Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

Monday was the proper day to make the thank-you call. The Stoians were probably dragging listlessly around their apartment. Wiped out, with an extra dose of the blahs because it was raining again.

“We should phone Bazil and Dina, to thank them,” suggested Ioana.

Ali looked up from his typewriter. “Thank them? We’re colleagues, after all, Don Bazil and I, we don’t stand on ceremony. He should be the one to thank me instead, for going over today to pick up his stupid article and drop it off at the office. Mister High-and-Mighty didn’t have time to do it himself. He got up late and had to go off and do something else.”

“Fine, but what about Lady Di and her grand airs? Come on, you couldn’t have missed how hard she was trying last night to seem relaxed and informal, poor thing. Playing at being just us folks, with her fancy dishes and furniture! Then she’s amazed when her guests never come back …”

“You know times have gotten hard even for people like them. Bazil has to perform incredible contortions to get hold of the slightest trifle. Before, it was a piece of cake to get that stuff, and now he has to go through all sorts of crap. For the little things, obviously, for every little thing.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not going to waste time shedding tears over their fate. I mean, there are others who deserve compassion a lot more than they do.”

“So you’re going to give them a call?”

“Me? Why me? Why don’t you call her, she’d appreciate it more coming from you.”

“I think you’re the one she’s expecting to hear from. Or else she’ll think something went wrong. You know how women are.”

“And how would I know? I’m a woman? Me? All right, fine, I’ll call later, after I’ve had my bath.”

But Ioana Stoian doubtless forgot to call the Beldeanus Monday evening.

The other couple didn’t manage to rise to the occasion as promptly as they should have either, it seems.

Returning home late that Monday night from her sad trip to the countryside, Felicia had barely strength enough to relate the exasperating details to her husband (the filthy, overcrowded train, the arrogance and indifference of the doctor, her mother’s terrified weeping over her approaching end) before collapsing in bed, exhausted.

Since she taught only three hours on Tuesday, Felicia was able to come home early the next day and get some rest. That evening, presumably, they finally got around to the appropriate discussion.

Felicia’s clear, even voice wafted in from the kitchen. “If we call now, we’re still within the bounds of good manners.”

“And if we don’t? It would only mean the end of something that never really existed” was the probable baritone reply, launched from the depths of a comfortable reading chair.

“It took you five whole years to accept that invitation. Dina has always been nice to me. She’s helped me get paper supplies and frames and paints. While I, I’ve always been standoffish with her. For no reason. Except that you absolutely didn’t want to get involved in any way with the Beldeanus. Now the visit’s over and done with, so we ought to wind the whole thing up properly.”

“Fine, call her, if you like,” agreed the husband, joining her in the cramped kitchen.

“I have no desire to get Comrade Vasile on the other end of the line,” objected Felicia, tossing back her heavy curls with an irritated shake of her head.

“Comrade Beldeanu left Monday morning on a business trip. Ali told me so. Worn out, I understand, from doing the dishes the previous evening. Did you know that Vasile was the dishwasher? A model husband, that’s what I’ve learned. He bends over backward to make things easier for his wife. He’s the one who does the errands, the food shopping, the housework. A veritable paragon, no question. He’s definitely out of town. Yesterday morning Ali went to pick up some article for him, something Comrade Beldeanu didn’t have time to drop off at the office himself.”

“Apart from his biography … I think Vasile is rather pleasant. Well, not necessarily his political biography, I mean his social standing. You understand what I mean.”

“I understand, but it doesn’t interest me. Anyhow, he isn’t home. You can telephone without any problem.”

“It would be nice if you called. A nice surprise. A warm gesture, something to take the chill off this whole thing.”

“You’re asking too much, believe me. I’m already too exotic for La Beldeanu, have been ever since we were kids: the minor provincial celebrity with great expectations. Then the young scientist with so many prospects, a brilliant career ahead of him. Then, inexplicably, he jumps the track. Just when he’s hitting his stride, what does this loser do but give up his career, suddenly, just like that, the way losers always do. Why do you think they wanted to invite me in the first place? To see this rare bird! The sideshow freak, the lunatic. Something to shake them out of their boredom, spice up that tasteless soup of their dull-as-dishwater daily routine.”

“Tasteless or not, you can’t possibly know a thing about it. Vasile can’t be having an easy time of it either, these days. His political file isn’t spotless anymore, after all. Married to a woman from a minority group that … the most … well, you know what I’m getting at. Ethnic purity, today’s principal criterion of selection. And she’s got her own problems, I mean you couldn’t exactly say the past was a paradise for her, or the present either, for that matter. The camp, then coming back, and a difficult adolescence, then she has that love affair and gets thrown out of the house by old Berg, that bigot, and everything that happened next. Living with Vasile can’t be all that exciting. It’s true she’s walled herself up in that sort of frozen ritual she goes through, the Great Lady, but … Besides, I’d be surprised if she were interested in you just for your novelty value. You’ve known each other since childhood, after all. It would be natural for her to feel a certain nostalgic kinship.”

“You mean those games up in the attic? No, really, I don’t feel up to calling. Each word would be checked out under a microscope, I’d wind up sounding like a Martian. Bingo, I’d find myself flirting with her out of sheer nervousness, some kind of ridiculous hysterical fit. You know what Ali said? He sure knows how to put things. She needs a good thrashing to loosen her up; otherwise, forget it. No, it would be better if we just forgot all about this polite thank-you business, believe me.”

Two days after the dinner party, it seems, Ioana Stoian did get around to calling after all, to thank the Beldeanus, especially Dina, for the wonderful evening they’d spent together. On the dot of nine, as it happened, Dina recognized Felicia’s lovely voice. Conventional expressions of gratitude, true, but spoken in such limpid, glowing tones that it was a joy to listen to her, all the more so in that Felicia seemed genuinely moved, yes, touched, pausing here and there, while the words that should have followed seemed snapped up by a silent void … A habit of Felicia’s that Dina was familiar with.

“A most enjoyable evening for us. The gracious atmosphere … such a delightful dinner … sincerely … such a pleasure.”

“Ah, but we wouldn’t have done it for simply anyone. We did it just for you. I hadn’t spoken to your husband for thirty years, can you imagine! I ran into him every now and then in the street, but we never stopped to chat. He’d say hello, that’s all.”

“Oh, you know how he is … not very sociable … never says a word … even at your house. But he had a lovely time, I promise you … He even got drunk, that’s unusual… it was good for him, good … to get out and see people … a hermit otherwise, just a hermit.”