Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

The apparition doesn’t budge an inch.

“And it’s so cold out, too. . You should have telephoned, I’d have told you to come by later in the day. My husband won’t be home until this evening, but he’ll call you. Or you can call him tomorrow morning.”

“But. . it’s just that. . It’s you I wanted to talk to. .”

“Me?” She hesitates. “Well, come in, then, if you like.”

The words lack spirit, as though she regrets saying them even as she speaks. As for him, he’s in no hurry. He lingers an instant in the doorway, picks up his heavy toolbox, another step and there, he’s inside, shoes already off and in his hand.

“Come in, come in. Sit down here, I’ll be right back.”

She does return quickly, in fact, wearing a large, bright red housecoat. It’s cold in the apartment; the blanket she had wrapped around herself before the doorbell rang is lying on the couch.

“I thought of you. . because you’ve got a job. Perhaps you could find me something, where you work, or you might hear about an opening from someone you know. .”

“What kind of. . I mean, since you’re already employed, I don’t see how. .” “But it’s not for me.”

It’s his daughter he’s talking about. Soon she’ll be finished with school, either trade or business school, it’s not clear which he means. If the lady could find her a quiet job, in an office, among nice people. .

“They’re not hiring, where I work. . They keep laying people off. . They’re running out of excuses for letting them go. First it was your sociopolitical background, then it was your material situation, those who didn’t have any children, and now. . I just don’t know. But your daughter will be assigned to a position, all the young people who graduate from a school are given a job.”

“Sure, they’re going to send her the hell out into the sticks somewhere. She’ll be posted to a lousy factory, she’ll live in a dorm for female workers, I know how it goes. It won’t be long before someone takes advantage of her. Off among strangers, with that kind of job, these days. . She’s a child, she has no idea what’s in store for her. And besides, her health isn’t good at all.”

Silence. The woman shivers, crosses her arms over her chest.

“If necessary, I’ll. . I mean, I’m ready to pay these guys what it takes, if I have to. That’s how it is everywhere you look today, I know that. I’m prepared. I put a little money aside, on purpose. I need to find somebody in charge somewhere who’ll fix things up. .”

“To tell you the truth,” says the woman, now speaking in a direct and friendly manner, “to tell you the truth, I’m not too close to the higher-ups at my job. You’re right, that’s how these things work, as you say, but I don’t really know those people in my office. I’ll try to look around for you, I promise, yes. I promise you I’ll ask around, I might come up with something. Call me in a little while. Or rather, no, my husband will give you a call if we have any news.”

One Wednesday in March, the worker Valentin Nanu is busy taking down the glass enclosure around the apartment balcony, which has a view of the greenery in the Botanical Garden. Thick glass, a very heavy metal frame, deeply anchored in the wall. Frail but stubborn, he sweats for hours, wielding his hammer, screwdrivers, pincers, blowtorch. Even after the sections are dismantled, after so much effort, they still seem too heavy for him. He keeps going, though, straining under the weight of the panels, which leave streaks of rust on his overalls.

“Good steel and thick glass. You should have saved this marvel. They don’t make anything as solid as this nowadays.”

“There was nothing I could do, I told you. The order came from the very top. The courts have cold feet, they don’t want to hear a single word about arguments or appeals.”

“The courts weren’t the place to handle it. . since they’re useless anyhow. You should have found someone who would’ve lost track of the paperwork. You would’ve slipped him a nice little piece of change under the table and the paper would’ve gotten lost. Lots of balconies have been rescued like that.”

“I know, but they’re on the garden side, they don’t look out on the street. The First Lady doesn’t see them.”

“Courts, they make you sick. Nothing but lies and dirty money.”

“But you went through all that, too. I advised you to give up, and you wouldn’t. I didn’t think you’d be able to get anywhere. You won, though. And you still weren’t satisfied. You went back again.”

“Well, as long as you can hand out money right and left, you can manage like that, with underlings. In my case, that wasn’t working anymore. . I told you the story. . I was used to taking on the small fry first and then working my way up to the big shots. You didn’t need to pay anymore. . In the old days, you just needed a fucking big mouth, excuse the expression. Now it’s bribes everywhere, only money talks. You take this as far as it will go, until the point where. . the point where money doesn’t mean anything anymore. Then you need something else. It’s hard to find a way out. You realize you’ve come to a staircase different from all the others you’ve climbed. The old step-by-step routine no longer works, that’s all.”

Tired, crouching down on the cement strewn with bits of glass and metal, he speaks quickly, without looking up. “So that’s where I am now. After a whole. . a whole lifetime of troubles. I see that this is what I’ve come to. I need a hand, I need a hand from someone big. But I can’t see who, I just can’t. Luckily, above all these staircases, and all these devils, there’s still someone. .”

A long silence. But he’s not sure he’s made himself clear, he feels the need to be more precise. “There has to be some hope left somewhere, or else. . Who’s still looking out for us? Everything’s going to hell, everything. .”

“Are you a believer, perhaps? That’s a question I hadn’t asked myself. I mean, I hadn’t wondered if. .”

“Well, what do I know. . otherwise. . what’ve we got left? We’ve lost everything, you know. It’s all gone. That’s the problem.”

He accepts a cup of coffee! He drinks the steaming liquid in quick little swallows.

“Did you get a job lined up for that girl of yours? For your daughter, I mean.”

The workman stiffens, his cup held motionless in the air, no reply.

“Have you found something? You were worried, weren’t you? You seemed quite upset about it.”

Valentin Nanu emerges from his few seconds of torpor, sets down his cup. He gets to his feet, goes to pack up his tools, quickly, then he changes his mind, wipes his hands on his overalls.

“She got married, what can I say? I wanted to spare her that, help her find her way. An idiot, that’s all. And now. . the idiot’s teamed up with another idiot. They had to rush to prove they were idiots through and through. Too bad. So, now. . in poverty up to their necks. She’ll figure it out real quick. . Tied to the grindstone with a man but no money. Too bad, that’s not what I wanted, it’s a pity.”

Now he’s in a hurry. He finishes putting away his tools, sweeps up, deftly pockets the two hundred lei. His coat’s on, he nods, that’s it. He was there, now he’s gone. No time! Times are hard, no time to lose.

. . He returns, but at night. More and more often, at night. He approaches slowly, through a sticky, steamy tunnel. His figure grows larger, comes closer, becomes familiar: short, frail, with long arms, a youthful brush cut, and a hard look in his eyes.

These absurd nocturnal encounters happen suddenly but are preceded by a murky incubation period: sleep, insomnia, tick-tock. Staring vacantly at the wall opposite the bed. More and more cotton wool on the phosphorescent screen. A blurry image slowly takes shape, grows larger, becomes clear.