Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

She raised her arms awkwardly. Slowly, because the slightest current of air could tip him off. He’d already proved several times how keen his senses were, the poor bastard. Even when he seemed to be absent, obliterated by the darkness, he detected every movement. She leaned over one of the armrests on the chair. She covered her ears with her hands. But she didn’t want to fall asleep. She had to remain awake, attentive, at all costs.

The Plenipotentiary was often shaken by real moments of collapse; he disguised some of these episodes while flaunting others, or even cleverly mimicking a state of absolute prostration, and it was difficult, impossible to tell which was which. Anyone who could do so and thus avoid being fooled by him would unquestionably have a chance at foiling his plans.

At all events, he’d managed, she had to admit, to make her doubt all arguments and judgments — her own as well as his — and ascribe to that interminable monologue, despite everything that was dubious about it, a secret but very precise purpose, not yet clear to her, toward which he was doubtless directing her, imperceptibly, and thus he felt free to indulge, among other things, in the most unexpected maneuvers on the side, forays well off his chosen path, often inspired by a sudden whim.

Was it worth trying to figure out, wondering, for example, why he’d spoken of the engineer Mateescu and not of the Mateescu brothers, who were engineers? As for young Patraulea, it never would have occurred to her to speculate about his peasant origins. An interest in the arts, yes, that she would eventually have wondered about. But not any problems with his health, certainly not. She’d never heard any mention of ill health, she didn’t see the connection. When she thought of him now, however, anything seemed possible, everything became more or less plausible.

Had he stopped talking? Was he tired, too, drowsing quietly just as she was, the poor man, the creep? He was silent, and she hadn’t heard him for some time now. Nor had she been in any way aware of his presence. She’d been waiting the whole time, even when trying to think about something else, she’d kept her eye on him, thought she could feel him waving his soft, weak arms around, quite close to her, flitting about the room like a bat, she’d waited for him to draw near, to awaken her, to punish her for not listening all the way through with more interest and respect, to hit her, undress her, or who knows what, in a frenzy. . Yes, he would have been capable of doing absolutely anything. A few times, behind the apathy and timidity he made such a show of, whether real or affected, she’d glimpsed an unsettling mixture of desire and hatred and pleasure, still perfectly controlled, held in check, but directed toward her, touching her briefly, like an invisible arrow. She’d pulled herself together, feeling vulnerable and afraid.

She raised her head, threw back her shoulders, stopped leaning on the armrest. She listened carefully. Faint, even breathing, the breathing of a spoiled little rabbit. So he’d fallen asleep, too. This interview certainly seemed to reveal a ridiculous complicity between them!

“No, I’m not asleep. I was letting you rest for a moment. You seem tired,” he murmured.

He’d hardly spoken when they both started and looked up sharply. The telephone was ringing! Even he was surprised. Now what were they up to?

The racket was horrendous, and in the dark he was having trouble finding the receiver. Finally, he picked it up.

“Yes. It’s you? What’s gotten into you?. . Not yet. . No, a little more. . You can relax, no, I haven’t done a thing to her. . A wig? Ha ha! No, I swear.”

His laughter was forced, he seemed fearful, uneasy, irritated. But also furious and delighted.

“More or less. . No need for you to worry about it. Not over that. . Yes, just to keep my hand in, it wouldn’t hurt me. Don’t fuss over nothing. . No, don’t call back. That’s an order. Do me a favor, let me handle this, no, please. .”

He was begging her in a subdued voice, whispering more than speaking, ashamed of himself. Dominated by a woman, but feared by her as well, he was twisting around on his chair like a child caught doing something wrong. His caller also seemed to be speaking in an undertone, without raising her voice at all. Complaints and treacherous entreaties at both ends of the line.

Had he hung up? She hadn’t heard a click. But the voices had been quiet for a while. Perhaps they were listening to each other breathe. . Then a slow half-turn. Waiting. Silence.

Finally, he switched on the lamp. Both of them rubbed their eyes; their faces were drawn. After so much darkness, the light was blinding.

