Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

. . In white overalls, like a parachutist. A white helmet in his right hand. Approaching. . Unbelievable — he’s approaching the speaker’s platform. The huge deserted public square stretches out endlessly in all directions.

The silhouette of the diminutive orator stands out crisply on the black rostrum. He doesn’t move a muscle. You can see his pale, angular face, his dry lips. Standing stiffly, he delivers packets of words, in equal portions. In a weak, monotonous voice.

“We’ve had enough of your flattery! Liars, from all around the world! Leave us in peace, liars! Stop tricking us out in gold braid and angels’ wings!”

The screen quivers frenetically, matching the rhythm of his sentences, but his voice remains low and even. The screen undulates. . oily, green mud. . black foam.

“Into the flames with our gold braid, our angels’ wings! The proletariat doesn’t want to unite anymore! We’ve had it up to here with these masquerades, leave us alone. We want bread and sleep, that’s all. We don’t want any more of your promises or your persecution! Tell the truth about yourself and about us! Our own little everyday truth! We’re poor, weak, lost creatures, no better than anyone else! We snuffle about in our pigsty, like you, we clutter up the earth. Leave us to hell, leave us to swarm all over the planet! Naked, without your uniforms. Leave us alone. .”

His pathetic appeals are broadcast by hundreds of loud-speakers. A timid, monotonous voice, on hundreds of loudspeakers. There is no one in the square, only loudspeakers. He lowers his head slightly, brings his hand to his mouth, coughs. Once, twice. . The loudspeakers repeat, once, twice. One time, another time, hundreds of times, in hundreds of metal funnels, on hundreds of poles.

Silence, for a moment. There — the words are coming back, little by little, an even murmur.

“Leave us alone, liars! We don’t want to rule the world, we don’t want to be its salvation. . Tear off these heavenly wings, toss our gold braid into the fire! Stop insinuating yourselves among us, stop speaking in our name. We’ve had enough of your promises and your terror. Get us out of these uniforms. . Our truth is so much smaller. .”

The cough drags on, amplified. A tumultuous, jabbering cannonade from all the loudspeakers. The screen has gone dark, too dark to see a thing. But then he’s back, sitting on a stool this time, in the middle of the square.

“The window blind is fixed, sir. Don’t worry, I did a good job. .” A sugary voice, a humble procession of sly, sarcastic words. “Was I an interesting case? You tried to listen to me as a philosopher, to understand me. . An experiment, this voice from the underground? A mole who amused you for a moment? How annoying, sir. You started avoiding me? You can’t help me, man, we can’t help each other. They’ve taught us fear and selfishness, and so we’re all off, each in his own corner.”

He rubs his hands nervously. His white Adidas keep kicking the white helmet sitting at his feet. In his hands is a round toad, as big as his paratrooper’s helmet, and. . he’s already tossed it into that white pot-shaped thing. . He takes aim, gives a quick kick, and the missile is out of sight. Apparently reassured, from then on he stares, I mean really stares, at his audience, he takes up the entire screen of the nightmare. He runs his hands over his brush cut, wipes them on the front of his overalls.

“You’re not strong enough for my tomb. You’ve already given up visiting the poet’s, and he was a friend of yours. Perhaps I’ll make up my mind to do it, to blow it all sky high. The hell with everything! Everything, everything, in our cemetery. .”

The screen goes dark, lights up again. It’ll light up again tomorrow night, of course. . The worker Valentin Nanu no longer has any spare time except at night. His days are too full — one fucking nuisance after another, his damn job, dealing with all this shit. It’s only at night that he still visits his friends, pops in on them with his astonishing routine.

In fact, these nocturnal visits are becoming more and more frequent. And there’s no way to prevent them. Sleeping pills, tranquilizers, late-night reading, booze — all useless.

Day, on the other hand, brings some measure of peace and forgetfulness. Even his name isn’t mentioned very often anymore. One hears questions like these much more rarely now: “So, whatever happened to him, that worker of yours? He’s forgotten all about us?” The husband doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to talk about his secret meetings at night, he knows his wife is too fragile for this sort of thing. He avoids answering, just as he avoids arranging to have the handyman come around, in spite of all the stuff that’s falling apart in their home. He claims he can’t get hold of him. And so the worker Valentin Nanu no longer shows up during the day at the apartment near the Botanical Garden, and his name no longer comes up except during those inevitable nocturnal tempests he brews with such cruel indifference. And yet. . Suddenly, just like the first time, when no one was expecting it: the doorbell.

A timid ring. The lightest touch, barely brushing across the skin of the morning, almost imperceptible, as before. After a long pause, the sound is repeated. Finally, something or somebody moves, in the quiet apartment. Dragging steps scuff over to the door.

A long gray raincoat, glued to the wall, across the landing. Above the tight collar, a pale, wasted face. A stubble of black beard. Raw suffering still glittering in the angry, brooding eyes.

They look at each other a long time, and then some more, carefully, each one waiting for release.

“They killed my wife,” mutters the little gray man.

The ensuing silence grows almost palpably heavy.

“They killed my wife. I had to. . I wanted to tell you.”

“Come in, come in, please,” stammers the other man.

The raincoat on the hook, the shoes on the floor, by the door. His hands are shaking. That rough beard. . His gaunt cheeks have been invaded by a wild growth of black beard. . He sits down immediately without waiting to be invited. He tells his story quickly, in choppy, hesitant phrases. A changed voice, hoarse; whenever he stops talking, the silence is painful.

It was Tuesday morning, March 16, 1985. His wife had died the week before, at the hospital. In accordance with the latest presidential decrees, she’d had the right to request an abortion, since she was over forty years old and already had four children. She’d had to obtain official permission from the authorities, however, and the proceedings had been complicated by new provisions, still somewhat confusing, designed to raise the age beyond which abortions would be permissible. Finally, all the papers were signed on a Friday. In the opinion of her doctors, the patient’s case was neither serious nor pressing, and the operation was scheduled for the following Monday. By noon on Monday, she was dead.

“I’d promised the surgeon money, of course. I know how these things work. But seeing how poorly dressed I was, he probably thought I was broke. Those bastards in their white coats! Supposed to help people, them? Not on your life. . All they think about is stashing away as much money as they can get their hands on. . An infection, can you believe it! An unexpected complication, that’s what they’re claiming, those sons of bitches! They’re all covering for one another. The nurse on duty left early on Saturday; on Sunday the doctor only looked in on the most serious cases. . as usual, what do you expect. I spoke to the two women who were in the beds next to hers, they know the truth. I wrote everything down. They won’t get away with it like that, they won’t get away with it!”

He’d brought a whole file. Medical certificate, death certificate. Statements from the doctors and nurses. Memo of his interviews with the other pregnant women. Report sent to the city’s health department. Report sent to the Ministry of Health. Report sent to the Supreme Court. Report sent to the World Health Organization. Report sent to the Patriarch of the Romanian Orthodox Church. To the Secretary General of the United Nations.