Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

So she’d fallen asleep while eating, had slept with her head on the table. She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress. They’d given her handkerchiefs, and a dress. A kind of chemise, long and loose, of a thick material, like a new blanket. She moistened her face and hands with the toilet water. So she’d fallen asleep. She looked at the clock again. She’d have liked to go back to sleep. She felt groggy from the food and drink, and would have loved to rest some more.

What could the important person have to say? Why should he waste any of his precious time on her? Would he say the same things, ask her the same questions? Would the Plenipotentiary turn out to be more subtle than his subordinates, the gorillas who carried out his orders? Would he confine himself simply to doing his job? Send his report, in turn, to his bosses, and nothing more? Indicating that he has personally contacted, that he personally visited, that he made an effort, that he personally knows, etc., etc. Yes, yes, yes, he thinks there’s nothing more to be done, he suggests immediate measures, no leniency, and so on.

But what about that strange, lovely go-between, who seemed like someone from her past, like a refined, sadistic former colleague? “Your hair — I can’t make it grow back in three days.” “Did you have pretty hair?” The question hadn’t seemed malicious; it had been asked quite simply, in a vaguely pensive tone. Perhaps the most surprising thing that happened the whole time they were together.

Nine minutes to five. If this wasn’t some new ordeal, intended to fray her nerves to shreds, if this important person really did exist, if he’d actually set up this appointment, and if, moreover, he arrived on time, then there were nine minutes left. What else could he propose or ask of her beyond what she’d already heard day after day? Threatening her family, her friends. . Could the fate of the man she loved be made even worse? Would he ever forgive her if for one crazy moment she believed their lies, their promises? If she gave in, for a single instant, to her desire to know that he was free? They were planning something; she had to be ready for anything.

In only a few days they’d succeeded in bringing her back almost to normal. Ready to remember the rules of normal life. How to wear a dress, set the table, serve a meal. Yes, it was the food, the meals that had softened her up. Good food, and lots of it. Probably brought over from a fancy restaurant. Contrary to the usual practice, they hadn’t starved her first; they’d revived her little by little, over the course of a few days. So that she’d then be able to sit down calmly in front of the food. Be able to choose. To eat her fill, not from hunger, but from greediness. To stuff herself at leisure, delighted to experience once again the refinements of good living. To bask contentedly in the warmth and benevolence of the world. To become docile.

She’d noticed that her stubborn determination had lost its edge, especially during the last few hours. The sweetish, fruity wine had made her tipsy. Ever since her fainting spell, she’d felt weak and lethargic. She would have liked to sleep for weeks in a big clean bed, in a quiet, spacious room. Only waking up occasionally to soak in a steaming tub, with perfumed bath oil, like the last time. And have brightly colored, refreshing drinks.

The door opened quietly, very quietly. But there were still two minutes left! Was he early? No, it was only some minor employee who hardly dared set foot into such an important room. Humble, hesitant, on tiptoes. Some timid functionary, sent to dust or air out the room, who knows?

He was carrying boxes of different sizes. He piled them carefully against the wall, in a corner, next to the door. He left and returned with a long, fat tube. A kind of cardboard tube, with a cover on one end. He moved silently, stooped over, without looking up, trying to be unobtrusive. He came in, disappeared, reappeared, gliding noiselessly. Clearly terrified by the importance of the person for whose arrival he was preparing. The cautious movements of this dogsbody — possibly one of the maintenance or clerical personnel — were enough in themselves to show that the expected personage was a very high-ranking official indeed.

The prisoner checked the clock. One minute past five. So he was late! They were making her wait on purpose, of course, they were hoping that she’d become upset and wonder what they were up to now. An old trick: they weren’t showing much originality with that one. She’d learned how to protect herself.

Weary, no doubt, the silent employee sat down behind the desk! The poor man had some nerve! Snatching a moment’s rest, sitting in the boss’s chair! And what if he were to appear at that very moment? Just look at him: to cap it all off, he’s smiling, shamefaced but proud, like an imbecile! He was looking at her, yes, he was staring at her and grinning. Pleased with himself, but lacking in confidence; his timorous and silly smile was a way of begging for encouragement.

“Be so good as to come closer. Bring your chair, bring your chair. Or rather, no, why don’t you sit in one of these two here?”

She started in astonishment. The voice. . There was nothing ordinary about that voice, which certainly didn’t seem to belong to that puffing flunky, done in by the weight of too many boxes too heavy for him.

The prisoner didn’t know what to think, what to do. She was unable to move. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead; her hands and back felt clammy. A bad joke, right before the arrival of the Plenipotentiary, because a few minutes are all he’s got left, this, this. . nobody. . this. . this janitor, stock clerk, cashier with too many mouths to feed, this post-office drone, doorman, storekeeper, salesman, plumber, whatever, with his voice, so. . yes, yes, so. .

“I was on time, you noticed. Come closer, please. I’m used only to small audiences, short distances.”

He swallowed syllables, ran words together, telescoping them. He seemed to think only in leaps and bounds. A warm, tentative voice. And yet a commanding tone. Affected. A bizarre mixture: firmness and fear, gentleness, power, yes, and harshness, and, also. .

“Well, would you please come over here now?”

As he watched her stand up and walk to the armchairs in front of the desk, he pulled a slim flask containing a reddish-brown liquid from one of his jacket pockets and gently set it down flat on the glass surface of the desk. Once she was seated, he studied her closely for a long time, allowing himself to be examined by her in return.

He wore a kind of knitted shirt of fine wool, mustard-colored, with buttons and an open collar. A jacket in a gray check. He had few teeth, and those were bad, stained by nicotine. Tiny red spider-veins on his nose. Pale, flabby face. Small ears, scrawny neck, frail hands. Short, thin fingers, twisted and yellowed. Nails bitten to the quick. A high forehead, extended by a bald pate. Large, dark eyes. Intelligent, yes, lively and black. A penetrating gaze, restless, glittering, searching, observing, evaluating. There was a wild, glassy sparkle in his eyes that suddenly became fixed, unblinking, dead. Extraordinary, the look in those eyes! This was definitely the man in question. Yes, it was, no doubt about it now.

He began waving his hands around, and pointed at the prisoner’s head. It took her a while to understand what he wanted. Then she removed her cap and placed it on the right arm of the chair. But the man gestured again, not without a hint of irritation and disgust. Telling her to get rid of it, throw it away. He couldn’t stand having to look at such a rag for one more instant. So she tossed the cap over her shoulder. It struck the window, plopping limply to the floor like a dead bird.