Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

The woman was still holding the door handle. Tolea had settled down comfortably on the stool. The black dingo dog had stretched out his neck a long way, so that his head touched the tip of Tolea’s yellow shoe.

“Tavi. Easy, boy!”

Tavi withdrew his black snout from the yellow snout, but he remained alert and on guard. Auntie Venera had a pleasant, very pleasant voice. I hadn’t even noticed, or else I’d forgotten. Yes, quite simply Tolea had forgotten, had started speaking, he didn’t notice. Venera did indeed have a pleasant timbre to her voice. Not fragrant, no, you wouldn’t say that. He had baptized her Venera. From the first moment, before hearing the name he could not make out. So it was Venera that came to him, in a sudden flight of fancy.

“May I continue, then, madam. You see, I have the memory of a hippopotamus. So with that holiday trip of mine to Cordoba, or whatever it’s called. I always change the place I go to for a rest; I crave novelty, always look for new things to happen. I haven’t got the patience to stay put somewhere, as the Association, the A-sso-si-ayshun, requires of us. Yes, it doesn’t even let us move house from one place to another, or even to travel around in other parts.”

“Tavi. Quiet, boy.”

Tavi withdrew his long red tongue from the yellow top of the shoe. But he remained alert, vigilant. Eyes like red-hot coals. Venera was holding the door handle: she seemed calm and had a pleasant voice.

“So I finally got to the scales. The sweet girl with chestnut hair asked me how much. Four kilograms, I said. She started putting them in my bag. What do I need four kilos for? No idea. But that’s what I’m like, easily influenced. Goo-ood. People were muttering behind me; the rumpus had flared up again. As I was saying, madam, the girl had already weighed out my bagful. Goo-ood. But then I got involved, I said something myself. I put my own oar in. Everyone is right. That’s what I said: Everyone is right. Those girls aren’t to blame if they give out two kilos or six or nine. It doesn’t matter, because it will still come to an end. And it’s not their fault: it’s someone else’s, and I know whose. The only one who’s not right is the big guy himself, the Great Associate. Everyone else is in the clear. Everyone is right. The only one who isn’t is you know who. What did I get involved for? And I didn’t even need the oranges. I ask you: what would I have needed them for?”

Tolea again pointed to the two bags with headless chickens. He unknotted the dark-red scarf around his neck. A tired toreador.

Madam Venera, holding the door handle in fear, had become downhearted, bewildered, drained of energy.

“Just look at me, chattering away like this. In fact, dear lady, I came to see my friend Cu a. Tavi Cu a, I mean. There’s something I need to discuss with him.”

The dog started, didn’t start. Impossible to say. But the little old woman released her grip on the door handle and wiped her sweaty palms on the hem of her blue work coat.

“I told you, Mr. and Mrs. Cu a are not at home. I just call around here three times a week, to keep an eye on the house. They left Tavi for me to look after. There’s been some trouble with my own apartment and I don’t like to stay home. Since spring and all this madness, I’ve been staying here. I’m hiding here until they come back. During the day at least.”

Her voice was calm, warm, fragrant, and Venera ran her plump hand over the shiny neck of watchdog Tavi.

She was now looking in a more relaxed way at the talkative and polite guest: she had no reason to be afraid of him, no, the fear had passed. He seemed a courteous and likable person, even if rather odd with those topsy-turvy and excessively long stories of his.

Likable, however, and Venera eventually opened wide the dining-room door as a token of goodwill.

Being a well-mannered boy, Tolea accepted the invitation, went in, and sat down.

He came back on Tuesday, came back on Thursday. The calendar was turned upside down: Wednesday and Friday disappeared, and Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday came to power. He stayed as long as he could, until Venera had to return home, to the apartment in which recent memories appeared to terrorize her.

He accompanied her to the taxi, where they parted with some difficulty. Venera came, went, and came again by taxi to the Cu a family home, three times a week. It would have been hard with Tavi on trams and trolleybuses.

The dog Tavi remained fierce and silent. He showed neither aversion nor cordiality in relation to the new visitor.

About the other Tavi they discussed at length.

“You know, my dear lady, the story goes back a long way. I was a schoolboy then. Mr. Cu a was a friend of my brother’s. Also of my sister’s, in fact. As far as I remember, Mr. Cu a was then — how shall I put it? — without any defects. Normal, I mean.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” said the velvety voice of Mrs. Venera.

She had just put the tray and coffees on the round dining-room table. Professor Anatol Dominic Vancea Voinov had made an intelligent calculation, from the very first moment. These days you can hardly trust anyone. Even old friends are not likely to be the same as they used to be. If they’ve survived, it means that something’s wrong somewhere, so you can never know who when whether and how much: general distrust. Normality depends on adaptation, therefore also on adaptation to the abnormal. So the inverted criteria actually rule out any clarification. The Hotel Tranzit receptionist had therefore proceeded in the perfect manner. If you can never trust anyone, anyway, then it’s best if all the doors are open at the beginning, as among people who have known one another since the world began. On this hospitable table with its steaming coffee, there is also room for our impenetrable soul, for our codified, burlesque life story.

“Lots of terrible things happened then. Our family went through difficult trials. Then my brother left for Argentina. My sister, too, left around the end of the war, and also for distant lands, since she had fallen in love with a missionary full of great promises. I stayed with Mother, which wasn’t easy. I heard no more of Mr. Tavi for a long time. But I know he had a shock as well in that period. I heard then that—”

“Yes, yes, I understand” came the encouraging words from Venera, who was arranging some little cakes on the table.

“Now my sister-in-law, the German, has written to me. She also sent me some money. They used to send other things as well, from time to time. Especially at holiday time: clothes, delicacies to eat, various trifles. She says my brother has gone potty. I mean senile. Or not quite: she doesn’t put it like that. Immobile. Maybe concussion. God knows. His mind is drifting into nostalgia. That’s what she says.”

Mrs. Venera had shuddered, as if with irritation. But she eventually sat down opposite the narrator, to listen to what he was saying.

“Yes, yes, I understand. Help yourself.”

Mr. Vancea was sitting relaxed in the armchair. He loosened the scarf at his neck and undid another button on the collar of his black shirt. He had come straight from work and was feeling rather hot.

He sipped at the sweet strong coffee. Another sip. He had lifted the tiny cup from the tiny golden plate. Another long sip, and that was it, no more coffee.