Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

One couldn’t see the face, only the large hands, and the toad he’d dredged up from the foul muck, the big hands cradling the frightened, stinking toad.

“He was supposed to attend a conference a few days later? Okay, I didn’t quite get that, it wasn’t exactly a conference. Oh, all right, an international symposium of poets, fine. So he had his passport, his ticket, everything. I heard you, the door was bolted on the inside. The neighbors and his mother, yes, yes. . They broke down the door, I understand. His mother had come up from the country, poor woman, to see her son off on his trip abroad, yes, I understand. He hadn’t been waiting for her at the station as usual. She was astonished, of course, absolutely astonished when she rang his doorbell and he didn’t let her in. The neighbors, yes, then the neighbors, the forensic pathologist, the inquest, naturally. They didn’t order an autopsy? His mother asked for one but they refused, I see. Did she insist on having one or just let it drop? You’ve got to be more specific, you know, so let’s have it: did she insist or not? It’s an important detail, after all, I should hear everything you’ve got to tell me. .”

So he was instantaneously intercepting the thoughts of a person unable to utter a single word. He was instantaneously voicing the thoughts of the terrified person over there next to him and at the same time over here — and where’s that? Somewhere. . somewhere. . in front of that cottony screen on which the nightmare is unfolding. To be here, who knows where, but also over there, which is where? Next to the drain opening. . To say not a word, but to hear one’s thoughts on a simultaneous sound track. . He knew everything, every single last thing. . The marks on the body, the burns from cigarettes stubbed out on the skin, the lipstick on the rim of the glass, all the grotesque details. . Certainly, I understand, a very private person, taciturn, yes, yes, too reserved, yes, someone staid, very serious, a loner, of course, a solitary man. In good health, no doubt about that, perfect health. . Pardon your son who has died without confession, without the last sacraments, receive him into the Kingdom of Heaven. . Pardon your son who has left us unshriven, without extreme unction, chanted the priest before the coffin, yes, yes, so few people at that strange funeral, useless, those visits to the cemetery, your lady’s too emotional, she shouldn’t keep going back there. No one has ever figured out that sort of mystery, your wife’s torturing herself for nothing. . Without confession, without extreme unction, that’s right. Naturally, hearsay, vicious rumors, people are like that, cowards and scandalmongers. And then that bottle, very suspicious, definitely, it’s all a muddle, what’s the use. .

He tried to stem this flood surging out of his control. Cold sweat, a slow descent, drawn by thin threads, so thin, helplessness and befuddlement. Time stopped, cut to ribbons, the body fraying, surrendering. . until where when how, the tinkling bell. . a twittering, a chiming, a mountain spring, the booming monastery gong, bells in the sheepfold, jingle bells on a horse’s harness, a school bell, a church bell, cow bells, a child’s rattle. . the doorbell. The doorbell’s ringing.

Silence. And. . the doorbell rings again. A timid buzz, a faint lapping, a rattling toy. He clutches the bedposts, he must feel the bedposts. Something solid to lean on, proof of purchase, a guarantee one won’t be torn away and swept into the void. He feels around at the foot of the bed, pulls on his jeans, his shirt, his slippers. He staggers, still half asleep, toward the door. Yes, it’s morning, it’s light out, tick-tock, the alarm clock on the bedside table, tick-tock. Daylight, another day, off we go.

The man stands, shyly, far from the door. How, how did. . when just a few moments ago. . back there, what were you doing in that other place. . and now, so quickly. . Who knows if. . The man stands, silently, far from the door. He leans down to collect his toolbox. A few steps and that’s all it takes, he’s inside. A slight nod in greeting, that’s it, he’s inside.

“How did you. . Listen, there’s no need to. . Don’t take off your shoes. . Put it down right there. . The bottle. . the bottle of red wine, yes, it was half, only half full, that’s what’s suspicious. It had been left uncorked, and that is just something he never would have done. Ab-so-lute-ly nev-er, you hear me? Anyone who knew him knows that. . No, there’s no need. . Yes, I got out, but only just. . The swamp, sleep, sliding, yes, yes. . So, come in, I’ll make some coffee. A cup of coffee, yes, that’ll help. .”

One drinks coffee; the other, tea. They exchange furtive glances, ill at ease. The handyman replies without enthusiasm to inquiries concerning his health, his lawsuit, the latest presidential decree ordering that apartments may not be heated to more than 54°F. He sets the same bundle of papers down on the table. He repairs a switch on the desk lamp, reglues some tiles in the bathroom.

“I’ll dismantle the glazing on the balcony, what do you say?”

“No, it’ll wait. . I’ve filed an appeal. There are tens of thousands of people in Bucharest in the same position, who’ve enclosed their balconies to gain a bit of space. They had permission from the municipal authorities. Now they’re being forced to tear everything down. Because someone, and we know who, took a walk around the city one day when he was in a bad mood, waved his hand, and said, ‘Get rid of all that glass on those balconies!’ In our case, the previous tenants had enclosed the balcony by the time we moved here eight years ago. The work had already been done. We have the papers to prove it. The people down at city hall can just come and tear everything out themselves! It seems that’s what they’re doing, after first raking in outrageous fines.”

The little man doesn’t seem to be paying attention. He washes his hands. He shakes them vigorously over the sink to dry them. When he’s handed a hundred-lei bill, he appears not to notice. But he pockets it in a twinkling, without a word.

“I’m in a hurry, the attorney’s waiting for me.” “Which attorney?”

“Well, yours, the one who lives in your building. Right above you, except that he’s got two apartments he’s made into one. As big as yours and the teacher’s put together.”

“Oh yes, I know who you mean. He’s the president of the tenants’ association. Very polite, well-mannered.”

“But stingy, take it from me. I’ve been doing odd jobs in his place for years. An attorney. . I told myself, you never know when you might need one. With that guy, I have to haggle each time until I’m exhausted. It wears him out, too, but he never gives in. .”

He disappears, the worker Valentin Nanu, just as he had appeared, here one moment, gone the next. You can’t even find him again at night, back in that stinking fog of darkness he was trying to muck out.

It’s winter again, in the afternoon, when a ring at the doorbell is a sure sign. Someone rang, no one rang, it’s as though someone rang. . as though one hadn’t dared to ring. And then there he is, standing away from the door, backed up against the opposite wall. The distorted image glimpsed through the spy-hole shows him perfectly: a gray jacket, too tight, with worn lapels, a clean white shirt, pants twisted and gathered at his waist, arms hanging down, too long for his short, bony frame. Gaunt, with deep-set eyes. His hair en brosse . . and those huge, those ancient shoes, so patiently polished over the years. And no overcoat.

He knows he’s being studied through the Judas. He approaches, he murmurs, “It’s me.”

The door opens a crack. The woman, that lovely woman, stares out at him with frightened eyes. “Oh, it’s you. . I’m sorry, my husband isn’t home just now.”