Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

“Yes, yes, thank you, Ortansa. Be a dear and bring us another chair. Let me introduce a friend of mine, Professor Vancea. My assistant, Ortansa Teodosiu.”

The dear went out, returned with a chair from the lobby, and put it by the door where the previous one had been.

“Show in Dumitrache Grigore.”

Ortansa left and a short, stocky man came in. Big sweaty face, grayish curly hair. He sat on the chair obediently, with his hands on his knees.

“So, you’ve appealed against the disability grading we put you under. Instead of category three you are asking to be one — or even zero.”

Marga looked sideways at Dr. Florin, who handed him a thick file.

“Mmm, yes, here are the results of the tests: EKG, X-rays. So, apart from the little bats in the belfry, you’ve got an ulcer, pain in your kidneys, and spleen. Yes, I see. I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do. Really.”

The sick man looked humbly at the court, at the spy without a smock. He had made a snap decision. The stranger was the most important person there. Some inspector, or some kind of supervisor — one of those with power.

He stood up and moved toward Tolea. Then he undid the buttons on his fly and waist, until he was left in large underpants with a thick wide bandage as a belt. He untied the bandage and tried to gain Tolea’s attention.

“They operated on me two months ago. But it’s started running again. Or opening, or tearing open, or however you’d describe it.”

“Yes, well — I can’t do anything for you,” Marga interrupted. “We put you in category two, but the inspectors came and said your diagnosis only fits into category three. That’s it. There’s nothing we can do.”

“I’m an engine driver, a driver’s companion. Moving around for ten, sometimes fourteen hours a day. I can’t go on. But at our yard they won’t agree to anything shorter,” the patient went on explaining to Inspector Tolea.

“Well then, let’s put here: Must not perform lengthy physical effort or travel out in the field. Is that okay?” Marga brightened up.

“They wouldn’t take me back at my old job after I got ill. Then you reclassed me from two or three, and I had to get back in somewhere. I asked my brother-in-law to find me something. But it’s hard with the illness, very hard. I’ve still got two years to go before I retire.”

“Only the Institute for Manpower Recovery could authorize us to put you back in category two. Go and see them. Give it a try. Look, I’ll give you a letter of recommendation. You’ll find them there until three o’clock.”

Marga wrote something on a sheet of paper. The patient did up his trousers and took the letter.

“Next. B˘adulescu Coman.”

A wan, shrunken old man. White hair parted down the middle, as in photos from the beginning of the century.

“How old are you?”

“Fifty-three.”

He looked eighty: it was only just possible to make out his whispered words. He had perched on the edge of the chair and was looking at the floor.

“Mmm, yes. Tuberculosis, hepatitis,” murmured Marga. “Bad EKG, signs of deterioration. How much do you weigh and how tall are you?”

“Forty-four kilos. One meter sixty-six,” he whispered sluggishly.

“What work did you do?”

“Hairdresser.”

“Okay. Wait outside.”

The old man left the room holding on to the wall. Marga was hopping with irritation in his chair.

“What are we going to do with this poor wretch? He’s completely washed out. Can hardly stand on his feet.”

“Well, a hairdresser — it’s not quite so bad. He might—” put in Marga’s colleague, as he lit a long, gold-colored cigarette.

“What might he do, Florin? Didn’t you see? He smells of death. We’ll put him in category two and send him for a neurological examination. Do you agree?”

“I agree” came the smoke from Dr. Florin.

“Show in Costache Viorica,” little Marga read out from his files.

Silence. Marga raised his head: his glasses turned to left and right.

“Ah, I forgot. Ortansa isn’t here.”

Dominic made as if to get up and play the usher, but Marga beat him to it. Before he could reach the door, however, it noisily banged against the wall. The room was invaded by a disheveled, elegant, garishly painted giant of a woman. She was waving about in a threatening manner her big black shiny handbag.

“What do you intend doing about my case? Another eight years of waiting? Eight years of chasing from one office to the next? Do you think I’m going to put up with another eight years? Is that really what you think, you bunch of eunuchs? More of the abuse you subject me to — more of your lies, disrespect, and ill breeding, you whoremongers? How much longer, you pimps, tell me how much longer.”

The thick, powerful voice had still not peaked.

“What’s your name?” ventured Marga dryly, leaning across the table to pull Florin’s golden pack toward him. He took out a cigarette and lit it with a long mauve lighter that he had whipped from a pocket in his smock. Florin remained bent over the tailor’s index card.

“Lawyer Olga Orleanu Buz˘au! I want a clear answer. None of your cock-and-bull stories. I’m not one of those you sweep up off the streets. I won’t lick your paws, and not your cock either, I’m telling you. A clear answer. What am I supposed to do? That’s all I want: to be given the right information. Where to go, who to ask.”

“We don’t have your file here. You’ll have to inquire at the office, madam,” the chivalrous Dr. Florin Dinu chimed in melodiously.

“What office? What are you talking about? For eight years you’ve been chasing me from one office to another. So he can have time for whores. Yes, he’s been up to all kinds of debauchery, and you haven’t done a thing. I picked him up off the streets and gave him the name of my ancestors, a name as old as our beloved fatherland. A name no one can touch! And lawyer Demostene Orleanu Buz˘au is off cruising around all the sewers. His head goes fuzzy as soon as he sees a hole — that’s Screwy Spunky Buz˘au, I’m telling you. And you haven’t done a thing. I’ll report you to the Secretary General of the Party, you bunch of saboteurs. How right the Comrade was to ban abortion and divorce and venereal diseases. All you think about is fucking, you gang of cripples; you couldn’t give a shit about our good hardworking people. You’ve ruined my personality, that’s what you’ve done. You male-chauvinist degenerates! You’ve soiled me and degraded me, for eight long years. I’ll tell the Secretary General of the Party, you’ll see! So you’ll have to account for your anti-socialist morality and justice. I’ll tell our Party and state authorities. So they’ll declare a general disaster, you bunch of microbes! You won’t get away with it, I’m telling you. I’ll go to the highest court in the land.”

“Get out! Out!” screamed little Marga, leaping up together with his chair.

Somehow or other angel Ortansa had appeared, and she gently but firmly pushed the madwoman toward the door.

A moment of silence. Calm Florin muttered into his cigarette end: Well now. .

“You want to have a dialogue with that one, do you, Florin? To get involved in all that?” said Goody-Goody as he mopped the perspiration from his forehead and his steamy glasses. “She’s a wellknown paranoiac. Every two or three weeks she goes for a stroll around town and drops in on us to play that number. Do you want to start telling her about files and offices?”

Nurse Ortansa Teodosiu went out. The next candidate was already standing in the door: Costache Viorica. Big eyes, elongated face, young and pale, hair going white at the temples.

“You are appealing against category three. But the diagnosis doesn’t allow for anything else. What work do you do?”