The Loneliness of Pride

I started my morning with a phone call that seemed important. I say it seemed because the number was unknown, and the prefix betrayed the caller: +40 – Romania. For me, this country was very familiar, yet at the same time, I was estranged from the endless forests of Transylvania and the mountains that surround Brașov. I hadn’t returned to my homeland for at least fifteen years. I no longer kept in touch with my parents. All three of us were proud people, blinded by pride. From our last discussion, I understood that they no longer wanted anything to do with me. And frankly, I felt the same way.

I didn’t answer the call immediately. I called back a few minutes later, during which time I tried to think who could still be interested in my existence. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had absolutely no idea. So, I called the number and held the phone to my ear, hoping to only hear the regular tone, not a voice — especially not a familiar one. My wish didn’t come true because shortly after, a gentle and very warm female voice answered. She asked if she had dialed the wrong number, which amused me quite a bit, since I should’ve been the one wondering that. After a few completely idiotic exchanges, the woman finally got to the purpose of the call. It had been twenty years since I graduated high school, and the school administration was organizing a reunion for class 148, which apparently—because I couldn’t remember—I had been a part of.

I was silent for a few moments. My mind was flooded with embarrassing memories or top moments of my high school life, so much so that I could no longer hear the woman. I snapped out of it, and the woman, now slightly confused, asked me if I would confirm my presence. I said yes, without thinking too much. I still don’t know why I accepted so easily. I had no contact with any of my former classmates. I didn’t dislike them, but I don’t remember forming strong connections with anyone. I had other concerns—not necessarily friendships, since back then, no one seemed particularly important to me. Now I deeply regret the temperament that carved such a fatal path for my life.

After the woman hung up, telling me she was looking forward to seeing me on the 6th of June at the “Andrei Șaguna” High School in Brașov, I went about my day as if nothing had happened. A hard day at work was ahead. It was May 29th — end of the month — when pressure becomes unbearable. Only toward the end of the shift did I realize I had to talk to the director of the firm to ask for a few days off. With this sudden reunion after twenty years, I wanted to stay a bit in my homeland. I was never a nostalgic person. To me, the past was dusty, lost in the dim light of indifference. I wasn’t ashamed of it, but I couldn’t look back with admiration. I think I am a demanding person, not a sentimental one. Still, something changed today. I really wanted to see Brașov again—the city I once loved and still love, in a way. I didn’t plan to meet anyone, just to wander aimlessly through the place I once called home.

I walked confidently into the director’s office, who received me with warmth—as he always did—because he had always seen me as a serious person. And I was. The respect was mutual. He was the kind of boss that you couldn’t rationally hate because he was always fair, understanding, and only lost his temper when it was justified. I told him I wanted to take a few days off and explained the reason for returning to Romania. He smiled and nodded. “With how much you work, four days of rest are well deserved. Go home, see how your folks are doing and take care of them,” said the director. I was a bit stunned, since I was going to Brașov for the reunion, not to take care of my parents. I quickly collected myself and thanked him for understanding. I was one step closer to seeing the city that had enchanted me as a child.

I got home at six. The streets of Amsterdam were bustling. The tram rails squealed deafeningly, and the bike bells completed the orchestra, which, in my opinion, was painfully off-key. The sun was shining dimly and disappeared in directions unknown, reflecting in the window of the balcony. I watched the visibly agitated people below and didn’t feel any peace. I kept wondering if returning was a good idea. I was just as restless as they were, though I doubt we had the same problem. I had already bought the plane ticket—right after the director allowed me to leave. The wind was blowing gently, touching my face and reminding me of summer days, cool for that time of year, when I would sit in the park at Livada Poștei, surrounded by cigarette smoke and a philosophy book. Something was calling me home.

