Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

The Kid, the Guileless One, the Learned One … prolongs the silence. Finally, the baritone voice announces, “No danger, no problem — I’ve sampled all life’s little temptations in my time. Well, almost all …”

“Will you stop squabbling!” Opportune interruption once again from the quiet one’s wife. “Don’t forget you promised me we wouldn’t stay late. I’m taking an early train tomorrow and I have to get up at dawn, I told you. Otherwise, I’d never get back by Tuesday. Monday is all I have off, the boss only gave me Monday. Ioana, you know what it’s like having to deal with Comrade Chibrit. I don’t want us to hang around forever tonight.”

Next come questions about Felicia’s mother, who’s ill, off in some tiny Danubian village. Comments are made about the plight of the elderly, who are being refused aid by hospitals and ambulances … The mingling voices of the evening, the confused muttering, evasions, humor and indulgence and pretense … Ioana’s poisonous barbs and Alis strategy of mollification and Felicia’s contemplative distance … For you, the observer, the Guileless One … The miracle of the instant already past, the deep, inaudible breath of the instant to come, chance and void and question: the uncertainty.

The Stoians’ car proceeds quietly, with infinite caution. As it approaches a wealthy neighborhood, some lights can now be seen, imagine that, the avenue grows wider, the streets are more and more elegant, the landscape becomes gracious, what’s this now, sentry boxes, before which stand militiamen, chilled to the bone. The roads, lanes, discreet little alleys interweave freely, leading at last to homes and gardens.

The car has barely enough time to brake in front of the armed guard who suddenly heaves into view. Ali lowers the window, the sentry leans down, checks the identity card, listens to the explanations: the Beldeanu family behind the embassy, in the courtyard, all the way in the back, friends, invited for the evening. Yes, he knows the Bel-deanus, he knows the lady and gentleman, or rather, Comrade Beldeanu, of course. A snappy salute, yes, they may proceed.

“It’s not next to the American embassy or the French embassy, only the Ghanaian embassy. But, all the same, it’s not bad, you’ll see,” says Ali, as though trying to boost his passengers’ spirits.

The car turns to the left, past the sentry box, into the courtyard, near the clump of trees, turns to the right, here we are.

“This is it, we’re here. This is the house.”

A last moment of hesitation. The passengers don’t dare leave the vehicle. They’re still staring doubtfully at the lustrous black night welling out of the deep sky, the deep and troubled waters of an ocean without moon or stars.

“Okay, everyone out now,” orders Ioana. “Tuck your head under your umbrella, huddle in your raincoat, let’s go. Quickly, come on, just a few steps and we’ll be on dry land.”

And yes, in fact, only two, three, four, five strides bring them right to the door. Ali leans firmly, insistently, one, two, three, four, five times on the doorbell.

The heavy door of solid wood springs open. There on the threshold, with open arms, stands Don Bazil.

“I’m so happy you’ve come! Too bad about the weather … Make yourselves at home, put your things there, on the coat tree. It’s quite comfy in here, we’ve got everything we need to help us forget about the rest. Rainy outside, cozy inside. Come in, why don’t you, come on in.”

Very pleasant, it’s true, toasty warm, with big electric radiators everywhere you look. And the house, so spacious, so bright, and the furniture, yes, yes, white furniture and pink furniture, amazing, who would have expected that, these days … So much elegance and bad taste and prosperity and such a warm atmosphere, isn’t it … And here’s Dina, emerging from the bedroom, coming down the stairs in an evening gown and matching turban of yellow velvet. Hugs all around, I’m telling you. Only the Kid manages to complicate this joyful reunion. Dina goes to greet him, smiling, opening her arms, but her guest simply holds out his hand. He’s never been able to stand her, has he, that painted scarecrow, whose slightest gesture betrays a certain conventional theatricality — no, he’s never been able to bear her. But Lady Di is unflappable, and slowly, ceremoniously, she extends her hand to him. The Kid bows quite low, kisses her hand, then keeps her slender fingers in the hollow of his own small paw, as though to study her manicured nails, before consenting at last to a brief formal embrace.

“Since this is the first time you’ve come here,” says Di, turning to Felicia, “we must show you the house.”

And so a tour of the premises gets under way. Vasile’s office. Madame’s boudoir. (“Just a former pantry, that’s all,” explains their hostess modestly, opening the door to the pretty little room with its sofa and mirror.) The kitchen, the huge storage cupboard with its gleaming shelves, the gigantic refrigerator. (“These days, when you can’t just go to the corner store to buy what you need, you’re lost without a fridge and ample storage space, so we’re reduced to stashing away food like barbarians in caves.”) The living room, the bedrooms, the sumptuous bathroom, pink and white tiles, look at that. Everything clean, shining, spotless, charming.

“What’ll you have, whisky or vodka?” asks Bazil, returning to his role of the attentive host. “The two superpowers! So, which will it be? The capitalist imperialists? You bet. We’ve had a bellyful of Big Brother, we prefer the imperialists. For the moment, just for the moment. Bastards, same as the others, but that’s human nature, to crave illusion, novelty. So, whisky?”

The gentlemen acquiesce; their wives hesitate.

“For the ladies we have a liqueur, if they’d rather. Imported from Cuba, marvelously delicious, you bet. Unless you’d prefer some other aperitif?”

Felicia smiles, yes, she’d prefer some vermouth. Ioana declines with a sharp little wave. No, Ioana wants vodka.

“Then I’ll allow myself to join you, old militant that I am,” announces Comrade Bazil gallantly.

Lady Di makes another entrance, from the kitchen this time, rolling a tea cart in front of her. Tiny hors d’oeuvres, as big as thimbles, on a large silver tray. Minuscule canapes, with sardines, tarama, cheese, ham. She passes in front of everyone, in front of Ioana, in front of Felicia, in front of Ali, in front of Bazil, in front of the Guileless One. Each of them chooses one, no, on second thought, two morsels. They taste, they smile, they’re amazed, they’re thrilled, they’re in ecstasy, the Child nods away along with the others, yum, excellent, mute approval from the Guileless One, who can’t take his eyes off the hostess’s hands. A mouthful, that’s how long the miracle lasts, a mouthful. Short, savory, sinful, a brief but exquisite pleasure. Have another, why don’t you, do have another, no one can resist, yum, the cries of delight are convincing, yes indeed, they flow as freely as everyone’s mouth is watering, full of appetizers and saliva. All help themselves again, again and again.

Dina returns from the kitchen. Another tea cart, another silver tray. Cunning little pastry shells, fresh from the oven, marvelously warm and tender, filled with cheese, with meat, with spinach, spiced with pepper, cumin, sunflower seeds, dill and paprika, yum, warm and tender, they melt in the mouth they’ve teased and inflamed and tainted with pleasure, no one can resist. Ioana and Felicia and Ali, they all help themselves, again and again, swiftly swallowing these appetizers. Ioana and Ali and Felicia and the Learned One and Bazil, even Dina finally has a cheese tartlet, and one more, so scrumptious. They all have more, Felicia, Ali, Bazil, Ioana, and the Guileless One, who keeps nodding as a sign of approval, yum, marvelous, all these dainties are just marvelous, aren’t they, the Kid would like to say, his eyes riveted on his hostess’s hands.