Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

She turned the page: the cheap paper nearly crumbled; the ink was already dirtying her fingers.

“The title of the Association’s best locksmith. Homage to the beloved leader. The celebration of labor. The photographer emeritus of the Association. The training of members in the spirit of socialist ethics and justice.” She moved on to the next page. “Two decades since the Ninth Congress. Professionalism and integration of the disabled into production.” And on and on. “Relations of friendship and cooperation with similar associations in other countries. Football championship at the Association of the Disabled. The spirit of socialist ethics and justice. The struggle for peace and the broadening of external relations. The testing of defective pupils. Demands of the socialist economy. The protection of labor. Photographic exhibition at the Association’s Jubilee. Integration of the disabled into production. Homage to the beloved leader. .”

A kind of drowsiness took hold of her — torpor, lassitude, a lazy, slothful sourness. She would have liked to put her palms on a holy wall to feel its coolness, to ask: “Are we worse than the rest?” and then to keep waiting for the echo of the empty words. Yes, she would have liked to glue her palms together on a hermitage wall and to pose unanswerable questions. But she woke up to the sound of voices close by.

“A hyena, that’s what she was, bombarding the director with hundreds of demands, screaming at meetings that he was betraying the working class. Jesus, what a demagogue! And then, just two days before the annual holiday, he called her in. He was like a wounded bull. You’re worse than Tunsoiu, he shouted at her. . You don’t know Tunsoiu? She was promoted a long time ago to the ministry. An illiterate, a careerist — she used to send people to do her shopping and asked for little gifts, and she took money from anyone. . And that’s what he shouted at her: You’re worse than Tunsoiu! I helped you, saved your family life, promoted you up the ladder, defended you against complaints, sent you abroad, buried that story with the driver. But you turned your office into a filthy hole, a public toilet, where anyone could throw up when they wanted to. The screaming could be heard out in the corridor.”

Irina crouched motionless over her handbag, as if she had not sensed the young ladies sitting down near her. Nor were they aware of her, so taken up were they in discussing the story.

They did not sound unpleasant. The nearer of the two women seemed to have a wave-like, rippling voice. The one on the other side of the bench had a strong, deep timbre, and Irina imagined her in sweater and jeans.

“So the director shouted: ‘Out! Get out, do you hear?’ After that I think he got scared, too. After all, Bretan does represent the Party. That’s what she presents herself as: the Party. You could say it was very courageous to kick her out. But things could turn out badly; we could really be up the creek.”

Irina slowly stood up and walked away. The little sparrows fell quiet. “Are we worse than the rest?” the void was ready to ask her. Yes, she would have answered, and then she would have said no, not knowing which of the two replies was the sadder, and she would have ended up with a Don’t know harsher than either and recalled the impious games of the ant heap: the production of butter, the riveting of boats, the stitching of uniforms, dancing, speeches, hairpins bicycles wigs records ties trains tins bras guns cards, the inventive competition of human futility.

“Ooh-oo, Irina! Long time no see!”

A man tapped her on the shoulder.

Irina was leafing through a guide to medical plants at a street bookstall. Old cures, seeds and herbs.

He was tall, beardless, and pale. Thick lips, large nose, a spreading bald patch, glasses. A cocoa-colored suit, coffee tie, milk-white face.

“But I don’t remember you wearing glasses then,” she mumbled in confusion.

tefan Olaru, top of his year in the engineering faculty, an ambitious man whose hard work and application won him the first place that should have been someone else’s, but that someone else was too careless and disorganized. So tefan, shortened to the diminutive F nic , had lived first with tiny Laura, for whom lovers still came to blows, then briefly with Nora, and then, surprisingly, had married Salomeea, a lanky maiden who quickly turned out for him a couple of myopic, podgy babies, and whom he then left for a young handball-playing engineer, beautiful, solid, lustful, and after her no one really knew. F nic the vain — industrious and efficient. Who knows, maybe he had managed to turn his qualities to advantage.

That’s right, they had not met since they were quite a bit younger, and she remembered Tolea and the doctor and Gafton and the lunatic who still visited her dreams.

“Still reading?” the man observed with a bored air. “You haven’t changed at all. Isn’t it supposed to be a sign of unhappiness?”

Irina put down the pamphlet she was holding, let him look at her, looked at him attentively.

“Have you got over unhappiness, then?” she asked in turn.

“Not quite! But I stick to the classics. As for the new lot, I can’t make head or tail of them. Life is simpler — much simpler. It asks and gives. A clear code.”

“Has it given to you? You seem content.”

“There you are, you can use the big words, too! It comes from reading. But what does all that mean — content or discontent? After all, we’re intellectuals, aren’t we? Do you want me to complain that I’ve got an ulcer or that I can’t find any meat or cheese or needles? Or that like everyone I’ve spent the winter in an unheated apartment? No lemons or toilet paper, crowded buses? Is that what you want us to talk about? Well, I’m sorry, I won’t stoop so low. You see, intellectuals still haven’t understood that. .”

Irina smiled. She thought F nic had forgotten that a moment earlier he had been speaking in the name of that dishonorable category. But F nic realized at once.

“A contradiction? You think I contradict myself too quickly? Well, there’s no contradiction, you know. The number of educated people has grown enormously here. The peasants and workers have changed, thanks to machines. And what are intellectuals really nowadays? Doctors, engineers, lawyers, teachers, political organizers. Don’t laugh: yes, political organizers today also belong to that category. . So all these are intellectuals! And not the characters who jabber away in cafés. It’s an important new class which regulates the activity of society. So what can I say? I do interesting work, things are nice at home, what else — shall I start whining?”

F nic seemed to move even closer, so as to be more convincing.