The days passed quickly. Between architecture work and playing the guitar, I took short breaks, losing myself in the streets of Amsterdam, where I had lived for ten years. I still didn’t know them all; I hadn’t explored every corner that seemed to hide a mystery at every intersection. I kept thinking about high school. Gradually, I started remembering most of my classmates and teachers. After all, I didn’t want to look awkward. I wanted to seem at least somewhat involved and talk again with those I hadn’t truly hated or loved. I had unusual hopes. I’m not an optimistic person, but this whole event forced me to try to be. One day—I can’t remember exactly when—I almost wrote a message to my desk mate, my best friend from high school. I hoped he’d come too, because I was sure I could have an easy conversation with him. I hesitated, though. I was afraid of rejection.

The evening before the trip was overwhelming. I don’t remember how much I slept, but I know that in the morning I had no cigarettes left, which clearly showed I had been insomniac. In the morning, my whole body was heavy, as if I was carrying on my back the woven threads of more lives. For the first time in years, I felt like a nervous child starting high school. Except that I had finished high school twenty years ago, and unfortunately, I hadn’t been a child in a long time.

The flight lasted three hours. I remembered the first time I flew from Romania to the Netherlands—with a cheap airline and barely any legroom, which hurt my 1.94-meter pride. Now I could afford a more comfortable flight. I smiled to myself. I realized that although I was returning to my childhood, I now had adult privileges. The airport in Bucharest hadn’t changed. The same mess and the same familiar faces trying to sell you everything. I didn’t want to drive to Brașov. I hadn’t driven in years, so I rented a motorcycle—the same model I had in Amsterdam. I only packed a backpack filled with a shirt, underwear, and a few t-shirts, so luggage wasn’t a problem. The road to my hometown was full of dreamlike views, mountain silhouettes that I couldn’t get enough of. I had always loved nature. I think it’s the only thing I truly love.

When I entered Brașov, I realized almost nothing had changed. A few renovated communist blocks, a modern office building here and there, and some electric buses that looked great, giving the city a green energy like its forests. I explored a lot on the motorcycle. Even though I covered a lot of ground, I didn’t see any big changes. That’s when a timid nostalgia hit me, one that didn’t want to show its true intensity. I realized I could relive, for a few days, my childhood.

I stopped at the first hotel I came across. I checked in, and in just a few minutes I was on the balcony of the room, looking at the sign on Tâmpa that said “Brașov” in big letters. That sign had always seemed natural to me. When I arrived in the Netherlands, I never felt the same pride in a city. I was surprised. My idea of “normal” looked different. I rested a bit—it was only two o’clock, and the reunion was starting at five. A dark thought came to me: I should go to my parents’ house to see them. I didn’t feel so estranged from them anymore. I thought for a long time, but in the end I decided to go—for a short while. I just wanted to see their faces. I hoped they had remained the same, like the city. I loved my parents, although I didn’t know if they wanted to see me.

I left immediately to buy a rose for my mother and a pack of cigarettes for my father. I smiled again to myself. The gifts were different when I was a child. I arrived in front of the block, which, aside from a new roof over the entrance, hadn’t changed at all. I didn’t want to ring the intercom. I was afraid of rejection again. In my mind, if I got directly to the door, the chances of being refused were lower. At one point, without realizing, I opened the front pocket of the backpack—now lighter—and took out the key to my parents’ home. Then I realized that I had never taken those keys out of my travel bag, not even when I last left Brașov. I laughed again, ironically. I was convinced that this was a favorable sign. I was less nervous. I entered the block, climbed the two floors on stairs more worn than I remembered, and reached the door—with the rose in one hand and the cigarettes in the other. I hesitated a few times before knocking. It was too strange to be at the door I had once left with so much eagerness. When I went to university, I wanted to see the world. Now, at 38, not only had my perspective changed, but also my hope in the world.

Eventually, I knocked twice, shyly. I waited a little, but no one answered. I knocked again. Three times the same scenario repeated. My mind was full of doubt. “Did they see me through the peephole and not want to open the door? Are they not home? Did they move?” I lowered my head, disappointed, and turned around. There was a chance my parents had forgotten me. And I didn’t blame them. I had never tried to be the kind of child anyone would want. In fact, I think I was the opposite. I hadn’t been a good son, especially after I grew up.

