest man ever to reach the high position of minister of culture! Unbelievable! He could have