Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

Because of the cold and the lateness of the hour, but also because of this provocation, the witnesses will be pushing and shoving as they leave the hall, so it will be impossible later on for them to remember who was there and who was not.

III.3.

After the death of the most reverend metropolitan, Vasile Cotig ’s situation becomes uncertain. Leaves his job and finds employment for several months at a philatelic publication.

Two months after the earthquake in 1977, Vasile Cotig undergoes an operation to correct a detached retina. Spends ten days in a ward at the Military Hospital, where he makes the acquaintance of both an employee of Tarom, the Romanian national airline, and a little-known writer, the author of several novels. Reports indicate that this writer and Vasile Cotig engage in lively discussions. After learning that his fellow patient has until recently been on the staff of the Most Reverend Metropolitan, the writer questions Cotig about the prelate. Cotig ’s description is that of a leader, not a saint. A resourceful man: intelligent, determined, concerned about his own interests as well as those of the church. Authoritarian and practical: his subordinates were careful to avoid making personal comments in front of him. A zealous manager, a good organizer, a hard and tireless worker, used to making all decisions — whether important or minor ones — on his own. A leader who stood out from his fellows through his energy and imagination, but who knew how to compromise opportunely with other leaders, and was willing to do certain favors for those in a position to shield him from various difficulties. This brief portrait devoid of personal details, sketched on a sultry night when the patients were unable to sleep, leads to a discussion that lasts several days. The writer, intrigued by what he learns, demands more information about the nature and values of religious work. Cotig answers his questions with precision, without making any personal comments, which exasperates the self-proclaimed writer, whose name means nothing to Cotig and the Tarom employee, since neither of them has ever heard of him before.

“You bother me, in a way,” the writer confesses, “simply because I’m trying to see in you I don’t know which uncle, or cousin, or perhaps someone I went to school with … unless you reflect a part of myself, some impossible, unsuspected face I’m just not able to recognize as my own! I’m looking for the faces of our time, by which I mean that I’m trying to understand what I’ve lived and what I’m living and what I’ll live in the future, unless I can get rid of this clumsy need — and I don’t think I ever will — to understand, to have standards of judgment.”

The writer spews out such nonsense, probably in an effort to rattle Cotig , who calmly replies that he feels it’s important to do one’s work well, whatever it is, and that’s all. Reports mention the inappropriate attitude of the writer, who raises his voice; Cotig answers him in a poised and good-natured manner. On the following day, or perhaps even that first night, the little scribbler, who is restless and suffers from insomnia, sets the following problem for his listeners.

“Let’s suppose I know a young painter of genius. A kind of Picasso. Or else an exceptional poet, Lautréamont, for example, off living in a garret. Poor, ill, no resources. Let’s also suppose that this person, without realizing it, is a perfect example of what a good Christian should be. He doesn’t steal, or lie; in short, he doesn’t do anything bad at all, a sort of angel. Rather difficult for an artist to pull off, and even harder for a genius, but let’s just say it’s true. Now, imagine me going to see your High Holiness guy to tell him the whole story, you know, the great man suffering in a garret and so on, a really gifted soul, also a political suspect, also a very lonely man who doesn’t go to church, who never prays to anyone about anything, who bows down neither before the powerful of this world nor before the Guy Upstairs, a good Christian without knowing it. So, fine, he paints pictures nobody much understands, but myself and a few others who know what’s good when it comes to this stuff, we guarantee that these works are outstanding and that one day they’ll be worth outrageous sums. Okay, is your guy, the Most Reverend — that’s right? — is he going to ask me if the kid paints pictures of the Resurrection? Or is he going to require that the artist insert a little cross, or something like that, somewhere in all his pictures?” “Of course,” replies Cotig .

“Otherwise, he won’t be interested? He’s not inclined to help him out, just out of, you know, Christian charity?”

“Of course not,” Cotig replies again, “he’s only interested in matters he’s responsible for. Otherwise, it’s none of his business …”

“Oh, right, so His Holiness is just your basic state employee … Give and ye shall receive, you fit the profile, you don’t, first pay up, then we’ll see … No difference, in other words …”

He goes on in the same idiotic vein, along the lines of: if you work for us, no problem, we’ll let you play around at challenging authority, you’ll even be able to tell the truth once in a while, what’s important is that you remember which side you’re on. Cotig ignores these provocations. The other man isn’t discouraged; he keeps mouthing off, a torrent of foul language, protests, ridiculous ideas. Finally, the two men become friends! There is proof that this hot-air artist stays in touch with Cotig ; he even visits him in his home.

When he leaves the hospital, Cotig refuses to follow the suggestion that he retire. He spends several months looking for a new job. The report claiming that he is hired at the National Insurance Agency thanks to the influence of the writer he met in the hospital turns out to be false. The position of insurance investigator Cotig obtains there, from which he will later be transferred to the accounting department of branch 46 of the National Savings Bank, is due, once again, to Comrade Petre Petru, his editorial colleague in the 1950s, now retired, whose son, Vladimir Petru, holds a managerial position in this same banking organization.

I.5.

“I really don’t know what to do about that school anymore,” Viorica had complained while settling the fate of a pile of printed forms. “They’ve gone completely crazy. The children have to sweep and mop the floors! They haven’t got a janitor, imagine! But let me tell you the latest thing they’ve come up with: each child has to bring in, every month, five corks and I don’t know how many kilos of recyclable paper! And bottles. Four bottles or jars, plus some medicinal plants! Where do they think we’re going to find medicinal plants in Bucharest? No, I mean, come on! I asked the head teacher yesterday at the class meeting.