Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

Light as a feather, the detective slipped back to the room and shut the door behind him. At some point Tereza knocked timidly on the door. She was lively again, normal and alert. The bitch had well and truly come back to life. With each hour she seemed to become again what she had never been. Lips continually vibrating, eyes large and painted, rejuvenated.

“How about a snack? You must be starving,” and she smiled.

“No, absolutely not. But if you want to go home, we can leave anytime. I’ve finished, in fact.”

“Don’t worry. I can also sleep here. There’s no problem. I see these files interest you. You find them interesting.”

A protective, passive smile. She looked at her guest’s untouched sandwich and the cup of tea and went out.

It was late when Tolea came out of the room. He bowed to the hostess, without even looking at her, and suddenly found himself at the staircase. As he was about to put his foot on the first step, he heard that roaring, that hoarse, smothered bark. But no, he did not turn back. In three bounds he was in the street, quickening his pace and not looking back for a moment at the Saturday which had disappeared, with its dogs Tavi and Tereza. He started and tensed up. Then a jump, a leap, right into the belly of the idle, obese Sunday. To lie there wilted, without hearing the least little thing. To put himself at the mercy of absence. At some point perhaps a spark will flash from the torpor. A new idea, a fresh trick. No, it’s not the end, my dear lady! We won’t give in, Frau Theresienstadt! Not at all: it is only a passing defeat. We won’t allow ourselves to be replaced just like that. No, we’ll start the idyll again, dear lady. Very soon. Yesterday’s story will become tomorrow’s. Very soon.

Yes, the siege had to be resumed; he would find the strength. More ingenious, more persistent, more demented, he would find the strength. Dear, sweet little lady, look what happened to me yesterday on the train to Barcelona. A freezing cold night. Dirty, unheated train as in our country, a refrigerated wagon. I don’t know if you’ve ever been through such situations, when we become wild beasts capable of anything. Well, in that wretched train stinking of toilets, I was sitting hunched up like some animal when suddenly I saw approaching — guess who? Or a year ago in Marrakesh, at an extra deluxe hotel with extra costly comforts, the same lean foreigner leading a trained rat on a leash. A rat dressed by the most expensive London tailor, perfectly styled and trained, ready to attack. There, in that miraculous twilight— Or a week ago in Copenhagen, at the Hotel Copenhagen, in that enormous line. Huddled, weary, frightened people, as in our country, an enormous line for some wretched little sweets. I go up to a young woman, a student, who was at the end of the line; I ask her what it is about. And what do you think, she asks for proof of my identity. Proof of my identity! To unbutton my trousers, is that what the nasty piece of work wanted? For me to show her my identity? Imagine the outrage, madam, the sex offense. That’s the younger generation for you. To show her my — imagine, I was rooted to the spot. Like the war years, really! Like in Budapest — the Hungarian Fascist platoon, made up only of deaf-mutes, would stop men in the street and force them to drop their trousers and show whether or not their identity pointed toward the crematorium.

Ah, Madam Venerica won’t be able to take stories like that! And if she does, we’ll renew the assault. Oh dear, my respected lady, my beloved oracle, look what happened to me on Wednesday in the Place de la Concorde, just as I was returning from the demonstration of comrade veterans. Yes, I was still under the impression of our Great Jabberer and his never-ending speech. All of a sudden, what do you think, I hear from every megaphone the announcement: To all those with the mark in the corner of their eyebrow. Then the correction: To people from the special intelligence and monitoring services. So the poor things won’t be allowed to wink anymore! What injustice, what violation, what terror! As you so rightly said, we must be what we are. . Different, you said, yes, yes. A real scandal! Well, my precious lady friend, you won’t believe it, but I suddenly thought of Tavi, the dog, his colleagues from the Association. Are they without the privilege of this caste sign, without the wrinkle by the eyebrow? That’s what I want to ask. Is the burden not perhaps even crueler? The seriousness, I mean, the deaf-mute discipline. Our byzantine tricks, our happy leper hospital are more human, no? Victim? What victim? Arson attacks against the apartment where you shelter dissident dogs and cats? How could they think you were a foreigner? A chosen foreigner from the chosen people? What victim, my little puppet, what victim, what crematoria? What attack, old woman? Mere entertainment, that’s all. Murderous boredom, just boredom. What’s there to be done, meine Liebe. Boredom, that’s what it is. Nothing else, believe me. Just yesterday I was talking to the Japanese ambassador about indifference. We were next to each other at the roulette table in Monte Carlo when I repeated to him—

Eh, Madonna Venerica will give way, she won’t stand up to the avalanche. She’ll want to escape, to hear no more; she’ll give way and throw it all out. She’ll quit the silence and the learned dissertations and the collection of photographs. She’ll put her finger on the wound — Madam Tereza, at last! She’ll betray, yes, yes, she won’t be able to control her fury at the werewolf who ran off with his chosen cripple, in the legend, in the fairy tale. She’ll reveal all the stratagems, every last one. Anatol Dominic Vancea Voinov struggled hard enough not to rush off on Sunday to the house of the Tavi phantom, or to telephone all day on Monday. But on Tuesday he again set out on the magnetic route. Mr. Dominic is standing in his black work clothes at the Rond tram stop, supporting himself on his black umbrella. Tram 23 arrives: he gets on, finds a seat, and sits down. He sees no one: the car is empty, no one sees anyone. Everyone stewing in his own juice, fuddled, sleepy, enervated by boredom. No one could say, dear lady, that they saw the character. All the same, someone has to make the effort to rise from the dead, to have a good time, to liven the film up! So I got on the stinking ship at Rond. Crowded as always: no room inside. And well, in front of me is — a real gentleman. The elongated figure of a South American. Tavi all over. I gripped the rail by the steps and caught sight of him from time to time, in fragments, through the bags and arms and heads of the other passengers. Then I get off and catch the bus. I wait nicely and — can you believe it? — get on the near-empty bus and am about to sit down — imagine, there were free seats — I punch my ticket and am about to sit down, no one sees anyone, and well, in front of me is the purebred canine profile. Maybe he was waiting for the bus, too, at the Izvor stop and I didn’t notice him. What do you think he was doing, this distinguished exemplar of my past and yours? The same as in the tram, believe it or not. The other passengers didn’t notice. They are tired, worn out with boredom, fear, and the daily ruses of survival. If they can find somewhere to sit, they no longer care about anything — deaf blind mute, let the deluge come. A place to sit down, that’s the trophy they covet, believe me. So we were passing the abattoir, with that cloud of stinking air, and everyone was pulling their collar tight, not that they could have cared less about the dogs and cats and other dissidents dying at that very moment in the crematoria. They buried their head in a handkerchief, coughed, and sneezed, but they couldn’t have cared less. So then, that remarkable gentleman, with his perfectly upright posture, his fine elongated features, fanatical eyes not far apart, a nose spread out as on a duck. What do you think that luxury model was doing? Well, he was picking his nose! Can you imagine? He had been doing the same in the tram, caught up in the delicate operation. It’s not clear whether he got off with me or carried on farther. I didn’t have the strength to turn around and find him once more behind me. A sleek, glossy, thoroughbred greyhound, calmly picking his nose, but watching me. I stopped close to the Scampolo store, the one that’s always shut for stock-taking, you must know it. I looked in the window and—