Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

The man stopped staring at her. He looked down at the sheet of glass covering his desk, as though he wanted to avoid hurting her feelings, since the cap no longer concealed her shaved scalp.

He started to speak like that, keeping his head and eyes lowered. “I hope you’re beginning to get used to me. We’ll be able to have a chat. You see, I detest the picturesque. Anything distracting.”

Then, what about the cap? Why had he made her take it off and exhibit her shorn skull, as smooth as a billiard ball? She looked at him, vexed at having been tempted for a moment to judge him by logical criteria, thus falling into the first and crudest trap.

“I demanded that everything be done to put you in a normal state. So that you would look normal. So that you’d react normally. So that you’d seem and even be, eventually, as far as possible, unobtrusive, colorless. Almost insipid. So that you wouldn’t provoke any inordinate interest. I hate surprises, anything disruptive. . I’d like you to get used to me. Don’t be upset that I’m probably not the way you imagined I’d be. Try to do this. So that we can be on an equal footing. So that you can follow and understand me. . This room we’re in now, you were given time to get used to it as well, weren’t you? I find distraction aggravating. As I told you, I don’t like shocks, surprises, useless emotion.”

Although the prisoner wasn’t looking at him, she sensed that he’d raised his head to watch her.

“Let’s go back over a few things now. You’ve been here for several months. Beaten, tortured. As much as could be borne by a woman of steadily weakening stamina. Between periods of unconsciousness, I mean. You were cursed and insulted, of course. You’ve probably never heard so much foul language, screamed with so much pleasure. They never stopped demanding from you the names of people you’d met. The hideouts, the clandestine activities of all your friends. . Later on, they beat you a bit less. A few hours a day. A more varied schedule was introduced. You were made to stand in the courtyard, for three hours at a stretch, in all sorts of weather. Then, for several hours each day, you had to stand at attention within a chalk circle of about the same diameter as a basketball. Your feet swelled terribly. They were rather large to begin with, I’m told. The flesh started to puff up over the edges of your shoes, which you could no longer remove. . Once or twice, at night, you found rats in your bed. If you can call it a bed. A narrow coffin, made for a shrunken corpse or a dying person who was to be constricted like a mummy. Didn’t they turn on a siren, at night, out in the corridor? Didn’t they bring in cats, so they could chase and beat them, right outside the cell doors?. . Despite everything, perhaps they didn’t rape you. Not because they didn’t want to, naturally. Especially when they were beating you. When you were exhausted. Extreme weakness is very arousing, just as strength is, as you well know. . Doesn’t it count that they didn’t rape you? You’d tell me they made up for it in other ways. And yet it counts for something, believe me, it counts.”

She expected to see him smile smugly. But suiting his expressions to his words must have been the least of his worries.

“After shaving off your hair, they forced you to make it into a kind of feather duster. With which they made you wipe something besides dust. . In fact, they’d forget to bring back the toilet can. Particularly on the days when you had intestinal trouble. Induced diarrhea? You must have suspected that. Kept standing, at night, targeted by the beams of four floodlights. Your head shoved into a barrel of soapy water? A crude idea, so primitive. Forty-eight hours locked in a closet? Forty-eight hours in total darkness. Without forgetting, of course, the usual third degree. Mocked, mistreated, starved. Not too funny, this recap, is it?”

Could he have noticed, even though his eyes were closed, that the prisoner was growing paler and paler?

“And why, after all? Always the same questions. Which you didn’t answer. They knew beforehand. The answers didn’t interest them. In any case, they wouldn’t have stopped torturing you. And answers would have been an additional reason to punish you. To make you repeat what you’d already said, to tell you that your accomplices were claiming the contrary. To trick you into contradicting yourself: Yesterday you said that, and today, this.”

He didn’t anticipate any reply. Resting his elbows on the desk, he watched her without expecting her to react in any way.

