The Time of the Uprooted Read Online Free PDF

wanted to shake his hand, but the youth had already moved on.
    GAMALIEL AND BOLEK HAD MET WHEN THEY were both standing in line at that same police headquarters. Two men, one heavyset, the other scrawny, neither of them young, were quarreling over who was first in line at the window. A very tall, husky young man was trying goodnaturedly to separate them. “Why are you butting in?” exclaimed the fat one. “Is it any of your business?” “Yes, it’s my business,” the husky young man said. “You know that mangy character?” “No, but I’m making it my business anyway.” So began the friendship between Gamaliel and Bolek.
    GAMALIEL ORDERS A SECOND CUP OF COFFEE. HE relaxes; it’s a pleasant day. Students come and go, gulping down coffee, orange juice, a banana. Some of them seem in good spirits, others gloomy. It’s exam week. Gamaliel’s thoughts are far away. He is in Europe, long ago. Who could forget springtime in Paris? The carefree air of women who have cast away their winter cloaks, exuberant and attractive, their eyes sparkling with mischief or invitation. A light breeze gently caresses the trees. In playgrounds, children are dancing around and munching their chocolate snacks. In parks, people smile and talk to strangers. Under the bridges of the Seine, the clochards serenely turn their backs on the cynical ambition so prized by a supposedly normal society. The sky, so high, so clear, beckons. Oh, if only I could go up there, Gamaliel says to himself. So many are expecting me.
    THERE’S A WOMAN IN A RED KERCHIEF AT THE hospital information desk. Behind her is an untidy-looking man with a thin black beard, a high forehead, and a receding hairline. He is watching me on the sly through heavy-lidded eyes. If I catch his eye, he looks away. I don’t know this man; I’ve never met him. Why is he staring at me with what seems like disagreeable curiosity? Whom is he here for, and why: to judge, to amuse, to torment? Now he’s nodding as if he knows me. I pay no attention: He is not the person for whom I chose to live. He smiles at me, and suddenly I do think I recognize him: Is he not the wandering man, that first madman of my childhood? Hardly has the thought entered my mind than it disappears when the stranger turns away.
    Well, never mind. As far as I know, he’s not the one my appointment is with. . . . I’m here for a wounded woman, virtually mute, who speaks only in Hungarian. Does she know me? The man who issues visitors’ passes earnestly wants to know; you’d think his professional future turned on this information. He questions me as if I’ve come to rob the management’s safe. Strange country, America, obsessed with anything having to do with security. Without a photo ID, God Himself would be denied admittance. Here, before the strait gate to paradise—or perhaps to hell—anyone is entitled to interrogate you about anything. Soon they’ll be asking you if you believe in the immortality of the soul, whether you prefer Mozart or Schubert, whether your mistress is cheating on you with her second husband.
    “So you’re a visitor?” the man says in a tone of authority.
    “Yes.”
    “You’re here to see a patient?”
    “Yes, she’s Hungarian. Her name—”
    “Show me your ID.”
    I search my pockets, but find nothing, not even a credit card or a library card. I left everything on my desk. Maybe a driver’s license? But I don’t own a car and I don’t like to drive. What can I say? The guard sounds impatient: “Come on, let’s see that ID.”
    I feel around in my pockets, but still I find nothing. “I’m very sorry,” I say in a tone calculated to melt the hardest of prison guards’ hearts. “I must have left my wallet in my other suit.”
    The guard despises and distrusts me—that’s obvious. He finds me offensive, or perhaps he fears me. What does he think I am? A lunatic maybe, or a criminal who’s come to kidnap a wealthy patient, or to take revenge on an incompetent