Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

This December 18, however, Papa Victor hadn’t shown up. Nor had he appeared the next day, or any of the following days. There was no reason to expect him now.

Inspector Scarlat’s affront had not passed unnoticed by Carmen. She probably wouldn’t have attached too much importance to it, however, if the alcohol hadn’t gone to her head, prompting her to start talking about him.

“Hey, Chickadee, you always seem to know what’s going on, whatever’s happened to our little accounting expert these last few weeks?”

“I don’t know much about it,” Chickadee had replied evasively, to no one’s surprise.

“Well, what I heard on the grapevine,” Milady Carmen had continued as she set down her cracker spread with taramosaláta and turned to her audience (which was all agog at the idea that the Matron was going to break her long-standing rule of never gossiping about anything overheard at business meetings or in the manager’s office), “what I heard from Pia is that our Comrade Scarlat submitted a proposal or a report to management, some idea that he’s argued for a million times before the manager, Comrade Petru. Something really unusual! A bombshell!”

Carmen had glanced meaningfully at Chickadee, as though that was her cue to continue the story with a barrage of thrilling details, but the other woman didn’t say a word and went on listening closely, pretending she was just as much in the dark as everyone else.

“I have to tell you, girls, because it’s absolutely outrageous,” Comrade Petroianu had continued, draining her glass of Bulgarian cabernet to give herself strength for the task ahead.

They were all in a good mood, although a bit tired. It was late. The news hadn’t bothered them. A boring story, not very interesting, too serious, really twisted, something for loonies and crackpots running after heaven knows what lousy privileges, or nuts obsessed with some weird idea— so, big deal, everyone’s a little strange about something, right? Comrade Petroianu hadn’t been satisfied with these offhand dismissals, however, and had expressed personal dismay at the paltry level of the conversation.

“Come on, girls, we’re not complete birdbrains here, you know, this is important! It’s a question of principle! I spent an entire evening talking it over with my companion Comrade Bebe, and he opened my eyes on this, I have to admit. I mean, what is it with Scarlat and others like him, who have a certain way of looking at things — where does that come from, what does it mean?”

So the girls had realized they’d have to rise to this occasion. They’d show that they weren’t airheads, idle windbags, interested only in foolish frivolities, no way, these girls had a lot between their ears.

“Obviously, it would seem like a fair solution, to do it like that. But that’s where all the confusion comes in— Bebe explained it to me, Bebe knows it too well, he’s been working for years with those guys.”

Carmen had more or less led the discussion, which wound up confirming that yes indeed, this problem they’d been tempted to brush off as a minor one was actually quite important.

“Where he got this idea from I can’t imagine.”

Well, the others had seemed slightly overwhelmed, until Ina intervened. Briefly, with an unexpected pessimism that appeared deep and well founded.

“No, mustn’t. Mistake, big mistake. They still getting to decide, always they decide. That words, just words. Mustn’t let happen.”

Ina Nikolayevna’s replies always tickled Sugar Candy, who’d smiled and almost burst into giggles, so that a bite of pastry started to go down the wrong way, but she’d managed to recover and had wiped her little mouth quite properly before chiming in earnestly.

“But all that could be verified. There could be zupervizion! Perzonally, I don’t think that idea’z zo ztupid. Viorica’z right. In my building there’z a guy who runz a kind of cafeteria. He had hiz certificate in metal ztamping. Then he huztled to get thiz job. Eight hundred lei per day. Eight hundred lei, can you juzt imagine, when the average zalary’z about two thouzand five hundred! Zo he became a cook. He’z got more money than he knowz what to do with! You should just zee hiz apartment. Porzelain and rugz and a family-zize refrigerator and all thiz zdereo zduff. Whenever I run into him, he’z won zomething elze. Zometimez at lotto, zometimez zportz lotto, zometimez the horzez at Ploiezti. Lazt year he won a car in a National Zavingz Bank drawing. With the dough he’z got, not zurprizing he feelz he can play. And zo he winz. Zo what’z juztice got to do with thiz? Luck’z alwayz on the zide of thoze who take life eazy.”

Comrade Petroianu had spoken up here, of course. She’d related everything that Bebe, who was back from Brazil, had told her about the terrible danger represented by ideas like Scarlat’s. Ones that “stopped up the last air vent,” as he’d put it. Meaning, you shouldn’t try to eliminate all traces of chance from life. Meaning, also, his chance, of course.

“If you try to control everything, then nothing will work,” Comrade Carmen had declared, repeating word for word the speech her husband had made to her after his trip to Rio.

Then Chickadee had asked timidly, in a low voice, as though speaking just for herself, “Do you think that Scarlat really pushed this idea of his?”

Everyone had turned to look attentively at her delicate and impenetrable face, urging her to tell what she knew, because she’d given herself away there, she certainly knew something. But once again the little china doll simply said a few soft and hesitant words that could be interpreted any old way.

“I mean, it seems a little strange; at his age, you’d think he’d just be interested in his salary and his pension …”

They’d continued drinking and chattering for a while, but they simply weren’t interested in taking the question any further, despite Carmen’s prodding. Darkness had fallen … They usually held their celebrations during the noon break, but on Comrade Carmen’s birthday, they celebrated after work. No matter how enjoyable it was to gossip and nibble goodies, the day was drawing to a close. The women couldn’t face dealing with the evening buses, which were even worse than the daytime service, so they’d finally packed up plates, pastries, cakes, bottles, all the leftovers, wrapping them in plastic bags they’d carefully set out on a chilly window ledge until snack time the next day.

And now the birthday party for Viorica on Christmas Day had been planned for two stages, the first one being the lunch break from one-thirty to two-thirty. Promptly at twelve-thirty, they began on the appetizers. A general cry of admiration greeted the appearance of bottles and tasty-looking dishes, which were artfully arranged on two tables in the back room.

They started sampling bits of panettone and savoring tiny forkfuls of salad, sausage, and jellied meat. Then, a knock at the door. Intrigued by this unexpected disturbance, Viorica tore herself away from the delicious opening course and went to see who the killjoy was.

She was gone for an unexpectedly long time, returning slightly agitated and agreeably surprised.

“Girls, he wished me a happy birthday! He even brought me flowers. Unbelievable! He apologized for not being able to stay. He’d like to speak to Carmen. He’s waiting for you in the other room, Comrade Petroianu. He has something particular to tell you.”

It wasn’t until a nervous Carmen had disappeared, without having understood from Viorica’s hermetic summons who this intruder was, that the secret was revealed.

“Girls, it’s Scarlat! He seemed rather depressed. He asked me to get Carmen for him.”

Then they hesitated a long time, unable to decide whether they should invite him to join them or not. Since Carmen still hadn’t returned, they finally gave up the whole idea. Even Viorica figured that there was no point, and she restrained Geta, who was insisting that each of them should take turns frowning through the half-open door to make the unwanted guest take the hint and leave.