Norman Manea - The Black Envelope

The doors, the cupboards swung about crazily, creaking grating whistling. Maybe he had forgotten to close the cupboards. Old Vancea, the philosopher, had just appeared: how can you explain this madness to him of all people, so sensitive, so stern in his stern clothes, the philosopher — cum — wine dealer — explain now in such crazy, crazy surroundings?

Dominic nervously picked up one of the splendid leather gloves that had fallen by the sofa. Marcu Vancea did not speak, did not answer. He was as silent as the grave.

The son turned toward the creaking cupboard, but did not look up. His eyes were still where they had been when he had picked up the elegant glove of the elegant guest. He waited for the other one of the pair, which would be a sign that he could leave. But the waiting went on too long, and he turned toward the cupboards, advanced toward the door, mumbling all the time. He knew the ghost was behind him, dressed like himself to the minutest detail, ready to start out.

“What’s this. . what’s this! There’s nothing wrong with me, m’sieur. Just up to going to the meeting. That’s why I summoned Goody-Goody’s clients. I can’t say I really care. That’s my secret: indifference. That’s what we need. Indifference is my best defense. I’ve learned that time and time again. Don’t worry about me: that’s the secret: indifference.”

Tolea seemed disgusted with what he was saying. He was spitting the words out, happy that there were only a few of them, that he didn’t have to say more. He remained with his eyes on the cupboard, but the gloved hand was in the pockets of the elegant coat, searching for the tablets.

Then he stroked his growth of beard with the glove. He had not shaved for several days, or even left the room. He had been preparing all the time for the decisive moment. At last he could set off. Splendid, flawless weather. A pleasure to breathe, a pleasure to walk, a pleasure to look around. But he couldn’t tear himself away. He was waiting for the guest to leave first, to pave the way for him.

Look, it’s already evening: how quickly night falls. I haven’t even managed to summon all of them, but I’m sure the night will bring them together. The night is creative, isn’t it? It’s at night that we cook up our acts of deception and revenge.

Marcu Vancea had moved away, crossed the threshold, and gone out. He was no longer listening. But he had stopped before leaving. He had felt something and stopped. Tolea was standing with his back turned to avoid seeing him, but he could tell when the guest had a last moment of hesitation and stopped. Not even the doors were creaking any longer: everything had stopped. The doors were again creaking: the little light on the cassette player was lit up, as if the stranger’s solemn steps were once more approaching.

Yes, the shadow had again reached his back, was again stuck to his back. It lasted a long short time. Hard to say. White as a sheet, he remained waiting like that, frozen to the spot, until he was sure no one was there beside him. There was no one in the room but he, Tolea, dressed in his brown English philosopher’s raglan. A blue silk scarf around his neck. Long fluffy gloves. That fluffy raglan, with its left breast pocket under the lapel for a handkerchief. And in the breast pocket he did indeed have the starched letter, just right. On top of everything, stupid Tolea was even smiling, with those perfect big white teeth.

In the streets, desolation. Unbelievably he stopped at the little wooden bridge at the end of the village, to adjust his hat. The moon was golden and smooth, Mr. Dominic pallid and angular, his mission too tough for the strength he could command. The columns of slim torches, perhaps just extra-long candles. Lined up by the river, on the slope above where the town sewer emptied into the river.

He took the torch candle from the hands of the first person in the line. No one saw him, but he could see himself. He smiled as he took the torch. He breathed on it. The patient’s disheveled head suddenly disappeared. With a smile on his face, Mr. Dominic approached the next one — a withered, red-haired peasant. He blew that one’s face out as well. Then he gradually extinguished them all: candles, faces, they all vanished.

Dominic remained alone, holding his own torch, gentle and contented. The torch at the level of his coattails. A perfect dream silence.

That meow could be heard again — that irritating screech of rusty doors. The sky was on fire, the material had started to burn, as had the gloves and the silk around his neck. Mr. Dominic was still smiling when the howl of a night dog could be heard somewhere.

Smoke, magnetic visions. Only foolish Tolea could see them, and he did not have the strength to interrupt. No strength to blink in the face of the crumbling image.

COMRADE OREST,

Masterkey gave me the details about the hospitalization of Chatterbox. Nothing very much can be understood. Not even the doctor has been able to have a talk with him yet. For the time being they’re shoving a handful of tablets down his throat every four hours. No improvement is likely in the near future, according to Masterkey. He hasn’t been violent, nor has he uttered a word so far. Deaf-and-dumb. I know he won’t have any memory of his offbeat investigations, or the Tranzit work team. The kid’s unhinged, says Saint Veturia. One night ten days or so ago, when she was going to the bathroom, she saw a light on and heard the professor’s voice. He was speaking to someone. She thought it odd. The tenant never had visitors, nor was there anywhere to receive any. His room was too small, I know. Especially at that time of night. Madam Pickle couldn’t stop herself: she looked through the keyhole. In fact, she’d been looking all the time — not just that evening, I know. And it seems the receptionist was standing naked in front of the mirror. He was talking with someone called Tudor. Actually with his snipped little prick, which he couldn’t take his eyes off. Can you imagine? Tudor! Tudor! Would you believe it! Madam Mushroom was right to be scared. They’ve stifled us, Tudor— that’s what he was saying. They’ve squeezed us dry: we no longer get any pleasure from anything. We just feel sick at our own thoughts and body and soul, which are as full of holes as a Swiss cheese. We keep ourselves hidden, that’s all we’ve learned to do. We shrink so much we can’t even find ourselves. That’s what Chatterbox was saying. He wasn’t joking: he was serious, as if in tears. We don’t have any bolt holes: all the orifices are traps, all of them, Tudor, he was saying. We’ll die together, Tudor, because we are one and we are dead already.

There are no longer any fire hydrants, only sewage and death hydrants — that’s what he said, according to Mrs. Veturia’s agitated report, as if she’d learned it all by heart. It seems the creep was standing naked in front of the mirror and talking to his little Tudor. The old woman sneaked back into the marriage bed to wake up her old guide. Little old Marcel calmed her down: It’s nothing, not important. That’s what the professor’s like, rather artistic. But the next morning the receptionist didn’t go to work and the light remained on in his single room. The Gafton lovebirds talked it over in great secrecy and eventually rang One-Eye, the loonies’ doctor. He came straightaway in an ambulance, I know that. The patient was naked on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Deaf-and-dumb. He didn’t seem to recognize anyone. He didn’t resist the ambulance men. But when they lifted him onto the stretcher, his little Tudor was awake. Madam Gafton put her hand to her mouth and seemed on the point of crossing herself, as if in the presence of the Unclean One, as if she both did and didn’t feel like laughing. It seems that as they were moving the professor, little Tudor suddenly stood up for the salute. And that’s how the villain betrayed himself: he could no longer hide his sinful origins. That’s what I’d have liked to say to Potato-Head Veturia, but I let her and her old Master alone.