Romancierul britanic Julian Barnes a primit in fine ceea ce merita de mult timp: cel mai prestigios premiu literar britanic. Ca si dl C. Rogozanu (care scrie despre acest premiu pe “Vox Publica”), sunt si eu un fan al lui Julian Barnes. Inca din momentul cand am citit, cu ani in urma, “Flaubert’s Parrot”. Am citit apoi in “New York Review of Books”, in februarie 2000, eseul-recenzie aparut de fapt ca replica la o controversata biografie a lui Koestler scrisa de David Cesarani, am aflat cat de influentat a si cat de apropiat a fost Barnes de autorul lui “Darkness at Noon”. Il numea pe Cesarani un “tomb-robber”. Istoria conteaza pentru Barnes, cum a contat pentru Koestler si Orwell.
Se uita adeseori ca Barnes a publicat, in 1992, un fascinant mini-roman despre problema culpabilitatii liderilor comunisti, despre dilemele justitiei morale, ca ale celei penale, intr-o tara imaginara, o combinatie de Bulgaria si Romania. Am folosit aceasta carte, intitulata “The Porcupine” ca lectura obligatorie (required reading) de-a lungul anilor la cursurile mele despre comunism si post-comunism. Ca si Christopher Hitchens, cu care a fost prieten (poate ca mai si sunt, e greu sa urmaresti the ups and downs din lumea intelectuala,britanica, americana, romaneasca etc), ca si Martin Amis, autorul nu doar al unor excelente romane , dar sial volumului “Koba the Dreead. Laughter and the Twenty Millions”, Barnes a studiat atent istoria insangerata a veacului trecut, veacul lagarelor de exterminare, al proceselor-spectacol, al camerelor de gazare, al Gulagului si al Auschwitzului.
Voi citi cat mai curand noul roman al lui Julian Barnes. Sa spun aici ca ar merita tradus in romaneste (nu stiu sa se fi intamplat acest lucru) si cel despre post-comunism si despre destinul unui dictator doborat de un val al schimarii in care conspiratia s-a intersectat cu protestul de masa, cu justificata revolta anti-totalitara. Un roman despre abulie morala, despre iluzii pierdute, despre tensiunile etice ale decomunizarii, despre insolenta fostilor magnati. Stoyo Petkanov, personajul lui Barnes, este de fapt un Todor Jivkov imaginar, decrepit, incontinenst (la propriu si la figurat), si cinic. Iata cum si-i aminteste Petkanov (inchis in asteptarea procesului) pe Nicolae si pe Elena Ceausescu, ce gandeste despre sordidul si totusi tragicul lor sfarsit: “‘They bungled it. You should have been displaying my body to the American media by now.’ He imagined the lying headlines. He remembered the Ceausescus, the splayed bodies. Tracked down and hurriedly shot after a secret trial. Nail down the vampires, quick, quick, Nicolae’s body, the very body he’s hugged on many a state occasion, emptied of life. The collar and the tie still net, and an ironic, half-smiling expression on those lips that Stoyo Petkanov had many times kissed at the airport. The eyes were open, he remembered that detail. Ceausescu was dead, his corpse was displayed for Romanian television, but his eyes were still open. Had no-one dared close them?” (“The Porcupine”, Knopf, 1992, p. 76)
Romanul vorbeste despre natura efemera a puterii care se vrea absoluta, despre soarta jalnica, in cele din urma, a micilor si marilor tirani, de la Jivkov, Honecker si Ceausescu la Mengistu, Mugabe si Castro: “Now, look at them. Erich running away to Moscow, holing up like a rat in the Chilean Embassy, waiting for a plane to North Korea. Kadar dead after the betrayal of opening his frontier: you could never trust a Hungarian. Husak dead too, eaten up by a cancer, gibberingly acccepting the last rites from a priest in a frock, beaten down by that scribbler he should have banged up for life. Jaruzelski not up to it, joining the other side, saying he now believed in capitalism. Ceausescu, at least he went down fighting, if running away and being executed by a firing squad counts as fighting. He was always a mad hog, Nicolae, out for the main chance, playing both sides against the middle, refusing to join the fraternal action in 1968; but at least he had a bit of spine and tried to hold the things together until the end. And then, worst of all, there was the weak fool in the Kremlin who looked as if a bird had shat on his head. Getting into that publicity duel with Reagan. Please let me give away some more SS-20–now will you put me on the cover of Time magazine? Man of the Year. Woman of the Year, thought Petkanov.” (p. 79)
De fapt, Petkanov, pesonajul inventat de Barnes, nu este doar Jivkov, ci si Ceausescu, ori un fragment din posibilul univers mental al acestuia. Cand isi rememoreaza marile onoruri, suntem parca in filmul lui Andrei Ujica: “The Order of the Elephant from Denmark. The title of Doctor Honoris Causa of the Central University of Ecuador. The Order ‘Great Collar of the Nile’ from the Arab Republic of Egypt. The Order of the Great Cross of the White Rose from Finland. … The Great Cross of the Equatorial Star Order from Gabon. The Karl Marx Order from the German Democratic Republic. … The Pahlavi Order with Collar from Iran. The Order ‘The Great Girdle of Meritof the Republic’ from Italy. Also the Aldo Moro Gold Medal. Also the Simba Award for Peace.” (pp. 116-117) Imi amintesc perfect bancurile care circulau in epoca despre “Premiul Simba”, noi ii spuneam Samba, nascocit, se pare, special pentru Ceausescu, echivalentul timbrelor din inexistentul stat Maluku Selatan, platit, pe cai misterioase, de sectorul de propaganda externa de la CC, condus ani de zile de Mihai Dulea…
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