Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

On the morning of her son’s departure, the unhappy woman found out that the impatient fruit of her womb didn’t even want the food parcel she’d so lovingly prepared for him. The wretch removed carefully folded garments from his suitcase, tossing all over the room ties, gloves, slippers, everything that his mother had secretly gathered together for him. By the time he was finished, he was down to one pair of trousers, a sweater, two pairs of shoes, a towel, a shirt, some underwear, and a beret.

The young man’s farewell to his mother was brief. He made her swear she wasn’t going to start crying, or be silly enough to discuss his departure with the women of the neighborhood, lamenting what was definitely over and done with. He promised to write her regularly, not very often, but regularly all the same. He wanted her to have confidence in him, just as he was confident that the bereft woman would keep her word and neither show nor read to anyone the letters she might receive from him. He hugged her tightly and kissed her damp and mussy hair, refusing the sentimental gush traditionally displayed on such occasions.

The woman stayed obediently at her window, gazing after the scrawny, myopic lad going out into the wide wild world, never to return. She watched him cross the long courtyard with his quick little step, slamming the wooden door behind him. Gone, the child she’d raised so devotedly, for whom she’d struggled so stubbornly… Petrified, she imagined him climbing aboard the train, jammed into one of those dirty, overcrowded, postwar cars. She saw him huddled on the wooden seat, glowering fiercely in a corner, oblivious to those around him. Night was falling. She remembered his bout with pneumonia, and the time he ran away from boarding school many years before, a sickly, surly brat, roaming around like a madman from morning till night. And she remembered the day she’d taken him to see the oculist. It was getting late; her husband would be home soon. An empty house, in the failing light. The woman turned away from the window, withdrawing deeper into herself.

The kitchen: the kerosene lamp, the matches, the wick. A gentle, timid light filled the room. Near the lamp, the open Gospel. So he hadn’t taken it with him, after all. Even though she’d buried it all the way down in the bottom of the suitcase, he’d removed it and left it behind. He’d refused to let her have even this small satisfaction. It would’ve been better if he’d thrown it out somewhere along the way — God knows he was capable of it — instead of leaving it there, like a sneer, rubbing her face in the fact that she hadn’t the slightest chance of affecting his decision.

The woman picked up the book, which smelled of old, much-thumbed paper, and went to slip it back into its usual spot in the cupboard. A photograph fluttered out.

She knew what it was, and the blow was too much for what little strength she had left. A picture of herself and her husband, a picture she’d given their son to take with him and which he hadn’t refused. He hadn’t been able to speak a word in protest, and yet he hadn’t wanted even that, he hadn’t wanted anything at all. The lamp still burned, shedding a calm, flickering, useless light. Later her husband came home from work and never once mentioned what had happened only a few hours before. The next day, things returned silently, monotonously, to normal.

III.1.

Comrade vasile cotig , born January 26,* 1925, to a poor family. Attends elementary school and trade school, despite occasional interruptions. During vacations, finds a job unloading wagons and also works at a nearby brickyard. Does fairly well in school. Twice he is almost held back a year because of poor grades in mathematics. Sent home from school two or three times for fighting or for talking back to his teachers. Even as a student, his combativeness is already apparent, although poor health leaves him somewhat at a disadvantage. Turns out to be a natural leader, and organizes student opinion in opposition to the excessive harshness of some of the teachers. During penultimate year of school, undergoes a spiritual crisis. Temporarily abandoning his studies, he takes refuge for a number of months in a local church, where he works as a handyman. In the opinion of some, including his father, this behavior reflects, not a deep religious conviction, but a desire to alleviate his family’s financial difficulties. Interpretation supported by the fact that despite his zealous show of devotion at the Church of Saint John, on the outskirts of the city, he abruptly stops attending services when he loses his job there and must seek other kinds of employment; some turn out to be unsuitable for anyone of a religious temperament, working as a night watchman in the town’s red-light district, etc., etc.

One of Comrade Vasile Cotig ’s jobs while he is still in school is that of printer’s assistant. Starts off by filling in at night for a sick apprentice. Ends up staying at the printing plant for a whole year, then goes back to school. When he returns to the printing plant, takes part in protest meetings and attempts to become a union delegate, but falls ill and must be hospitalized for several months.

In addition to work as a printer’s assistant, becomes liaison between workers and staff of local newspaper, The Bugle. Demands and obtains a permanent column for the workers who publish the newspaper; contributes regularly for several months, initially signing as “Staff Printer,” although eventually using his own name, Vasile Cotig .

In 1944, promoted to assistant proofreader on the newspaper. He gives up his column, but occasionally publishes articles on current political issues and even a few poems, which he signs with a pseudonym. During this period, apparently, he also meets Valentina Vrînceanu, a student and the daughter of a well-to-do local forestry engineer.

From the political point of view, Comrade Cotig expresses revolutionary leanings rather early, although in a somewhat confused manner. Spends a long time wavering between extremes, going from the far right to the far left and back again. As the country’s political situation evolves and he himself matures, Comrade Cotig chooses the only truly revolutionary path — that of the Party. Toward the end of 1944, he participates in left-wing activities on the local level. It is also around this time that Comrade Valentina Vrînceanu officially joins the Young Communist League, despite the opposition of her bourgeois family.

In early 1945, Comrade Cotig holds first positions of real responsibility. Valued for his intransigence and in-dustriousness, he works day and night, never shirking the most difficult tasks. At the same time, he strives to bring The Bugle into line with revolutionary objectives. Due to the presence of certain reactionary elements on the newspaper staff and even among the workers in the printing plant, the paper continues on its so-called neutral course regarding current events. The Political Opinions Page, a forum offered twice weekly by the newspaper to the major parties, is finally opened to the Communists. At that time, the Communists had few members in the city and surrounding region, unlike the reactionary “historic parties,” as they were then called.

This political-opinion page is at the root of a dispute that arises between certain comrades on the editorial staff and Comrade Cotig , who wants to be put in sole charge of this feature. Not much is known about this incident; the little information available is too vague. The conflict is resolved by the establishment of a collective committee that includes Comrade Cotig , who collaborates on the political-opinion page during the following months without neglecting his other duties.