Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

“You’ve got a problem? You want me to compose some sort of petition, is that it?”

“I’ve got a problem, yes. A lot of problems. But I’ll come back another time, when it’s more convenient. Some afternoon. Or some evening, when you’ve finished work. .”

“Fine, come whenever you like. I’m home in the mornings, too.”

“Oh? You mean you work at home? Then the morning would definitely be better. Perhaps I’ll come by some morning, when you’re alone.”

Taking tiny steps, he withdraws, seeming to sway on his short legs and big feet in their socks.

He finishes his work in the allotted time, collects the screws, nails, pliers, the balls of string, puts everything back in his tool kit. The wife reappears at this juncture. He makes himself even smaller, hurries a little more. He asks for a broom, sweeps carefully, requests that the gentleman verify that the blind is once more in perfect working order, asks for permission to wash his hands. He wraps the hundred-lei bill in his handkerchief. Then he’s gone.

A slow, rainy morning. The doorbell. One long ring. A long pause. Another ring, short, timid, then silence again. The man is drowsy, befuddled with insomnia. He has difficulty recognizing the visitor, who stands at a respectful distance from the door.

“Oh! It’s you. . Do come in, please.”

The shadow detaches itself from the wall. Approaches, enters, takes off its shoes, boom, they’re already in his left hand.

“You didn’t need to, it’s not necessary. So. . Come in, come in. Leave your toolbox there, in the vestibule, and come in. No, no, you’re not disturbing me. Please sit down. I’ll be back, I’m just going to make some coffee. I’ll make some for you, too. I’ll be right back.”

And he does return quickly, bringing the cups on a tray. His visitor sits stiffly, self-consciously, in the armchair. After about half an hour of laconic answers, he finally begins to feel more at ease.

“I was right. . You’re different. I feel I can trust you. There’s only two people in the whole country who can still help me. The big boss, but I could never get to him. Or else that fat guy you see all over, on TV and in the papers, that show-off who screws everybody left right and center.”

“Drink your coffee, please, or it’ll get cold.”

“It used to be that you knew what you were dealing with. You could manage to get by in the old days. There were eight of us kids at home. A family of poor country people. It was hard, real hard. I got away from that village. Twelve years old when I left, off to the city. I knew where to go. To the comrades. I waited in front of the door for hours. But finally they let me in, they listened to me. They put me in a trade school. That’s how I learned my profession. Back then, you could find doors to knock on, people would listen to you. .”

“Drink your coffee, you haven’t even touched it.”

“Troubles, worries. . They’ve sure put me through it. . I went to the doctor. I don’t drink coffee anymore, it’s better not to. Everything’s changed now. No one pays any attention now to a poor bastard. These days nothing’s open and aboveboard. You have to have family connections or some other kind of connections in high places, where they divvy everything up. Ten or fifteen years ago, you could still get by. I was living with my wife and our two kids in a maid’s room, nine square feet, like sardines. One day I went to the park. I found someone with a camera. You know, one of those strolling photographers. I told him what I wanted. He gave me a funny look. Won’t do it, he told me. It’s too risky, I know exactly what you’re up to, I don’t do that kind of thing. I slipped him five hundred lei. Five hundred! Even that frightened the stuffing out of him, poor guy. He thought I was loony. He wouldn’t take my money, scared shitless. He finally came and took the pictures, but I had to swear I’d never admit that he was the one. .”

“Would you rather have some tea, or perhaps a snack?”

He doesn’t hear. His voice is steady and his brow is furrowed in concentration, just as it was that Sunday morning when he spotted, from down in the street, the broken blind that he and he alone would fix, and for a price agreed on in advance. Now there’s no trace of the hesitation or the embarrassed humility he showed when he first appeared, glued to the wall across the landing, standing as far as possible from the apartment door.

“One morning, I jumped in front of the official’s car. Right outside his villa I mean, one of the big guys. . I knew everything: the time, the itinerary, the precise moment. How? Well, it’s a long story. . I made it my business to do odd jobs for upper-class types. I found out how to get into their restricted neighborhood. Someone got me work in the home of a second fiddle, as he put it. I sweated for that guy for months, fixing this and that. Not much money, but I didn’t quibble, I put everything right. I can mend anything: locks, stoves, plumbing, cabinets, whatever. Afterward, I said to him, okay, I’ve slaved for peanuts, fine, now it’s your turn to help me out. Some advice, that’s all. I’d turned up at his place after work at the factory, every day, stayed late every night, I’d fixed up everything in sight, practically for free. He couldn’t refuse. He gave me a lead: one street over, there’s Comrade Whosis who lives at this number. . A big shot, a major heavyweight. Doesn’t matter who, someone well known, now he’s long gone, like the rest of them — the top dog keeps shuffling them around so that none of them gets a chance to grow too powerful. I kept watch for several days running. . I dashed out in front of the car. Well, I can tell you, those guards were all over me in five seconds flat, from out of nowhere and from all sides. But the man motions to them to let me go. Come over here, what’s going on, what happened? I give him the photos. An entire file, with the written statement, the pictures, the whole bit. Just like the other one suggested, the cross-eyed guy I did all that work for. This man, he takes a good look at me, he checks out the papers, then he goes through the papers once more, and looks me over again. So he says right, if what you’re telling me is true. . we’ll look into it and we’ll see. . Two days later, we’re moving. They’d assigned me an apartment. That was then. . I’m not saying those were the good old days, no way. It was a sewer even then. But you could run around, complain, scream your head off. Now it’s nothing but money and lies and pulling strings and making dirty deals.”

He grabs the dossier rolled up in newspapers he’s been holding between his knees, and brandishes it, a dangerous weapon.

“Today, getting all the way up to the guy on top, it’s just not possible. And the rest of them, they can’t do a thing anymore. Some people have managed to get what they want through that fatso who’s on TV, plus he’s got that magazine that comes out every week. I suppose you know him, you must know him.”

“No more than anyone else in Romania. In other words, I don’t know him, but I can write your letter for you, if you like. Perhaps you’ll be lucky. If your problem intrigues him, he’ll help you. But only if he can turn it to his advantage. Maybe you’ll be lucky, maybe he’ll help you out. .”

The visitor undoes the rolled-up dossier and places on the table between them a bundle of papers covered with large, childish handwriting, slanted to the left.

“It’s all written down here. But let me tell you about it first. My rating’s A-I. I’ve been at the boiler factory longer than almost anyone else. Before the foreman retired, things were all right, I didn’t have any problems. Two years ago they brought in this new guy from the provinces. A real operator. They gave him a place to live and everything. He had first-class connections that worked like a charm. He spent more time in meetings than on the shop floor. As long as you didn’t try to cross him, he wasn’t a bad man. A wise guy, on good terms with the director and all the others, he knew how to handle them. Me, I didn’t ask him for anything, and he left me alone. Except that I didn’t go out drinking. He’s the one who started that. On payday, everyone getting blind drunk. Together, the whole crew. Everyone has to go, no exceptions. You know, me, I don’t drink. . and besides, I do odd jobs after work, off the books. It’s not easy when you’ve got four kids. My wife, she doesn’t work, it wasn’t possible, not with four of them. I wanted her to stay home with the children.”