Alone in a Common Room

Iarina sits alone in the commons, asking the question she asks every day. Why did I stay in Romania? Why do I stay in Bucharest? Why am I at Politehnica Bucureşti?

Her ticket should have been stamped for Bordeaux, but she listened to the pleas of mamă to stay closer to home. L’université in France awaited the acceptance letter she never sent, and she missed a chance to experience the world and its wonders.

If she had, she thinks she wouldn’t be the lone female student here in the technical classes, struggling to find an advisor willing to sponsor her thesis. Number five in the department rankings of two hundred and eighty and unable to get a seat with those who should be her peers, while they allow lesser-ranked students to discuss their simplistic projects during class breaks.

If she had, she wouldn’t gaze out my prison cell dormitory window every weekend, seeing glimpses of familiar faces in groups as they move between cafés and discos, chasing short skirts, enjoying the nightlife. As the outcast, that world is also forbidden to her. She knows she would finally be noticed, but alone and young, she would attract the type of attention that would be most unwanted.

Didn’t the paths blazed by Maria Sklodowska and others open any doors in this part of the world? Or was it only her marriage and collaboration with a Frenchman that allowed her to become a success over a century ago?

Looking at the closed lab book, Iarina squared her shoulders, deciding to labor through the isolation, remembering that her idol was able to work through the road blocks of the male-only world in her university days, eventually to be rewarded with two Nobel Prize awards.

She began to spread out papers and schematics while the young men continued to chatter in clusters around the room. Focusing on the scratching (and breaking) of the point of her pencil on paper, only halting briefly to erase a stray mark, she failed to notice an older man sit at her table, one who had observed her work for minutes before breaking his silence.

“*Domnișoară* Iliescu, forgive me for intruding. May I speak with you?”

Looking up, she begins to panic. Șef Dăscălescu never bothers with the baccalaureate students. What have I done that the head of the department is sitting next to me?

“Of course … I mean, I’m sorry … Șef Dăscălescu …”

“Relax, please. I am not here to hand you your walking papers. However, the papers here," as he points to the layout on the table, “are what I came to see you about. Several weeks into the semester and I see your name is one of the few without an advisor for a thesis.”

I begin to respond, but he holds up his hand to silence me. “Those who have turned you away have not done so out of malice. They consulted me, finding your proposal outside their expertise, and a few said, better suited for a doctoral dissertation.”

Looking again at the table, he said, “I originally came to counsel you towards a more manageable thesis, but the work I see here shows me that you understand your topic, and I would venture that you are farther ahead than the boasters in the corner.

“I saw in your eyes that I have a reputation here. If you can get past that, I would be honored to be an advisor for your thesis project.”

Noting that all sound in the room had ceased, I reply, “No, Șef Dăscălescu, the honor would be all mine.”