Novel, Ego. Prose series, Polirom, 2014, 232 pages
A man tells a “doctor” his story, which is like something out of a film. Even though he despises his father, he has come to resemble him more and more with each passing day. His life has been one disaster after another ever since childhood, when, after his parents’ divorce, his mother, who had issues as serious as his father’s, died in an aeroplane accident. As he grew to “maturity”, he turned the seduction of women into an overriding obsession, without being fully conscious of it. Whenever he tries to change anything, life deals him yet another blow, and his every relationship ends in tragedy. Death seems to dog his every step, but without ever touching him. Until one fine day he decides to summon Death to him. But not before making his final confession...
In a Hotel Room, Somewhere
I wake up abruptly and it is dark. I am alone and something tells me that I ought not to be and that in a few seconds the fear will grip me once more. Fear and revulsion at something. Something I have done, something that ought not to have happened, but did happen, something horrible, like an incurable disease, like a premature and violent death. Something for which I will have to make a reckoning. My ears are hissing like I had two seashells bunged inside them, and somewhere, in my brain, a malevolent little man is crushing a mound of walnuts with a hammer. There ought to have been someone beside me in bed. Yes, a sleepy, naked woman, my guarantee that I have things under control. A trace of memory, a diffuse feeling, the memory of a reality that perhaps did not take place signals to me the absence. I try to detect a trail of perfume in the air, among the sheets, something to tell me that I am not mistaken, but when I inhale I smell only the ordinary odour of a hotel room. I close my eyes and my limbs begin to tremble, a fine, almost imperceptible tremor, which would be visible only on a sheet of transparent plastic. Then, I think I fall asleep. And I become thirsty. I dream I get out of bed and go to the bathroom to pour myself a large glass of water. The door is closed, but the light is on inside. As if somebody were in there already. As if that somebody were waiting for me. I can hear the tap running, evenly, monotonously, conveying to me some kind of message. I dream that I am afraid. I grip the doorknob and am about to turn it, but in that same instant I wake up. I lie motionless, waiting to ascertain where I am (in a hotel room), whether it is summer or winter outside (it is spring), what day and month of the year it is (3 April). I couldn’t remember any of all that. In the end I looked around for a clock (my wristwatch has vanished or perhaps I never had one) and I found one in the form of a mobile ‘phone, placed neatly on the bedside table. The hour, the day and the month. The year is the current year... As for the hotel, I know only that it is a tall building, because I looked out of the window just now. I couldn’t see much – the window is small and rather narrow – but I saw that it was snowing, I have no idea what town this is, in this country all the towns look the same – but I could see that I was high up. At least literally, if not otherwise. I have always liked to take a hotel room on an upper storey. That I remember. It is as if you are above your destiny, above what others have decided in your stead. Which is an illusion, obviously. But which holds, which works, as long as nobody throws you out of the window. As long as you do not think too much about how it is only an illusion. The clock on the mobile ‘phone shows 2:56 in large figures. Almost three in the morning. My mouth is dry and heavy, as if it were lined with a thousand pebbles. I ought to go to the toilet. No! To spit, rinse my mouth out. No. Don’t go! Why? It doesn’t matter. Why doesn’t it matter? It’s better this way. I don’t want you to go there. I swallow. I sense something coming towards me, like an evil spirit, like a spy sent up from Hell, it stalks me, sniffing my heart, which starts to beat faster. A cold, malign sweat oozes through my skin and as it does so I remember what I dreamed...
The light in the bathroom. The tap running. Signs of somebody having been in there. The scene left behind, the painting of a demented artist. But dreams are dreams, an intense, somehow necessary cerebral activity, but nothing more. They are not premonitions, they do not reveal to us what we are afraid to discover for ourselves. We dream in order to forget, some say, not to remember. Perhaps this is just what happened to me: I dreamed too much during all this time, and now... now the telephone is ringing. Not the mobile. It is the landline. From somewhere far away. And the buzzing is not from this century. It sounds ceremonious and lugubrious, with long pauses between each buzz, and it is coming... Where is it coming from? It is as if it were from another room. From another room, but still one occupied by me. It looks like I am staying in a suite. I didn’t remember that. Neither that nor all the other things. A feeling of helplessness, of being abandoned, as if I had woken up to find myself bound to a chair and was now about to be tortured. A feeling of inadequacy, of incompatibility with the world. Bewilderment in the face of destiny’s parsimoniousness. Consternation. Angst. The foregoing crowd together now, trying to find room in my head, like beggars in front of a table laid with alms. I don’t want to answer it. Who could be ‘phoning me at three in the morning? But maybe it is something important. Something vital, something crucial, perhaps at the other end of the line is a voice that wants to come to my aid. As if such voices existed...
What is going to happen next, Mr Damian? I say to myself in my mind, trying to explain the strange boorishness of the man in reception, but I do not have very much time to think, because the telephone rings once again. The mobile. 0700 288 900. I don’t recognise the number. I answer, with the feeling that I am making a mistake.
Translated by Alistair Ian Blyth
“I very much liked the atmosphere of this novel, which approaches that of the film noir in its heyday, and Florin Irimia, through the voice of his character, takes on his experiences vocally. References to films noirs can be found in almost every chapter, and the main character has an obsession (positive or negative, depending on how you look at it) with great directors such as Woody Allen and Roman Polanski, but also with their controversial relationships with women/girls much younger than them. Conclusion: I liked A Few Things about You a lot.”
(Jovi ENE, filme-carti.ro)
“Florin Irimia’s novel is also good at the intimate level of the page, where he has slipped in a number of sentences and sometimes whole paragraphs that demand you copy them in a notebook or cleverly post them on a social network.”
(Constantin PISTEA, constantinpistea. wordpress.com)
“The reader finds himself inside the mind of a depressive, conscious of what he was, of what he has done, perhaps incapable of genuinely loving because of his feverish, anguished, neurotic state, beneath which are concealed feelings of remorse and guilt.”
(Raisa STOLERIU, bookblog.ro)
“The author manages to keep things under control, even when he is making deep sorties into the psychology of relationships and couples, or when he is decrying the pitfalls and misfires of the mind, things that can set love on a downward path, even a love that had promised to be enduring. These really are the areas most prone to stylistic misfires, but Florin Irimia demonstrates that he knows how to avoid them.”
(Florin IORGA, Suplimentul de cultura)