(story to be published in tomorrow's issue, March 29)
I set on my way feeling that nothing may lie ahead, nothing to cling to, thinking that the "cholera" has engulfed everything, that there is no escape. In a world that smells both like Christian Dior and cheap drugs emanating from the junkies, in a world of fur coats and rags I find it hard to believe that there are things that remain untouched, things that keep you afloat. But enough dark thoughts! Maybe it's this dorm room that makes me think this way. I am at the last floor of the "Stoian Militaru" building in a room with an ample view, not of the sea but of the slum. The slum begins right here in the dorm. The maintenance people just broke our door pretending they want to repair the power outlet that's been malfunctioning ever since I got here, the door lady spat her sunflower seeds and gave me a sore look. I never got home without being picked at and eyeballed by the gypsies in the corner market. Inside the dorm, the odours from the garbage chute, the yells, the racket, the endless parties make me sick. I would not be better off at the faculty: the stress of the bibliography, the hunt for notes, and the queues at the secretary's office. I have one last chance: "The last tango in Paris." Then I can rest. In a sordid condo a man and a woman escape the concrete and invent their own life, a nameless and ageless one. At the same time, she confesses in front of a camera. The concrete of her confessions about her past life is opposed to the vagueness of her testimonies regarding her frequent meetings with this strange man in the cold and huge apartment. She leads a double life. The two segments intertweave and sustain each other. "When two people meet and make love - that is love!" yells one character in front of the camera. The mood is extremely sensual, the love scenes, although bold, are not vulgar. Because the two have nothing concrete to hold them together, they resort to the only means left to them - their bodies. The whole affair becomes too much for Maria Schneider, the interpreter of the lead part. This kind of love destroys her and the end is tragic. After a demented tango and a desperate chase she shoots her partner. The film offers a shocking solution for evading the misery of the "cholera." It's a matter of choice. We, the living people, the non-fictional, need a real solution. We forcibly need to get away from the harsh reality. It seems that the roar of the cars in the street dulled to near whisper and faces became somewhat friendlier. I look at myself in a window and I even try a smile. Nothing changed, life is the same (Smile, tomorrow will be worse!) and yet, for a few moments I get the feeling that there are ways out, that one can fool reality. Not by escaping into a fantasy but by building a stronger and hidden, more personal reality. Not exposed, the way the skintight pants and heavy lipstick make you feel. Not by proclaiming one's stupidity out loud. The looks of the door lady leave me cold now and so do the slobbery plumbers and electricians. At least tonight I get to dance my last tango without fear or repulsion.
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