Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

He apologizes at length for this visit. He’d had no intention of ever bothering them again. . Just a prayer. . if he might be allowed to ask. . from the lady. . If your missus. . if she still goes to the cemetery, for your friend the poet, she might perhaps also stop at the tomb of Valeria Nanu. It would please her so much, the poor woman. He’d often told her about that lovely lady and her kind husband.

The husband can’t stand the cemetery. One Sunday, however, he goes there with his wife. They stroll around a long time on the side paths, to the right, to the left, before heading for the two graves. At the modest tomb of their friend the poet, bare of offerings, they leave a bouquet of flowers. They find the other grave at the far end of the cemetery, near the fountain. A massive slab of imposing black marble, covered with flowers and candles. They add their sprigs of lily-of-the-valley to the tributes and hurry away.

The visitor reappears that night. In the small hours, at the uncertain approach of dawn. In suit and tie. His face stern, clean-shaven. He explains in great detail, but with few gestures, how he intends to reorganize the running of the establishment. Cleanliness, order, supervision! New schedule: limited hours, but greater convenience. Support services, competent personnel. A well-thought-out, meticulously planned project. .

He returns the following evening with additional information. And again the next, with ever more elaborate explanations.

Husband and wife are growing increasingly irritable, ill at ease. An unhealthy situation. They almost avoid looking at each other, and speak only when necessary. Sometimes they huddle together at night, but after a few moments they withdraw tensely, each to his own side of the bed, one on the left, the other on the right.

One day, the husband takes the initiative. Simple good manners: to return all those visits, see his guest again, at his new place of work.

At night, the cemetery is well lighted. Everything is spotless. The plots are nicely cared for, pedestrian traffic has been efficiently organized, the tombs are clearly numbered and easily located on maps of each section. Flower shop, refreshment concession, a checkroom for one’s belongings — nothing has been forgotten. Capable management for the public good. Open only at night, so that people won’t be cutting into their workday, neglecting their family and other obligations. The entrance fee is stiff: a hundred lei. But worth it, considering the quality of the services provided. And then, there’s only one price, general admission, no exceptions, no discounts pegged to age, sex, class. Here, instead of proliferating, injustices, machinations, and influence-peddling are completely unknown. No effort has been spared to guarantee profitability and self-sufficiency, in the interest of the general welfare. Otherwise, it would be chaos all over again, bankruptcy, a shambles.

In fact, the improvement has been outstanding, and remarkably rapid. Provision has even been made for friendly conversations, like the one taking place at this moment. . Any subject at all may be discussed, for here there is no room for fear. But idle chatter should be kept to a minimum, there’s no time to waste on empty words. There are constant, varied, and pressing matters to be attended to, explains the manager, shyly running his big hand across his close-cropped hair. It’s important not only to maintain the plots but also to show the proper solicitude for their tenants. You can’t have one without the other. Absolute peace and quiet must be assured. Silence, regeneration. Regeneration, future, new order. A period of recovery, as I suppose you’ve already gathered. Reconstitution and preparation. Preparation for a new time. We speak to them regularly about this, we prepare them for the crucial moment. Here they’re at rest, able both to understand why they were defeated and to find a way to recover everything they’ve lost. Here, no more fear, no more terror, no more lies. They’ve got the time, a lot more time than we have. They’re calm, untroubled. Our efforts on their behalf will be rewarded, I’m sure. We speak to each one, we assist every one of them. You’ll see how well prepared they are when they get going again, you’ll see for yourself. . The tranquillity they so longed for guarantees complete recovery, believe me. Really new people for a new time. Honesty, order, order and cleansing. New times.

His face truly glows with tranquillity. No longer rigid with tension, his features have somehow acquired more clarity and resolution. His countenance, radiant with faith in the future, fills the entire screen.

Yes, a deep tranquillity indeed. Tranquillity is boiling away, its red vapor clouding the screen, which quivers under the intense light of the fire. Impossible to see anything anymore.

But here’s a whole new morning coming up, ignorant of what may happen, peeping through the huge windows of the calendar. Tick-tock, singsongs the toad on the bedside table.

“That light again, a different window. Another blind must be broken. .”

The blind. . the blind. . the word whispered over and over, the voice drowsy, slurred with sleep.

A childish murmur. The click that starts the great wheel of day rolling once again.

“FROM NOW ON, YOU DON’T GIVE YOUR REPORT IN AN office. They’ve got a new system, they’ve found something more original,” Alexandru I. Stoian was to explain a few weeks later to his friend, the Guileless One.

“In people’s apartments? Private conversations with informers? What’s that supposed to mean? The interview’s more relaxed?” A guileless question from the Guileless One’s wife.

Confusion … The confused voice of a confused time, a jumble of voices, the murmur of time. The panting, the choking, the sputtering called time.

“With the permission of the tenants, obviously. Confidential agents, or forced to act as such. Two sets of keys and meetings set up in advance.” Further details, in the concise style of the code, would come from Al. I. Stoian, known as Ali.

Voices of the times, the modern chorus, the cacophony of the present to which the Narrator listens, attentive to the timbre of this muffled rumble.

“Well, it’s possible that they use these apartments even without the permission of the tenants, when nobody’s home. It’s possible, but I don’t think so,” Ali would add doubtfully, evasively, cautiously, in the style of the times.

But all this was still in the realm of the future. The future: conjugation of uncertainty?

The future: small and immediate. Already present, already past, already small, shrunken … enormous.

For the moment, the present means this rainy Sunday evening. A dark, dense deluge. The city has collapsed underground, dozens, hundreds of meters underground. A spectral subterranean site buried beneath the watery night.

The Stoians’ car moves slowly and painfully through the flooded, shadowy streets.

“We wound up having no choice. You kept inventing excuses, but here you are, finally,” complains Ioana pro-vokingly.

The couple in the back seat are quiet; Ioana keeps at it.

“Sorry, but personally, I’m glad. Other people’s troubles make me glad? Well, at least we won’t be alone. We’ll all have to suffer together through the boring conversation and Madame Beldeanu’s snootiness.”

“Yes, but there are compensations,” remarks the husband from behind the wheel. “The dinner, the music. Don’t skip over the positive side. Don’t forget the positive side, comrade teacher; it’s important for educators, dear comrade.”

“Have you noticed how dinner parties have been disappearing over the last few years?” Ioana starts to blabber, like her husband. “A Latin people like ours, so addicted to conversation and celebrations? Exhaustion, depression … not even enough energy left to improvise a potluck supper. Then there are the long distances, and the buses that never run on time … But it’s the desire, above all, it’s the desire to get together that has disappeared. Everyone stuck at home, no one going anywhere. So we ought to be grateful to our precious hosts. A rare chance to get out and see people. An adventure, that’s what it is.”