Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

“Technical drawing.”

“It’s not the hardest of jobs.”

“I get tired quickly. I can’t concentrate.”

“The tests don’t show any change since you were admitted last.”

“I think they show—”

Her face narrowed, her eyes were burning.

“What you think or don’t think is beside the point. We’ll keep you in category three and send you to the institute for an expert’s report.”

Again he wrote a recommendation on a sheet of paper from his prescription pad. The woman went out, furiously slamming the door.

“Shall we have a break? Maybe you’d like a coffee, Tolea? No? Well then, let’s see Vivi, Vivi Ionel.”

A neatly dressed boy. Fearfully and listlessly swinging his hands about. A broad happy smile: perfect set of teeth. Behind him a supple, dark-haired woman with wrinkles on her face. Her soft, rarefied voice: “It’s not possible anymore without someone to look after him. He’s twenty-eight and needs to be watched all the time. I can’t leave him alone for five minutes.”

“Yes, it’s probably something for the neurology department. We’ll give him another appointment for Friday at neurology. Dr. Antoniu should also be there. Make a note of that, Florin. Dr. Antoniu, the neurologist, should be informed for Friday.”

“Been, been Dr. Antoniu!” simpered the innocent. “Ha ha, I been Antoniu. Dr. Antoniu, he say forward. Forward, forward, pioneers, say Antoniu.” The child merrily skipped. Standing behind the beanstalk, the woman made signs so that they wouldn’t take any notice.

“What work have you done, my boy?”

“Ha ha, waiter, Doctor.”

“Bravo, Ionel, well done. So come on Friday. Vivi Ionel is coming back on Friday for a consultation. Show in Vl˘adescu Drago .”

The door opens, shuts. Vl˘adescu Drago comes in: Gulliver’s niece. Enormous risen face, round and damp. Big red mouth, bulging eyes. Rope-like hair tied in a loop. Her skirt up over her belly, baring the solid pillars of her swollen white legs. Sandals, a huge sole. Her foot a body to itself, independent.

“You are?”

“I’m here for my husband, Vl˘adescu Drago .”

Dr. Marga looked for and found Vl˘adescu Drago ’s file, plunged into reading it, lifted his glasses from the papers, examined the massive shape in front of him, read some more, smiled, and finally delivered his conclusions.

“Pretty much opposites. You’re poles apart, I understand. You and your husband, I mean—”

Mrs. Vl˘adescu blushed and silently dropped her eyes. She was holding a roll in her right fist.

“You didn’t have patience. You went to the kiosk on the corner and bought yourself a roll.”

“Er, I know I shouldn’t. With these troubles — they take away your appetite. It was just for something to nibble. It’s true: we can’t sit still.”

“What was your husband’s job?”

“A locksmith.”

“And how old is he?”

“Forty-six.”

“And what do you do?”

“I’m a seamstress.”

“Okay, you can leave. The decision will be mailed to you at home. He should stay calm, take the tablets, and stop starving himself. Make sure you feed him, even forcibly. You’ll be sent the decision. He should stay calm. He’ll be informed within a week.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I wish you good health. May God look after you, Doctor!”

Suddenly she was leaning over the table. Madam Gulliver completely blocked the view of Goody-Goody: all that could be heard was some murmuring and frightened whispers. “Be serious, madam, let go of me. Take your envelope. Don’t try any of those stunts. Take your money, madam, or you’ll get into big trouble. You’ll really be in for it, I’m telling you.”

The woman of the snows took fright and vanished into thin air, envelope and all.

Florin laughed, Marga laughed, Dominic waited. Florin tidied the papers, Marga signed, Florin Dinu signed, Ortansa Teodosiu collected the cups and ashtrays. Kiss kiss, Florin, kiss kiss, Ortansa, Florin the gentleman bows, Ortansa the lady spins on her toes. Right, now we’re alone: between us only the couch, which has become a chair, the tool of psychiatry.

“Did you like the carnival?”

“No comment.”

“What made you come here, to the hospital? It must be something urgent. Has something happened? What’s up?”

“Ah, no — nothing.”

The doctor removed his glasses, passed his hand over his right eye, the sound one, then over his stitched-in eye, and then across his forehead. He picked the smoky glasses up again. He seemed weary.

“Do you want to be admitted, perhaps? Or a certificate, a prescription?”

“Like hell! Certificate, prescription, moonshine.”

A long pause followed. Dominic put his delicate hands on the table, beside Dr. Marga’s plump little hands with their nails trimmed at a manicurist’s salon. Listen to this: You come here with the idea of confessing! You lose interest if you ever had any. Listen to him: certificate, prescription, admission. And how determined he had been when he came. Just like a child. He held his palms up, to examine his intricate lines of fate. He looked at his palms, his fortune, for a long time.

“I’ve dreamed of the letter,” the patient said at some point.

“What letter?”

“The letter.”

“Which one? Claudiu’s letter?”

Dr. Marga adjusted his glasses on his nose and fidgeted about in his chair.

“What letter?”

“What do you mean? Weren’t we talking about a letter?”

“One enchanted evening, long ago, as you know. A threatening letter. To my old man, to Papa.”

The doctor gestured his distaste. So there was to be no consultation. Yes, that was what apeman Tolea wanted: entertainment and nonsense. So be it.

“Papa. So he threatens the old man but makes a beeline for the girl. The bachelor, nameless, intoxicated with love, had eyes only for my sister. The sender, the bachelor copies anyone’s handwriting, so long as he’s not caught. To undermine Papa’s morals, do you understand? So, the fate of beautiful Sonia. He copies the handwriting of illiterates, of criminals with the Easter torch, the pogrom torch. You know: those with shouts and a belt and a cross and a revolver and green shirts like the grass of hell. He copies nothing else, you can bet. Forgery. To get his foot in the door. Or perhaps—”

“I don’t understand.”

“One evening, around nine-thirty, the maid enters the room and hands over a little letter. Who was the little letter from?”

“Who from?” squeaked Marga.

“You’ll soon see. To Papa. To my father. We’ll do this and that to you. The Easter torch, the Lord’s revenge on those who crucified him. So that he’ll hand over the business, the daughter — everything. Give everything up. Otherwise, bash! He imitated that bunch perfectly: maybe he was even one of them. You bet it was them. You know who I mean, in columns and belts. A forgery. To get a foot in the door, the rhinoceros. Or perhaps, you understand, bash! You should see the imitation, see the threat. Oh yes, you bet, nothing else! Anonymous, as if everyone had signed. The mourning envelope, with that emblem, you know. The addressee: Father. Who afterward — you know.”

The doctor smiled: he was exhausted. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, gave up any thought of it, wanted to repeat that he was tired, but gave that up, too. So teenage Tolea moved back in for the attack.