Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

The door half opens, very slowly, with maximum caution. It’s not Jeny — that’s not her style. No, of course it isn’t Jeny. It’s her male equivalent, the sluggish patient. A pale shy pensioner. Dusty uniform, soft-mannered valet, shortsighted eyes of a domestic frog.

“Ah, it’s you. Yes, please come in. The doctor hasn’t arrived yet. But Dr. Marga will be here soon. You can wait.”

He flicked the switch and light blazed everywhere from the large chandeliers.

Ah, it’s evening already! As if it wasn’t spring but late autumn, when it gets dark early and the night is hungry to swallow you up.

Mr. Dominic sank into the leather armchair. He turned his shining head toward the full bookshelves, the table and tall chairs, the office, the armchairs — enough room for everything and some left over to walk about, as in a reception room where the guests have not come.

The valet reappeared, pushing a small trolley on which a bottle and glass were vibrating — clink clonk.

“Ah, but, I don’t drink, you know.”

Valet Vasile did not allow himself to react in any way. Or perhaps he smiled, idiotically. Do you hear, he smiled! But in fact he didn’t even smile, how could he have? After all, nothing was visible. Just a breath of air on his shiny yellow face — a barely perceptible trace of artful distrust and mockery. As if he had smiled only mentally, a broad, satisfied smile of which nothing appeared on the surface. Really nothing: not a word came from Vasile, known as Bazil — no such stupidities from him. Maybe Tolea had got the idea that he was guilty of something, who knows? What’s this smile — we’re not at the circus, are we? Dr. Marga usually says, Don’t let me catch you monkeying around or finding fault with anything, it doesn’t suit your station, Vasile, you are Somebody, the High Authority of the other world, like you don’t see these days in our parts; you must respect your station, don’t compromise yourself with anything human — you’re a statue perfectly trained to honor its mission, that’s all, and it’s more than enough. Valet Vasile did indeed return perfectly deaf and mute, with scarcely visible movements. A pile of glossy foreign magazines had appeared on the trolley beside the glass and the bottle of Courvoisier: Playboy, L’Express, Paris-Match. Look, the magnificent Romy Schneider has lost the son she adored; fancy that, she also had a son; access to popular tragedy, would you believe it; bravo, Vasile, you know your job, I take my hat off to you, come here and let me shake your paw.

But Vasile had disappeared. That was what his position demanded — perfect discretion. The slyboots! He doesn’t want to answer, the schizoid doesn’t want to answer: that’s how Dr. Goody-Goody, heart of gold, trained him to be. Would you believe it: the country is dying of hunger and fear and cold and darkness, but the lights are glowing at Goody-Goody’s as at the Palace. We’ve got everything here: we even read foreign magazines, and we’re waited on by patients dressed up as valets. After all, that’s the patients’ role — to bring what they don’t have, Courvoisier and Playboy and our daily cheese; to get hold of everything so that Goody-Goody’s in good spirits, so that he gives them tablets and certificates and pensions, because I know you’ve got an invalidity pension, Mr. Bazil, don’t deny it; it know everything, I know you’ve got a screw or two loose, but otherwise you’re fine, in every other department you’re perfectly okay. Here’s to you, come and let me shake your paw.

Had Mr. Dominic somehow stood up to offer his hand? Time had passed: who could say whether he had stood up or hadn’t.

“But it certainly takes a long time to answer the bell in this palace!”

The bell had been ringing for who knows how long, whistling whistling or whatever, very long and thin.

Dr. Marga pressed the guest’s shoulder with the soft palm of his hand. Dr. Marga was looking reproachful. Why on earth has he got that sly look in his eyes? Ah, the bottle. What’s a man supposed to do? There’s no one you can breathe a word to in this desert, only the poor Frenchman Monsieur Courvoisier took pity on the low spirits of the child Tolea.

“Have you been here long?”

Who was asking whom? It seemed that the doctor had asked the question, but it was by no means certain. Tolea also seemed to have muttered something, surprised that Marga was already wearing his red silk smock and holding a thick pipe in his mouth, as if he had been at home there all the time beside the leather armchair, looking indulgently at the stranger. It was a poor imitation, a poor performance. In vain did Goody-Goody try to imitate his patients; he actually did it like a beginner, without any luster at all. It was an affront to the lunatics, it really was, an insult they hadn’t deserved.

“Have you been here long, Tolea? I thought I asked you something.”

No, he hadn’t been there long, but how can you answer such an idiotic question, when Dr. Loonyson measures time by the liquid in the bottle, as if friend Courvoisier were an hour glass!

So Mr. Dominic had forgotten to answer the question. He was up to something of his own, trying to make the doctor say first what he had to say and then get his own bit in.

“What the hell, Tolea, that’s not what we agreed to. It’s not wine, you know. I keep telling the dimwit to give people only wine. But I don’t know why, whenever you come he gets the bottles mixed up.”

So Vasile’s supposed to have done it on his own! The scene’s the same every time, as you know only too well. You’ve taught him perfectly how to pour that criminal dishwater down my throat. It must have been Metaxa, yes, because Messrs. Hennessy and Courvoisier are much more sophisticated and well mannered, not like that neoclassical hussy. Yes, now I’m sure it was that whore Metaxa. And you even pretend to be astonished, paternally, certifiably, you pretend to be astonished as usual, as if I didn’t know your little game.

So Mr. Dominic had answered only after a long delay, and then not as he usually did. No, this time something must have happened for Mr. Tolea to answer like a little lamb, would you believe it.

“Well, now you too are … I’ve got all kinds of things to raise. As if you didn’t know!”

Whereupon Dr. Marga immediately drew up a stool alongside Mr. Tolea’s armchair. He leaned toward him, like a mother, a real mother — that’s always what the doctor did. Exactly like that, always.

“So what’s up, Tolea? What’s happened?”

Of course! “So what’s up, Tolea? What’s happened?” That was how he sweet-talked him each time. Now Merlin the Magician was coming to the boil, as always. “So what’s up?! What’s happened?! You’re like a driveling old woman, that’s what you are. You bore me stiff, you know, you’re driving me mad with boredom!” Those were the words with which he usually exploded, exactly the same words he always used to answer Marga’s opening question. But the reply was slow in coming; the explosion was delayed this time.

“Well, what’s up … what is there … drop it. But where’s Bazil got to? Who the hell brought that Metaxa whore here?”

So that’s how it is! Mr. Tolea is totally plastered. Something real bad has shaken you up this time; it’s a good job the doctor gave you some liquor, that Dr. Marga gave you the strength, that he’s got everything properly prepared as usual — the bottle and the glass and the magazines and the sweet talk; he knows everything, does the good doctor.

Anatol Dominic, known as Tolea, looked sulkily at the bottle. Um! The metal top was lying sensibly enough beside the bottle. Mr. Dominic frowned at it, jumped forward a little from the armchair, and cautiously took hold of the bottle. He poured some into the palm of his left hand and replaced the bottle on the table with his right. Then he poured some from his left hand into his right, and wiped his bald patch with both. Yes, he poured the drink onto his bald patch and rubbed it in with his palms, left and right.