“Yes, it’s rather late. As you can see, I didn’t try to drag all your secrets out of you.”

The prisoner looked at the clock over the desk, but she was dazzled by the light and couldn’t decipher a thing. Everything looked the same, all white.

“You’ll have to learn to deal with your friends’ distrust, I suppose. And I should let you know that you won’t be charged along with them at their trial. We might decide to release you. We might just as well decide, after all, to condemn you. Not necessarily for any political crimes. We’ll look for something else. Haven’t found it yet. I’ve been frank with you. Don’t kid yourself. I’m not always like that, but this time I chose to be. It’s part of my plan. Don’t get the idea I’ve been faking all this sincerity. In time you’ll discover just the opposite. No, I haven’t cheated. I was trying to be open, aboveboard. . Whatever happens to you from now on — I’m being sincere right to the end — will be connected with Lucian Hariga, your beloved, as they say in melodramas. Even when you’ll no longer know anything about each other, when he won’t have seen you or thought of you in a long time. . The freedom of work, the freedom of love, the freedom of creation! Wonderful, isn’t it? Artists become rebels, because of everything they are and especially because of everything they’re not. Art certainly seems, at first, like dislocation, deracination, inadequacy. Nourished, enhanced — I’m repeating a quaint aesthetic cliché—by an obsession? Weakness can give rise, let’s not forget this, to a formidable strength. We’ve seen this time and time again. It’s only natural, that’s what I’m saying, for you people to be always on the side of the opposition. To end up championing the downtrodden. And those rare prophets who still come along now and then. . I’m familiar with such pastimes. I had my own fling with them at one point. Don’t think I don’t know what I’m talking about. I dabbled a bit. Even I was a firebrand for quite a while. Yes, me too. Perhaps there’s still a fire in my belly, but it feeds on a colder, more artificial fuel. That’s why my employers consider me skilled at handling special cases. Because, as I told you, I once was one myself. I was even becoming especially special. I was done in by laziness, my little vices. Perhaps by my intelligence as well, I’m not very modest, as you’ve noticed. In other words, I’m the product, some would add the symbol, of corruption. . I certainly couldn’t discourage you personally by claiming that you people, our rebellious fringe element, haven’t got a secure, safe place even among those with whom you naturally belong, as I was just saying. One senses this cruel quirk of fate rather quickly, but understanding it takes time. . You, Miss and Mrs. and Comrade Strihan, you’ve loved this exceptional man. An intellectual with a solid education, and a fighter. To all intents and purposes, a leader, that’s Comrade Hariga! You’re younger than he is. Which made the attraction, on both sides, all the stronger. You had a part to play in his life. Although he is or might readily be taken for a hedonist, I ought to tell you. He’s fascinated other women besides you, become close to them, then drifted away without any useless complications. . Your grades at the School of Fine Arts were not outstanding. But I saw every picture of yours that’s still there. I was able to understand who you were, what you were after, I could see the truth in those paintings. A truth still nebulous, seemingly chaotic. The truth of art, of your art, for example, is not something obvious. Perhaps truth is too big a word, a balloon of hot air. Hmn. . The money I receive — grossly inadequate compensation, when you consider how much they get from me — would be even more degrading if it didn’t allow me, at least occasionally, to indulge not only in the pleasures that money can buy but in others as well. Not simply fleeting ones. Pleasures of a more lasting nature. I hope that you’ll be one of them, Sia Strihan. . Please excuse me for having used the familiar form of address with you now and then. I’m a little drunk, and I don’t feel well. Nevertheless, perfectly lucid, I assure you. . It would be pointless, anyway, but even if I wanted to, I couldn’t keep them from continuing to interrogate you. To shock and offend you, sometimes to torment you. They like driving things into the ground, there’s nothing I can do about it. They think the whole apparatus will get rusty if it isn’t constantly at work, that’s their rule. I have only limited power to change their methods. What’s more, they claim, and sometimes prove, that they get results. It’s not my department. But even so, there are certain things I can do.”