Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

Another round of drinks, of course, and even Dina has a vermouth, what a surprise, a convivial atmosphere, isn’t it, really relaxed, the usual topics are trotted out for discussion, the dinner-party repertoire. The waiting lines for bread plus milk plus toilet paper plus rubber bands plus plus plus. The loused-up public transportation and the poorly lighted streets and the badly heated apartments and the armed patrols, and the neuroses and the illegal abortions and nationalism and the demolition of the lovely old residential neighborhoods, but also the latest scandal in the papers — that superb, that subversive poem, how did it slip past the censor? “We are a vegetable people,” superb, super, surprise, however did it come to be written by that actress, a privileged person, and such a fragile woman, how come it was published, they got permission somehow, you bet, permission and collusion, you bet, collusion all up and down the line, obviously, that’s how things work with us, you never know who, what, how, why, everything’s on the take and on the sly, a thousand-year-old tradition, tradition and innovation, hand in hand. And dictatorship and poverty and suspicion and fear and widespread complicity and the cynicism of children, yes, yes, the cynicism of children no taller than your knee. Divided souls, their souls are already split in two in their mothers’ wombs, you bet, they learn the code, the lies, the deceit, right there in the womb, obviously. And the West, that West so addicted to consumerism and entertainment, the savage, civilized, naïve, selfish West, not a chance, not a hope in hell, kaput, das Ende, they couldn’t care less, naturally, they’re not going to give up their petty little jobs and their little treacheries, you bet, we’re all-alone-all-alone-all-alone, of course, they’ve got the money and we’ve got the lies, right, alone with our misfortune, that’s how it works, you bet.

And another round of whisky-vodka-vermouth, shall we go in to dinner, the fish course awaits.

A long, plump fish, and a short, plump fish, so there’ll be enough for everybody. Delicately browned, just out of the oven, pink-and-white flesh, drizzled in lemon juice, sprinkled with salt and pepper. The glasses clink gaily, a crystalline sound, the real thing, from Bohemia, and crystal-clear wine, the real thing, as golden as honey. And the roast veal, done to a turn, meltingly tender in its thick, spicy, appetizing sauce. The succulent meat, and the hearty, dry red wine, and the salad, so crisp, with fresh, delicate colors, and the heavy silverware, and the even heavier silence. Stomachs as round as cannonballs, stuffed solid, somnolent, and vague, erratic, drowsy thoughts, and increasingly labored and tired congratulations addressed to the hostess, even though everyone knows that Lady Di employs an elderly German cook on such occasions. Tired congratulations, so tired, aren’t they, and the stomach is tired and the mind is dulled, sleepy.

“A break, a break!” shouts Ali. “My kingdom for a break …”

And sure enough, the guests move to another room for coffee and cognac and dessert and chatter.

“Shall I put on some music?” suggests the indefatigable Bazil, Marathon Host. “What would you like? Tina Turner, or Michael Jackson? You bet! Or maybe one of those little French girls who sing those old-fashioned chan-sonettes, real sophisticated and racy. Unless you want some Yoko Ono, the Japanese muse, or Homo Lennon, that old druggie lemon. Or some classical, how about classical? Anne Sophie Mutter, old Kara’s last find. Karajan, Kara-adolf, Karanazi, with Fräulein Mutter, yeah, yeah, a special couple, hoo-hoo, ha-ha, you bet. Or maybe you’d like some Israelis, grade A, Zuckerman, Perlman, Barenboim … or else those others, hmm, closer to home, from the barbarian East? You know what Oistrakh replied when the Yanks asked him who were the better violinists, the Soviets or the Americans? Know what he said?” inquires the tireless Comrade Vasile Bazil Beldeanu, studying his groggy audience. “Get this, here’s what he told them,” continues their host, drawing out the suspense, rolling up the sleeves of his spotless white shirt and pouring some port into the Learned One’s glass. “Who’s better?

Well, he says, doesn’t matter which side you pick, they’re all our good old Odessa Jews. That’s right, ha-ha, he knew the score, you bet.”

The whisky, the vodka, the hors d’oeuvres, the fish, the roast, the salads, the white wine and the red wine and the cheeses and the dessert and the cognac and the coffee, yes, yes, there’s even coffee, real coffee, not ersatz, and excellent imported cigarettes and baroque music, oh yes, when one’s this tired, baroque is the only way to go. Everything’s perfect, isn’t it, yes, yes, and the perfect bowl of fruit, and the decor and the cuisine and the fancy conversation, everything, everything’s perfect, of course. The perfect hosts, you bet, indefatigable, flawless, constantly trying to make the evening seem informal, to create a less sophisticated, more friendly atmosphere. Hard, very hard to do … Prosperity doesn’t draw people together, it’s an irritant. Comfortable house, Pantagruelian meal, relaxed atmosphere, a chance to have a good time, forget one’s troubles, fears, regrets, that’s all, and yet, there you are, it doesn’t work, that’s what happens, nothing you can do about it.

Conversation has lapsed, despite the energetic efforts of the hosts — who are experienced at this, well trained, in tiptop shape, wired up.

“And you, Felicia, do you still visit churches and synagogues?” asks Dina, taking the initiative once more. “Do you still think those are the only places where one can find interesting faces? You’ve stopped painting? Ioana told me that you were still at it, that you hadn’t given up. I can imagine what it’s like being a drawing teacher in a technical school. But you haven’t stopped painting, I’m sure of it.

I’m not asking about the religious aspect of this — it’s a question, if I understand correctly, of a purely aesthetic interest.”

Poor Dina, unbearable Dina! She does her best to act natural and friendly, but she can’t overcome that fatal barrier, that’s all, she simply can’t, whatever she does always comes out stiff and conventional. That’s how she fell into the trap named Vasile, the lure of the rudimentary, wouldn’t you say, that sudden relief when someone else takes over all social interaction, everyday contacts, favor for favor, social chitchat, comfort, the whole bit.

Felicia’s laconic reply has startled her, since any refusal to go along with that artificial spontaneity she affects throws her rudely off her stride. But nothing in the world would make her show it, and she has already turned toward another guest.

“I’ve always admired the way you behave so naturally, Ioana. Your soul is an open book, to use the popular expression. Ali is really to be envied. Wives these days have no time to do anything anymore, whereas you, you still manage your teaching and your embroidery, and your canning for the winter. What energy, what patience it must take to instruct these farm boys, these future technicians, in the fine points of English pronunciation! I can imagine what that means, school on top of housework and the child. You’re a champion, that’s what you are. A heroine, one of our truly impressive modern women.”

Little gem-like phrases, intended to be simple, appealing, which, once spoken, sound arch and precious, all because of her inability to communicate, you see, that’s why he succeeded, Vasile, that’s why she has stayed resigned, content, who knows, she’ll have gotten used to the trap named Vasile, she’ll have understood it was a trap, she must have understood, in the end, don’t you think, but she got used to it, yes, yes, it’s rather comfortable, all this, rather comfortable. She tries to make little jokes with Ali or her husband, and they always misfire laboriously, poor, poor Dina, the unbearable, the useless, the poseur. Only the Learned One escapes her inept attentions, she leaves him to his own devices, asking nothing of him, neither participation nor approbation, nothing at all, she leaves him alone.