Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

Toma was no longer there. Just as he was preparing to shout “No, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want,” there was already someone else in front of him.

“You — you are the devil, you are our salvation. You, adored one, cannibal, rare mountain flower, scumbag …”

Emilia smiled, as if she had not heard the whispering. Emilia smiled and was close by; you had only to stretch out your hand. Close, close, as he had always wished. Finally, just here, with no witnesses. A spark would be enough, and then at last revenge would be had for the sick expectation. At last he was just one step away from the unlikely moment. Should he tell her something else, anything? The thoughts are different, dulcissima , just listen to my crazy pulse, booming like the jungle tom-tom, the wild racing of the blood thudding in honor of the beloved!

Emilia either did not hear or heard something different: she continued to smile indulgently. “You — you are the devil! Your indifference and your happiness, both unquenchable … You overripe nymph, mare in heat. Perfect, like the forbidden fruit. Elemental, insatiable. As simple as light and death. You, venerated scumbag, desired by all.”

The professor had bent under the weight, overwhelmed by the words unsaid. He was sweating, driven mad by the miracle of the moment that would fade and die. “Emotion — that’s all I am. Raging emotion, sorella . Emotion is ruining me. It’s driving me wild, wiping me out, amantissima. ”

And he no longer had the courage to look up. Toma, the waged spy, had disappeared, as had Irina, with her perverse adolescent headaches, and Tolea flying through the air without handlebars, and old Marga and the retired Gafton couple, and the Argentinian Mircea Claudiu with his glassy Astrid, and the subterranean Octavian Cu a, known as Tavi, photographer of the deaf-mutes — all of them. All.

“Why are you laughing? There is no escape, is there? There’s no point in making the play more complicated, is there? You’re laughing at our fearful caution. Is there nothing other than the arrogance of the pleasure in which you gleam? Only the plenitude of this oblivion in which the avid harlot, Death, roars with satisfaction? The elixir of oblivion, you, your phosphorescent legs, your lips and breasts and cosmic sex, and those big, ingenuous, primordial eyes. You, dulcissima, the planetary whore.”

The thoughts slowed down as the author curled up with fatigue. His pate still seemed to be glowing. The light slowly increased, a sick vibration, but his thoughts grew weaker, diluted, disconnected.

Emilia was seated at an austere desk, elbows resting on the glossy wood, young hair fluttering here and there. Those unforgettable angular cheeks, those eyes, ah yes, those eyes … He looked down, humbled by so many tottering thoughts, ashamed at the unexpected neglect, disarmed. “Are you wisdom? Without character, without restraint? Just the purity of sudden feeling? How much I longed for the meeting, the miracle, at last! The plenitude of sensation, of the joy of the moment, that’s all. Nothing else: the plenitude of oblivion. But he, the dangerous Ianuli, he the failure? But what about Comrade Ianuli?”

She did not hear him: the low moaning sound did not reach her; the gods protected her from such wretched jamming. Sublime, perfect, she was deaf to such whining. Deaf; deaf as a radish!

The sleeper smiled guiltily at the feeble simile. But he was happy that it had not been heard.

Emilia went on smiling. The expression on her face seemed to be changing all the time. Subtle variations of line, imperceptible migrations of color. He had seen her so many times and heard so much about her fabulous appearance, but her voice, no, that he had never heard.

Emilia had stood up in front of the desk. Supporting herself on one elbow, she jumped up and sat with legs crossed on the desk. He recognized her: yes, it was she, wearing jeans, as young girls do, with that usual see-through blouse which seemed not to be there at all.

She looked at him, let herself be looked at. Close by, a step away, within reach. She had it in mind to speak — or so it seemed. That deep voice which people described as coming from the depths, burning the air and words.

“You’re like me, sweetheart. I mean, you were, you should have been. You didn’t have the strength, weren’t courageous enough. You could have — you wanted to, admit it. You had no idea how much strength and how much courage you would need in that tight corner. You desired me, but not enough. Although you did often desire me passionately, like a child. Why why why didn’t you persevere? Champagne, dancers’ thighs, dirty jokes — you really could have been the songwriter for a cabaret! The ladies, including young ones, spoiled and pampered you. You certainly had the good looks. Both fickle and sharp. Talent? Only I have talent. But you found something that gave an appearance of it. Songwriter at the Cabaret Levcenco! Or the Cabaret atomica or the pussy Club. A king, a real giant! Like me, the giantess …”

It did not sound like a joke. Why why why. The giantess had cut through the air with her gigantic legs. And what if what if. Suddenly the sleepwalker sensed the falseness, the dissonance. No, it hadn’t been the giantess’s voice. A kind of dubious post-synch. Why why why why. The movement of those delicate, devilish lips, the luster of shiny teeth perfectly smooth like bullets. The voice: what why if. It wasn’t her voice, it couldn’t be!

You were like me; you could have been. When you still had the choice, you could have been like me, Professor. You would have had the talent. But you couldn’t. In a corner now, deformed. You’re right: you do deserve a little reward, a little inadvertence, I know. I’ll pay you back. You will have the moment, a breath of air, that’s all. A fake, at hand. Our journey is short: you deserve this little piece of guile, a sweet mockery, oho …”

She must have wanted to laugh, but her giant’s laughter did not start up: it couldn’t. And the voice was borrowed. It was his voice, actually his! What a devilish swindle! It’s hard to recognize your own voice, why why why. He did see her gigantic, tender figure coming toward him again. With a short jump she was down from the desk and standing on her feet. Whole, whole, at last … With those long legs and that rough head of hair carefully smoothed at the temples. She joined her slim, delicate hands, as if to ask forgiveness or simply to reassure him in preparation for happiness, so he could receive the young light of her eyes as it kept drawing nearer.

She moved toward him, but somehow the contact was lost. He perceived her floating motion, her smiling face, but her approach was delayed and became blurred. There would have been no point in holding out his hands: he had felt the break, the interruption. The shadows were reborn around him, teeming again in a viscous, rustling expectation.

It was as if a signal had been given. Was it the telephone, the doorbell, or the alarm clock? Neighbors, the postman, or the block manager? So it was back to the beginning again — the voice from the other day.

Only a step separated them, but he had lost the giantess, he knew. There’s no more to be done; the day was dragging him toward her rugged haven. He recovered his senses: there was no longer any escape.

“Our collaborator,” that was how Toma had presented her. He’ll find her again, then. He’ll find them all again: he just has to pay attention, to recognize them in time, so that he can make an approach to them.

He smiled, ready for the new meeting. Oho, the poor apprentices of reality — they deserved his naïve participation, his uncertain share.