Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

The theatergoer still did not move from the window. The cashier ignored him, although she seemed ready to cut him short if he asked anything else. But the customer no longer felt like asking questions, even though he would not move away. “Unlucky, huh! A lost opportunity — unlucky! That’s the national word: unlucky. Huh! We’re always unlucky — no more than that. It’s our character that’s the problem, madam! Nothing to do with being unlucky, monkey-face.”

Or better not: he didn’t have the energy for a rumpus. After all, the evening had been generous enough. Comrade F nic had saved him from indigestion, then offered him an edible version of his life story. Then F nic had greeted the magnificent, planetary passerby. Yes, it had been a hospitable evening, in the Lord’s garden of wonders.

So the former professor kept up his incursions. Whenever he felt tired and depressed, ready to drop the whole project, he went down into the hubbub of the street. Was it the immediacy, the avail-abilities, the fantasy of the real world? The blind alley of reality! Fermented energy, twisted and poisoned, which did not succeed in going public, in exploding — stifled before it reached the kinetic threshold. Was that also what Marcu Vancea had once believed? That nothing would happen, however much the dangers seemed to increase, however much the poverty and hatred and fears intensified — the obese, shameless, insatiable lie towering supremely over everything? Starving people and spies and guards, the gray of apathy without hope? Precisely in this somnolence of despair anything can happen to anyone, Irina said sometime or other. No one escapes the slow poison and no one escapes the blows of fate raining down on those you don’t expect them to.

He saw again the street’s long slim feline shape, and heard around him the wild shouts of the crowd: Whore! Mega-whore! The brief flame of the snake, lasting but a moment, in the toxins of the street.

Suddenly he felt capable of meeting the apparition again, of speaking to Mrs. Ianuli, if that really was her name. By chance he had seen her once in a bookshop. Spectacular, in green silk trousers, as at a fashion parade. Hair tied in a ponytail at the back. She was leafing through a book, next to him, in fact. He looked without seeing her. He felt her close by. A magnetic emission, impossible to avoid. He left quickly, moving away in panic. Then a century had passed. Again twilight, again languor. He opened the window, went down into the street. Hypnotic spring, giddiness, desire, indecision. He went into a café and sat down next to an aging man with a fine white beard and mustache, code name Marcel. He ordered a coffee, although he knew it wouldn’t be coffee that he received.

The revolving door turned merrily. Two phosphorescent women came in laughing, as in a normal world. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Unable to restrain himself, he turned around to the table behind him. The woman in red smiled at him. His hands were trembling: the barley substitute called coffee was giving off its vapors in the cup, which was trembling in his trembling hand.

“It’s painful, sir. Don’t keep turning around like that. Stop looking at her.”

“It’s as if I knew her. But I can’t hear her voice: I’d like to hear her voice. Maybe I’d recognize it.”

The man next to him gave a childish sort of laugh. He passed his rough hand through his white hair, raised a glass with the dishwater called lemonade, and screwed up his nose as he sipped it.

“You know her only too well. The whole country does.”

“What do you mean, the whole country?”

“Quite simple. She once said good night to us all. All of us.”

“Good night? I don’t understand.”

“The fairy who says, Sleep tight. She’s a TV announcer, for God’s sake!”

“It’s not true. I’ve never seen her on television. I know I never switch it on these days, what with all those endless speeches. But I don’t remember. No, I don’t think I’ve seen her.”

“Well, she was on TV for a short time. But that was many years ago. I knew her when she worked at the radio station. Won’t you stop turning around like that! The ladies are making fun of us. You’re acting like a kid! Sit still. Look, I’ll give you all the information, but you must behave properly. This is a select café, and this evening it’s empty as well. We’re making a laughingstock of ourselves.”

“Okay, Comrade Gafton, I promise, I promise. I’ve glued my neck in place. I’m listening, go ahead.”

“She’s a delightful creature, there’s no doubt about that. Generous, cheerful. Full of fun. Simple and sincere. Delicate, I would say. I don’t see why you’re smiling, I really don’t.”

“Too many epithets, my friend. An exaggeration, Mr. Gafton, that’s why I’m smiling. With so many qualities, she isn’t fun anymore. Everyone loses interest.”

“Oh no, they don’t. Don’t you worry about that side of things. The interest is still there, I assure you.”

“So why was such a joy kidnapped from our small screen?”

“As if you didn’t know! The qualities I told you about are not absolutely necessary.”

“But they don’t do any harm either.”

“Maybe they do, when it’s a question of repeating all that nonsense on TV. And anyway, she wasn’t the only propaganda beauty. If we’ve got so many beautiful women, why not share them around. You only have to look in the street, even in the misery of today.”

“I’d sooner you told me how she got into television. Or radio— which is where you met her. And how she left, and why. After all, not just anyone is allowed in anywhere. You have to be proposed and accepted.”

Mr. Gafton smiled and signaled the waiter to bring another glass of the hogwash called lemonade. But the waiter went to the ladies’ table instead, to make up the bill.

Their departure did indeed become visible behind. The round room with mirrors seemed to grow abruptly smaller. A dull evening all of a sudden, like any other.

“Yes, it’s simpler to answer simple questions,” the polite gentleman resumed, straightening the knot of his tie and drawing his chair closer. “Emilia got into radio because of her husband, probably benefiting from his prestige or his contacts. But her own qualities soon made themselves felt.”

“Let’s move on to when her qualities became unnecessary.”

“I don’t know: I wasn’t working at the radio station by then. I know she went to the small screen for a while. A promotion. It was a pleasure to watch her, to hear her, even when the little she-devil read from the jabberer’s speeches. The reasons why she’s no longer there? I only heard later and at fourth hand, so I’m not sure. But it seems a moral pretext was involved. As you know, that’s often been used in recent years. And it works.”

“Do you mind if we stay on this?” ventured the curious questioner.

“I don’t mind, my boy. You’re probably waiting to hear from the old duffer’s mouth what the public prosecutor had to say. You probably think the whole generation of mistakes, as you put it, was made up of bastards. Dreamers who were easy to manipulate — incurable schizoids. Well, listen. Emilia was a real stroke of luck for Comrade Ianuli, believe me. Despite a lot of—”

“I understand, I understand. You’re a poet, Mr. Gafton.”

“Is it true that paradise is flat, my boy? The image of the divinity is flat! It was only the devil who introduced a third dimension! A man like Ianuli represents something profound, just, and noble. Yes, my boy. But Emilia was precisely the missing volute, a boon if ever there was one.”