Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

“The genius has found the solution! He’s found the subterfuge, the dearie, the vile old dog! Huge potential that could even re-create the world! Just think — think of him and us all. And of the poor amputees, who represent us so well. What reaches us from them are just rare signs of urgency. They can drive us out of our mind, Professor. Even our minds can wake up to life — even our minds wearied by so much sleep, so much coding and deviousness and restriction. This envenomed restriction, this idle, ongoing compression, treacherous and going on and on.”

The long lecture could have been made much longer, suggested the mathematician’s calm and inexpressive face. But she had raised both hands in a gesture of helplessness. Pleading tiredness, she announced that she was calling it off, as if what remained unsaid was actually much more important, but there was no point, she was giving up in resignation. Pause. Silence.

The watch on the professor’s wrist was evenly rippling along. Vancea made a quick movement of his leg and looked at the electronic display. 1:00:2, 1:00:3, 1:00:5.

“Ah, let me give you something to eat. How the time has flown. I made some lunch. Let me go and heat it up.”

Behold, the domestic servant was reborn. After a moment we shall rub our eyes; it’ll be as if we have never heard the fine-spun dissertation. It was only a vision: we are in front of the same silent housewife as always. We can only gaze endlessly upon the pale, drooping vegetable who dozes before us.

A long long pause. The professor had several times repeated the gesture of refusal: he had no wish to eat. But the woman did not see it, and in fact she was not intending to get up and bring lunch as she had announced.

When her voice returned, it was no more than a whisper — a whisper shyly resumed, again and again. The professor did not understand what she was saying, nor did he stir at all. Mrs. Venera made a final effort and raised her voice. “Let me show you his work. I’ve decided to show it to you.”

Supporting herself on the sideboard where the tray and coffee cups had remained, she took a few reeling steps. She seemed to stagger dizzily, limping, shaking with emotion, or whatever it was. For a few moments she circled aimlessly around the armchair.

“Come, let me show you his work. Come on.”

The voice had recovered its vibrancy, its heat. Tottering to her left, she advanced cautiously toward the door at the back of the dining room. They passed through a short, bare vestibule, where the guide opened another door.

“This is where they sleep.”

A white room, with a double bed. A thick woolen blanket, also white. A white bedside table on both left and right. By the window a little round white table. A white stool. On the wall a round mirror in a white frame.

They were already in front of the other door.

“This is Tavi’s darkroom. We won’t go in. It’s a simple room. Cameras, films, canisters.”

She was holding the handle of the door, which had a glass square covered in black cloth. She moved away and stopped at the end of the vestibule. She opened the door on the right.

“This is Tavi’s study.”

A desk, a chair, a worn sofa. Shelves filled to the ceiling with thick files in every color.

“People say he’s got rich. Not a bit of it. This is all he’s got: a reasonable apartment. A place of refuge, that’s all. His fortune is here, in this room. This is where he’s collected his work. And it’s some work, as you’ll see. He took a copy of it with him. God knows how, but he managed to take a copy with him. He must have found someone’s wallet to line for that. To show a copy to his relatives. How about that! His wife’s relatives! Victims given shelter in the land of the butcher, what do you say?! Do you like your relatives, eh? Well, he’s gone to his wife’s relatives, that’s what the dumbo said. Just so long as his mind doesn’t wander too much. . in search of his lover, to impress her with the tragedy of his life and with the gloom of his work! Stupid, crazy — that he isn’t. Did he perhaps take a copy for the scandal merchants? For the Freedom Circus? So it would make him famous, make him a hero? Our dumbo a dissident, a martyr? Paid handsomely — until the furor passed? To be bled white of confessions and be taught some of their tricks and dodges and striptease and idiotic arrogance? I just hope the cranky old dunce hasn’t gone completely senile. Did Old Nick warn him that the day of reckoning is close at hand, that he’s got to get a move on! The hypocrite, the scorpion, the poor innocent! My dotty turtledove, the jackal. The dirty dog didn’t want to tell the truth: who knows where he’s gone off to with Goddess Silentium? Who knows where the turtledoves have got to? To the Sleeping Forest, the Black Forest, the Silver Forest of Money, the poor things.”

The professor started, with his eyes bulging. Disgust and bitterness continued to ooze from the fragrant voice of gentle Mrs. Venera. The professor had remained on the threshold of the sanctuary. Detective Vancea kept his hand on the strap of his plastic bag: he did not have the courage to violate the sanctuary.

“Come in, Mr. Vancea, come in. It’s worth whiling away a few hours with a stranger’s work. The werewolf — a man with a soul, you’ll discover for yourself. You’ll see what truth’s precision and surprises mean. The very depths of futility, that’s what you’ll see. And without any words. An epic, Mr. Vancea! Homer — you’ll see! Homer without words, without the help of words. Come in, come in. It’s worth it, believe me.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. .”

Mr. Vancea looked at the shelves, at the desk. He sat on the edge of the sofa.

Mrs. Venera watched him sternly, waited a few moments, and then left the room. The professor was alone with the treasure. At five o’clock Mrs. Venera brought him tea and sandwiches.

“Maybe you’d like the lunch I made. You must be starving.”

“Yes, no, I understand,” he whimpered confusedly.

At seven o’clock the hostess timidly knocked on the door again and suggested a snack.

“No, absolutely not. But maybe you want to leave, to go home. I’ve more or less finished. We can leave if you like.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it: I can also sleep here. I see these files interest you.”

She looked at him with an ironic, condescending smile, then at the untouched sandwich tray and the cup of tea. She went out again.

At eleven o’clock in the evening Professor Vancea came out of the room, with his bag over his shoulder.

“We’ll get a taxi, my dear lady. It’s late. I’ll see you home.”

Mrs. Venera was reading a French book. An old, thick cover, with a title in slanting letters that was hard to make out. A teacher of French — or mathematics — who knows. It was a long time before she raised her eyes from the book.

She stared hard into his eyes. Then she looked suspiciously at the bag on the professor’s shoulder.

“We could get a taxi. I’ll see you home and then go home myself. It’s late.”

“You can leave, Professor, don’t worry. I’ll stay and sleep here.”

Vancea bowed as he went out. As he was putting his foot on the first step of the staircase, he heard a roaring sound behind the door, then another. After a few moments of silence, again a crescendo. Smothered barks, like a deep-seated cough. The growling of sullen Tavi did not cease, but it remained at the same reduced level. A hoarse, choking, smoldering fury.

Should he go back or shouldn’t he? Who knows what’s happening between the bizarre couple.

He gave up the idea of any further initiative and quickly went down into the street. On Sunday he stayed shut up indoors. He unplugged the telephone and did not answer when Mr. Gafton timidly knocked on the door, probably concerned that he had not heard his neighbor moving about.