I slowly left the building. I gave the rose to a young woman and the cigarettes to a beggar waiting at a bus station. I no longer needed the rose, and my conscience wouldn’t let me smoke the “rejected” cigarettes. I returned to the hotel, with broken hope. Suddenly, I remembered the neighbors and even called the ones closest to my parents’ apartment. One answered. He was confused and didn’t immediately recognize who I was. I explained the situation, and after a few moments, the neighbor recognized me. “I don’t have good news for you,” he said. “At least you have news,” I replied. “Your mother died two years ago. Your father, two days ago.” I fell silent. I didn’t say anything back, so the neighbor continued, “The house is empty. The funeral was this morning, from what I’ve heard. My condolences.” I didn’t know how to react. I was sure that if something so tragic had happened, I would have been contacted. I hadn’t received a single sign in two years. “Hello, can you hear me?” the neighbor asked. I didn’t answer right away, but I eventually said, “Yes, I can hear you. Do you know why I wasn’t called?” The man fell silent for a few moments. “In their will, they wrote that they didn’t want you to be contacted after their death. They were proud people, you know.” “Thank you,” I said, and hung up and sat on the first bench I saw. I didn’t cry, even though I wanted to. I had no words—not necessarily because they had died, but because I found out like this. I felt like someone who had traveled through time, only to lose his loved ones to its irreversibility. I looked around. Nothing stood out anymore. I only thought of my parents’ loneliness. And my own. A loneliness of pride.

I went back to the hotel. My thoughts went from place to place, memory to memory. I don’t remember what I did afterward. I didn’t even go to the high school reunion. I didn’t want to uncover another painful truth. I just wanted to walk. I went to the old center and stopped in front of the pub that used to consume all my time as a student. It was closed. I swallowed hard. I ended up in Musik—a place not particularly dear to me but still open. I drank. A lot. Nothing affected me anymore. Around ten in the evening, while I was wondering how I could go on from here, the bartender kicked me out. The place was closing. I walked toward the bus stops, but first passed by the high school. I became emotional again. I remembered the football matches in the back courtyard, the organized skip days, and those who—though we weren’t too close—I still called friends. I kept walking, consumed by a nostalgia I thought couldn’t affect me. I walked toward the station, on După Ziduri, the street crossed by a smelly creek. The smell was just as sharp as I remembered it. I sat on the bench where I had spent four years of high school, smoking, talking about music, reading, or simply trying to avoid home. The murmur of the water comforted me in childhood. Now, it had the same role.

I kept walking, letting my hand brush along the smooth notches of the old citadel wall. I felt powerless in the face of my great failure. I had not been able to take care of those I loved. And so, I had destroyed myself. At the station, I was waiting for bus number 16, but I got on number 41 without realizing it. Then I remembered that, as a child, I used to make this same choice—to have more time to smoke a cigarette. I got off one stop before the one where I used to get off. I laughed a little to myself and continued heading home. I followed the familiar route, and memories were rushing through my mind like a flood. I couldn’t stop them anymore. I passed by the middle school as well. I remembered that fleeting time of innocence. A tear rolled down my cheek.

I was in front of the apartment block again, ready to spend a night in the house I grew up in. To my surprise, the lock on the door hadn’t been changed. I entered the house, and a musty air hit me. I opened the windows and admired how nothing had been moved from its place. I went into my parents’ bedroom. My father's guitar was still on top of the wardrobe, but my mother’s hairdryer was no longer by the mirror. In the kitchen, the ashtray was full. My room looked exactly as I had left it. A high schooler’s room, passionate about music and literature. One book was missing from the library — The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. I looked around the house and found it in the living room. Most likely, my father had reread it. I froze again. When I snapped back to reality, the cars were speeding down the boulevard in front of the windows. The same roar I never got tired of at night.

I lay down on the bed without changing my clothes. I stretched out on my back and stared at the ceiling, the one that used to be my friend in the evenings when I had insomnia. I closed my eyes and exhaled softly. My mother had died. My father had died too. For the first time in twenty years, I wanted to be with them. A part of me died that day.