“Nothing you can do about it. It’s their job. Sometimes they get some results, though. Given their level of intelligence, it’s difficult to show them that they’re wasting their time. Besides, it’s what they’re used to, of course. And they enjoy it, let’s admit that. You won’t have to undergo any more harsh treatment, I promise you. It’s not in their interest anymore to have you die or wind up an invalid. They’ll make concessions, you’ll see. Conditions will be. . not excellent, but ordinary. . So, you were arrested on a Wednesday afternoon. At seven-sixteen. In front of 7 Mandicevski Street. A few steps from the bus stop where you’d just gotten off. You were late. Annoyed and irritated. It bothered you. You were always very careful, however, and I’m sure you got ready early every time, so you wouldn’t be late. You were very particular about being on time. But occasionally, at the last minute, you’d notice that your stocking had a run. That your coat was missing a button. That the zipper on your skirt was jammed. That your shoes weren’t polished. You felt guilty that day, I suppose. . The meetings of conspirators are in some ways — but not all — like lovers’ rendezvous, aren’t they? And the meeting that day was a little bit of both. Which made your lateness even more serious, of course. That Wednesday, your delay was caused by the bus. Not only, in fact, not only by the bus. .”

From time to time, he would adroitly draw over to him, she now saw, the flat bottle lying on the desk. He’d unscrew the cap and fiddle with the flask, which he held under the table, down by his chair, without making any noise. You had to pay close attention to see what he was doing. You didn’t hear him drinking — each swig went down quickly, almost while he was talking. He counted, probably rightly, on the curiosity aroused by his appearance and by what he had to say, which overshadowed all the rest, making it hard to focus on details.

“The bus’s delay was not entirely accidental. We’re the ones who made it late. Not by much, just enough for what we needed. . I’m glad to see you’re not rolling your eyes, that you’re not easily impressed. I’d find that taxing. I’d become impatient, aggravated. Whereas this way I can begin to trust the person with whom I’m talking. I hope we’re going to get on well together.”

Abruptly, he drew his chair nearer. He looked vulnerable, unhappy. As though he was asking for help. Ready to let down his guard, to pour out his heart to a friend.

“You see, I can’t bear to go up against an unworthy opponent. It unnerves me. I insisted, I told you, that you should be presented to me in a normal state. Otherwise, I’m at a loss. . I can hardly function when I know that the person listening to me has been beaten, terrified, humiliated before being brought before me. Really, I can’t. . No, it makes me plain nauseated. And afraid, I must admit. Of myself. Of them. Of what might happen to me as well one day. .”

He noticed that the prisoner suddenly seemed attentive, tense, as she confronted the face and voice of this aging, lonely child, helpless and complaining.

“And so you were late. Your comrades were arrested before you arrived. You know, sometimes our little game obliges us to play dirty. . Before you panic, let me assure you that I know just about everything you could possibly confess. Besides, I’m also aware that you feel more or less incapable of judging the relative importance of what you know and so have prudently resolved to consider every fact of vital significance. So that you absolutely won’t give anything away. I know the names of the regular visitors to the house in question. I’ve enjoyed reading the reports, and have requested further information on the subjects. I was given what amounted to in-depth biographical studies. Practically monographs, and not just on comrade Simona Strihan. Your friends call you Sia, don’t they? So, Sia Strihan. . I’m perfectly familiar — as though I’d known your friends for a long time — with Barbosa’s liver ailment and still rather tidy fortune, plus the fact that young Pa-traulea, known as the Poet, has a definite penchant for the ladies. Which doesn’t explain that other penchant of his, his passion for the arts, does it? And it can’t be his rural background, either, since his parents were atrociously poor. Still less his very, very delicate constitution. . The distinguished Mrs. M rg rit is a fanatic. Although she looks like, and even is, an accomplished woman of the world. Acquainted with all the ordinary — and not so ordinary — pleasures of the eternal upper crust. Which she detests, naturally. Nothing but a fanatic, one would say. Unlike the engineer. . Is that a draft I feel?”