Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

And sure enough, Sunday recaptures its prisoners one more time. Really, that damned blind should have been repaired by now!

“That window again. . even though I asked you. I reminded you about it every day. You know it’s driving me out of my mind. I asked you to find someone to fix it. I mean, it’s just a blind — it can’t be all that complicated. There must be someone around who can fix it.”

They grope, haggardly, in terror of a new day. Shower, black coffee. Wide awake, sluggish, alert, groggy, sitting in front of their cups. Already belonging to this new day, no way out, none.

The rumble of streetcars somewhere, in the distance, close by, below, above, trolley bus motor bus blunderbuss, impossible to detect the teasing tick-tock of the stocky toad squatting in the bedroom. They keep an eye on the clock, without hearing it. But they know the pendulum is conscientiously nibbling away at the calendar’s poison.

Face to face, slumped in the two armchairs of worn velvet, they contemplate the black circles of the cups placed symmetrically on the small shiny black table. The slim white hand runs a long pale finger around the black rim. The transparent blouse slides across the shoulders with a brief rustle, as though coaxing.

“I didn’t sleep as much as I’d have liked. . There’s still this endless morning to get through. I’m going to visit the cemetery. But I won’t stay long. I’ll be back in an hour.”

She stops talking. She watches him remain silent. . Symmetrically, they take a sip of coffee, looking at each other. The morning authorizes such preliminaries. Silence as well — for a moment — from the motor bus trolley bus blunderbuss streetcars. They can hear the measured pulse of the toad chronometer rhythmically swallowing every last flicker of hope.

“Why don’t you sort through his notebooks? And they ought to be hidden somewhere else, you know. They’re too easy to find, here with us. . That’s probably what they wanted from him, that night: the notebooks. Maybe that’s why he died. .”

He keeps quiet, closes his eyes, waits for the rest. He opens his eyes, still waiting.

“We have to take care of the notebooks right away. They have to be sorted and put in a safe place. They’re all we have left of him. And you know perfectly well there’s more than just poetry in them, too. .”

Nothing more is said, or happens. The barbarity of the street breaks in on all sides, surrounding the nest.

Suddenly they’re both startled, on the alert. The doorbell. A long ring, then a long pause. Another ring, short, timid.

“Who could that be? On a Sunday morning, no less? No rest for the weary! Who could it be, at this hour?”

In front of their door, no, a certain distance from the door, practically up against the wall across the landing, there’s a kind of grayish raincoat that hangs almost to the floor. Above the tight collar, a face with pale, sunken cheeks. Large eyes, glittering uneasily.

“Excuse me if. . perhaps I’m disturbing you.”

The hollow voice adds to the impression of shyness and humility.

“Your shade is broken, you know. Your Venetian blind. In the window, I mean. If you want, I can fix it.”

Bull’s eye, bang on, a one-in-a-million shot. A sure-fire surprise.

“Uh, yes. . yes, but. . how did you know?”

“You can see it from outside. The cord’s broken. . You know, the lift cord, the one you pull. It’s jammed inside, I can tell. That’s why your blind’s drooping at one end. Not up, not down. The slats going every which way, you know what I mean?”

“It’s true! You’re right. But how did you figure out. . How did you find our apartment?”

“I counted, from out front. Fourth floor, door to the left. . It was easy.”

“Mm yes, well, what can I say? Please, come in, come on in.”

The door opens wide. The little man comes forward, then takes a step back. He’s left a heavy, battered toolbox sitting on the landing.

“Do come in, please. Oh, no, you don’t have to take your shoes off, really. .”

The man does so anyway and in no time stands there in his stocking feet. His raincoat is hanging on the coat tree in a trice; his toolbox, sitting on the floor next to his shoes, is already open, displaying screws, screwdrivers, pliers, wing nuts, keys, nails, bits of string, his stock-in-trade.

He moves at a slower pace through the living room, enters the bedroom. Short, bony, stooped, master of the situation. He examines the window from one side, then the other. His movements are relaxed and decisive. No trace remains of his initial hesitancy.

“It’ll cost you one hundred lei. If you want, I’ll get started. A hundred lei.”

He shrugs his shoulders. Frail shoulders, large hands, long arms for such a small, gaunt body. He turns around, runs his fingers through his hair, which he wears in a brush cut. Hands on hips, expectant, keyed up.

“It’ll take me an hour. For a hundred lei, as I said.”

“That’s expensive. Why a hundred?”

“That’s my price. A hundred lei. When I mend something, it stays mended. A good cord’ll last you forever. I’ve got some old ones that don’t fall apart.”

“Well, all right, but a hundred’s a lot. . Why don’t you get to work and we’ll talk about it later — I’m sure we’ll reach an agreement. So don’t worry about it.”

“No, no, I have to settle this first. A hundred lei, I told you.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll work it out. Please excuse us, we haven’t had time to make the bed yet.”

“Would you have a stepladder? I’ll need one. And newspapers, for the parquet, so it doesn’t get dirty.”

The stepladder is brought from the den. He opens it up and spreads around some old papers found in a closet.

At that point, the woman emerges from the bathroom, all perked up and ready to go out. She stops on the threshold of the bedroom. She glances distrustfully at the little workman perched on the stepladder. She’s delicate, blond, tense, a woman with a busy day ahead of her. She closes the bedroom door abruptly. Whispering is heard. Then a rustle of clothing. Then the door to the apartment.

“Well, how are you getting on?”

“So far, so good. The cord’s broken on the inside, just like I said. I’ve got some old ones, sturdy material, it won’t break again.”

The man of the house, in jeans and a comfortable sweater, leaves him to it. Fifteen minutes later, the workman appears while he’s reading his paper. The little guy stops in the doorway, looking around at the chairs, the desk, the bookshelves.

“You’ve sure got a lot of books!. . Books, books, and more books, everywhere.”

The other man looks up from his paper, nods in agreement.

“I’ve never seen so many books. I knew right away that this place was something else, really special, no doubt about it.”

Smiling, he puts down his paper. Waiting. As tiny as a splinter, the instant has already vanished into the maw of the chronometer, hop, croak, murmurs the old batrachian.

“I see you’re busy, so I wouldn’t like to. .”

“I was reading the paper. Nothing important, you can come in.”

“Well, since that’s the sort of thing that interests you. . books, I mean. You’re a reader, I can tell. I bet you spend all your time reading.”

“You can come in, you’re not disturbing me.”

“Your missus has gone out? In that case. . I’d like to ask you. . since we can talk now. . otherwise, I wouldn’t. .”

“All right, tell me what you have to say. Come on, say it. Let’s see what this is all about.”

“I saw the books, so I got to thinking. . Maybe you’d be willing to help me write something.”

An angular face, knitted brows. Pants with the waist bunched up under a shabby belt, a child’s short-sleeved shirt, very clean. Lively, penetrating eyes.