Florian brothers Filip (born 1968)
and Matei (born 1979) combined forces to write an elliptical tale of growing up
in Romania during the communist regime’s final decade or so. However, rather than producing a consolidated
novel in traditional form, they riff off each other in separate sections,
creating a kaleidoscopic picture of their childhoods in Băiuţ Alley, Camp Road,
Bucharest. The adult pair look back
dispassionately but affectionately on their younger selves living in a
standard, depersonalised block of flats known by a number and easily confused
with others by the unwary.
Presumably there was some kind of
pre-agreed general structure, but the narrative has the feel of a conversation,
unfolding with a degree of spontaneity as each author develops the other’s
threads, weaving a tapestry that is a cross between a collaboration and a
duel. Is it a memoir or fiction? Lack of dialogue suggests the former, but it
is marketed as a novel. Writing in novel
form when there is a grounding in lived experience blurs the life-writing
boundary, and the reader needs to be careful about taking the narrative(s) on
trust.
They boys have different attitudes,
analytical Filip recalling practical aspects, an older brother perspective; Matei, trying to carve out a distinctive
voice, foregrounds more lyrical, intuitive moments, highlighting feelings and
with a proneness to fantasy (Matei’s imaginary friends Știm and Ștam, who
appeared from the mustard, have their own section). There is an 11-year age gap so they have
diverging memories, Filip able to remember Matei as a baby and events Matei was
unable to understand at the time.
The result is a dialogue conducted
by different but complementary voices, one offering events as he remembers
them, the other critiquing and developing them from his perspective to show
that memories, especially in childhood, can be distorted and the implications
not comprehended. It is a way for the
brothers to discuss matters they did not necessarily completely digest or talk
about at the time, aided by the level of detachment adulthood brings.
These are neighbourhood kids able
to take care of themselves and their territory, and not above petty revenge on
adults who displease them. They spend a
lot of time playing outside, forming friendships and enmities, getting into
mischief and observing what is going on around them in a way that is less
common now. They come into contact with
a broad cast of characters – the extended family, neighbours, teachers,
friends. There may be frictions but it
is a reasonably happy community.
They adore their mother despite the
rueful acknowledgement of her lack of culinary skills. She is a constant presence, father often
being away at work on construction sites and, they later learn, chasing other
women. When he is home there are
opportunities to go with him to football matches, or the cinema, and listen to
radio shows together. Filip and Matei
share a love of football, playing it in the street and following Steaua
București and Dinamo București.
In some ways their childhood is
typical of the 1980s, but in others, as in all countries, it has its particular
rhythms. Childhood everywhere, for most,
has its own wonder, the freshness of a time before adult inertia sets in. There is a great deal of humour, though at the
same time willingness to tackle difficult issues that often come to children,
such as the inevitable deaths, including of their beloved grandfather who had
represented the rural wild places in contrast to the familiar city, the divorce
of their parents, remarriage of their mother to a man they do not much care for,
and the surprise appearance of a half-brother.
The wider oppressive political
situation is barely noticeable because we are seeing the world through the youngsters’
eyes, and they are more concerned with their immediate situation than they are
with the form of the society in which they live. The system may be filtered through to them by
state-approved education and media, yet the children can rise above it – mainly
by ignoring it. Ideology has a tendency
to become incorporated into games, and thereby rendered impotent.
One may have needed to be present
in that place and time to completely appreciate the references (despite helpful
endnotes elucidating obscure aspects), but children are similar enough for
readers with no first-hand knowledge of growing up there and then to be able to
empathise with these Băiuţ Alley lads.
There is a poignance in their depiction, but it is not sentimental. Nor is it miserabilist; this is certainly not
the drab childhood an outsider might have expected to have been the norm in
Ceaușescu’s Romania.
Relations between brothers
generally are rarely entirely smooth, but this pair came through, as not all
siblings do, with their solidarity intact despite Filip’s frequent assertions
of seniority: after all, they wrote a book together. The overall feeling is one of warmth, and when
the family leaves Băiuţ Alley, with the realisation that even without one’s
presence life there goes on, the reader feels a sadness at the closing of the
chapter, and the book.
Băiuțeii was
published in 2006, and the University of Plymouth Press edition, translated by
Alistair Ian Blyth, in 2010. The
attractive UPP hardback, part of its series 20
Romanian Writers, includes a section of paintings by Ioan Atanasiu Delamare
at the front.
