Best European Fiction 2013 by Unknown Page A

light, switching off the auditorium lights; the atmosphere in the room would suddenly become familiar, safe, almost unreal, the classroom slowly descended into the evening darkness, allowing the dream to emerge, like at the beginning of those “sword-and-sandal” films that I used to like so much with hundreds of actors and expensive sets showing military action, wars, easing into the story with a simple pipe melody, history framed by a bucolic setting, as though every detail had its place there, every voice its command, every person his calling and his role, and it was possible to flirt with melancholy then;
    her hand kept turning on the overhead projector, as if outlining two invisible intersecting circles, her fingers or, more precisely, the enlarged shadows of her fingers were projected on the screen, turning on one another, weaving into each other, inventing a jostle, a tumult of luster and shadow, a devouring mass, that would suddenly become clear when she removed her hand from the glass surface, leaving the transparency lightly trembling, with various tedious details, which nonetheless would be so important later;
    did she cough, clear her throat, smile coyly? but I noticed immediately that her voice was heading toward the distant mountains, on the border of which the flame kept flickering endlessly, there should have been a mountain range in the north, a rough mottle of lines, circles of waves that doubtlessly marked the sides or the planes; her voice oscillated, she couldn’t find the right words, while her left hand moved to join the right hand on the pointing stick, then abandoned it; the mountain range formed the border of a historical province,
    yes, an almost impenetrable natural barrier, that’s what all the historians and the travelers had said,
    at the same time, the flame followed another invented, winding direction marked by a bold dashed line, as an upward path on the ribs of the mountain, excavating those inaccessible lands, one of the images of which was drawn from memory by someone who had once lived in those places and was fond of that geography and had published it in some book,
    that’s that,
    the professor would say, a heavy-set man, he would take off his jacket and put it on the chair, roll up his sleeves, light up a cigar, his squint eye would switch from presence to absence in a dialectical shift, with the drive of someone in a continuous monologue with himself—
    I think that … we …
    he would try to visualize the words, puff out smoke, clear his throat,
    we can’t not be part of … the movement, it’s absolutely necessary that the intellectuals … help the workers and unite the students, we need … a general front,
    he would place the cigar on the edge of the table,
    … our action showed that the people’s … outburst had its place in the social movement …
    he was evidently waiting for his words to sink in, expecting perhaps to leave an impression on his audience, but a voice from the back, it could have been any one of us, neutral, arrogant, ironic, almost spelling out each letter—
    you’re so well-read …
    he was shaking his head in silence, blowing out smoke,
    … and such a bad politician,
    the man was leaning against the table,
    comrades!
    get back into your hole … you philistine!
    history had turned a page, on the walls, side streets, statues, pedestals in red letters, the crowd kept walking, taking over the alleyways, sidewalks, the square, it would erect barricades, red and black flags, and “The Internationale” thundered along the entire length of the avenue again and again: FREE THE PRISONERS / CHAOS IS THE LAW / GASOLINE IS FREE / WHY DIE, STUPID? KEEP WALKING / FUCK THE PAST / THE OPERA BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE, the banner was hanging on the building’s façade, swelling from the warm spring breeze, bit by bit tearing and draping over the statues of Haydn, Rossini, cursing them … THE MORE YOU PHILANDER, THE MORE YOU REVOLUTIONIZE, THE MORE YOU