Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

Dominic looked at her attentively. The Madam Executive was flattered to receive so much attention from the distinguished stranger.

“It’s a pity Comrade Orest Popescu had to leave. He’s our president, as you know. He could have told you more.”

So the high-class tailor Orest Popescu is not at his command post; he must be moving among the masters. Comrade Reserve General Orest Popescu! A tailor by vocation — and quite brilliant at it according to ones in the know — who lost his voice and so many other qualities there at the front, but learned how to survive at any price, any price. And then, after being discharged, he kept rising and rising, thanks to the comrades he served. General in the reserve!

But if you look at the paper Via¸ta Noastr , there is no trace of a cult for the general who leads the hard-of-hearing infantry. He must be a sly old fox, that blockhead who hasn’t even lost his voice. In fact, nothing gets lost: everything is transformed — signs, substitutes, and invisible networks.

“What are you thinking?” the florist, the horticulturalist, said gently.

“Oh, you know, I’m thinking about what you told me. Comrade Popescu — you said that Comrade Popescu would have more—”

“Well, not necessarily, because I know the situation, too. In fact, he doesn’t have time to cover everything. Anyway, he represents us at the top and passes down the line we have to follow. And he represents us very well, as you know. The comrades in the top leadership have a high opinion of our president. But what were we talking about? Oh yes, that law reducing the number of school years. Mmm, it’s certainly a problem. You know, we’re supposed to be a model organization; we enjoy special attention from the leadership bodies. We regularly report the situation and our results; we’re greatly appreciated at a high level. But however understanding the members are, however submissive and disciplined, there still has to be a minimum of — how shall I put it? — encouragement. You know what happened last month with your colleagues.”

Dominic kept perfect control, deaf and mute at the surprise.

“Mmm, that’s what journalists are like; they think they’ve caught the big fish this time. What with this Year of ours they’ve really gone to town: that the number of school years is being cut from ten to eight; that we have no clubs or stadiums or subsidized trips as in other countries; that our members have to meet in the evening in front of the Association or in the courtyard. You’ve seen what a huge yard it is: the building used to be a large boyar’s house. The members fill the yard every evening and kick the door so hard it breaks. Is that what’s called a protest? Such a violent and sudden action? It’s true they’re very sensitive. Sure, they’d like there to be more talk about themselves, about their achievements and our organization. That’s true. But how can we possibly explain our special status to journalists? Of course there are difficulties; things aren’t easy. We hosted the World Championships, and we came out champions, you know. But when we had to go abroad, we weren’t able to: we weren’t given passports. Yes, there are certainly difficulties. But we don’t have to kick up a rumpus about them, to give ammunition to the slanderers. It’s no good journalists getting all excited to land a punch. I told them right from the start: don’t get so worked up, think carefully about what you write if you want it to be published. That’s what I told them, without going into details. Our special status, the special attention we receive, our duties, an exemplary model! I warned them. Not a word. And it’s proved true. Nothing of what they wrote has been published! Not a word. But those unpublished articles have done a lot of harm to us on the executive bureau. Comrade Orest was summoned to Party headquarters and given a talking-to. And since then we’ve had one meeting after another, so that we can’t think straight anymore.”

Dominic Vancea was listening too attentively, and the Executive Secretary of the Association was watching his nonexistent reactions. She looked him straight in the eye, he looked her straight in the eye; she passed her small hand across her forehead, tired at the effort of explaining, while he suddenly rubbed his eyebrows like a madman. What could have happened for that strange gentleman to rub his eyebrows with both hands?

“I only wanted to trouble you for a few—”

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. It’s two already and I’ve got to be back by three. Some comrades are coming with instructions for us; there’s going to be a new and urgent operation, which has to be launched at every level of the Association. The Code of Socialist Ethics and Justice has to be debated in every branch and every cell— in every organization, with every member, at every level.”

“Debate the code? But the members are—” the journalist who was not a journalist found himself imprudently muttering. “In fact, actually—” The detective quickly tried to correct himself. “Actually, you know, I only came here to—”

“I’m sorry, I’m late as it is,” the comrade repeated in irritation as she stood up. “Go and see Comrade Ionel; tell him I sent you. Comrade Ionel — the editor. Go down the corridor, turn left, and go out into the yard. Go through a door with a little green curtain. That’s where Comrade Ionel is: he does the paper. He’ll give you a few copies. The paper will give you an idea of our activities. It’s a special paper: it’s not sold in kiosks, and it’s only for members. So, into the yard, where there’s a small office with Comrade Ionel, the editor, and Mrs. Irina, who does the dummies. As soon as you go down — a door with a little green curtain. Comrade Ionel is an old hand here. He knows everything: he’ll fill you in.”

She had already put on her worn brown overcoat, already donned her woolen hat.

“You’ve got to have nerves of steel, you know. Our work’s not easy, not easy at all, and our status, our aims, our— Yes, Comrade Ionel will tell you everything. I’ve got to rush. I’ll hardly have time to give my daughter something to eat. Then back at three for the drilling session.”

She threw her enormous bag over her shoulder, pulled straight her crumpled green scarf, and scuttled away. Yes, the Comrade Executive had scuttled away.

Detective Vancea went into the main room, greeted Daddy Iopo with a smile, then went down the corridor and turned left into the yard.

He stopped in front of the door whose window was covered with a little green curtain. He went through into a small dark room with two desks. A lightbulb was glowing in the ceiling. Editor Ionel was pale, huddled, speckled with paper.

“I was talking to Comrade Popescu. She sent me to ask you …”

“Popescu is the president: Comrade Orest Popescu is the president. The Comrade Executive is called Boca. Well, tell me what it’s about.”

“I believe you have here a list of all the members.”

“I don’t deal with the records. Of course there are proper records. We have files for every member. Tens of thousands of files — a special archive. It can’t be looked at. Only people with special authorization have access to it. But if Comrade Boca sent you — well. If the Comrade Executive approved it, then go along to the archive. In the Cadre Department. That’s where the archive is, too. There are files for everyone. Thousands of files, all in perfect order. You’ll find whatever you’re looking for.”

Detective Vancea did not want to give up Comrade Ionel; he was his only chance.

“I’m looking for one in particular. He must be around sixty years old. A photographer. He used to be a photographer. I’ve heard he worked as a photographer: maybe he still does. Octavian. An old acquaintance. Octavian, yes, that’s certainly his first name. But I don’t remember his surname. Gu a, Du a, Vu a, P pu a — I’m not exactly sure. But it’s certainly Octavian. If you have a listing by occupation …”