Norman Manea - Compulsory Happiness

He stood up. Ever since he’d turned on the light, after the episode or the dream or the nightmare of the low, feminine, feline voice on the telephone, his words and actions had lost some of their uneasiness and elasticity. In a single instant, some chill wind had frozen his mobile, human features. It would have been hard to tell if this new posture or imposture hid something even worse, even more unexpected. He seemed abruptly conscious of being less interesting and mysterious than the character he’d portrayed until that moment. But at present he was indifferent, agreeing for who knows how many seconds to play an official, aloof, and boring role. A sacrifice he certainly would never have made without knowing that it had become opportune.

“As you saw, I brought a great many packages, both large and small. I made sure nothing was left out. And that nothing got lost. I brought them here personally, after checking to see that I had everything on my list. So as not to forget, through carelessness, a single one of my presents. I’m courting you the old-fashioned way, so to speak. Being considerate of ladies who honor me with their kind attention.”

A smile was appropriate here. A brief smile, the barest hint of a smile, after which he immediately recovered his neutral expression.

“Brushes of several sizes. Pencils, drawing charcoal, India ink. Watercolors and oil paints. Best quality. I wasn’t stingy. I chose carefully and paid without hesitation. Various kinds of paper, of different weights. Even canvases. If you’re really set on it, you’ll eventually be able to do etchings as well. Sometimes art arises out of tragic ink blots, like the ones published almost a hundred years ago during the period of German Romanticism. But perhaps you won’t need to go that far. Personally, I prefer drawing. Unless all that black and white becomes tiring for you, too ascetic in the long run. Besides, a bit of color would be acceptable in the drawings, if it’s done with colored pencil. Pencil or charcoal drawings. Chalk, pen and ink, brush, whatever you like. If you feel the need to paint, at a certain point, in oil or watercolors, feel free to do so. Along with all the supplies I got for you, I even brought varnishing materials. What’s called, at least that’s what’s written on the box, mastics in lacrima pura. .”

He was using a normal tone of voice, as though he hadn’t noticed that the prisoner was both dismayed and alarmed. And suddenly she spoke.

“Fine, but. .”

That was all she mumbled. Considering her previous stubborn silence, however, it was enough. He noticed discreetly how she kept gazing longingly at the packages piled in their corner.

“I’ve brought you everything you need to draw and paint. If you’re serious about wanting to do etchings, perhaps at some point I’ll be able to obtain the necessary authorization. Accordingly, we’re going, that is, they are going to hold on to you a while longer. Perhaps they will keep you here. A few months, a few years, hard to say. We’re a small country, we’re affected by what goes on in the world. If you want my opinion, I don’t think it can last much longer. Things are beginning to move quickly. . Whatever happens, whether you remain in custody for a long time or not, you must finish one drawing every day. Of the house, the exterior or the interior, the exterior and the interior of the house where Hariga, Kahane, Va-duva, and the others met. Too much like an assembly line for an artist? That’s what it seems like, at first, but only at first. You’ll work every day, without laboring over details, simply putting down what you remember. The drawings will probably repeat themselves, with a certain accuracy and frequency. Later you’ll be able to spend more time planning and working on each piece. They’ll become more artistic that way. More inaccurate, or accurate in a different way, a bit ‘off’ from reality as it is in your memory. Useless to explain this to you, you’re familiar with psychology and aesthetics. Memory, in the last analysis, will in turn find itself serving the obsession. As well as joining in the game. I told you that you could choose your medium. I’ve brought everything. But I wish you to begin, as in art school, with drawing. Of course you’ll be allowed to switch from one medium to another, if you like. But to begin with, and for a certain time, only drawing. A few hours will be reserved for this activity in your daily schedule. I’m sure you’re well aware of the importance of this privilege. You’ll have to work conscientiously, however. To get used to this obligation. You’ll be reluctant, at first. Then, little by little, you’ll come to enjoy it. You’ll look forward to it. Let’s hope that you’ll get more and more caught up in the game, that you’ll become increasingly intrigued, fascinated. It’s the same way with depravity, the same with love. Now, art. . depravity and love, right?. . These drawings will describe explicitly the topography of the place. The disposition of the building, your own place in the composition. I know exactly how many times you went there and whom you met there. A dozen times. More precisely, eleven times. Admit that the real purpose of this task — which will, I hope, become increasingly pleasant, increasingly useful for the artist you are or will become, leaving aside its therapeutic aspect — admit, as I was saying, that the purpose of this activity or this experiment escapes you. What can I tell you? Sincerity has been a constant part of my plans, in your case. This detail, however, I’m going to keep strictly to myself. Not even to myself, I might say. In fact, here’s another hypothesis: even I don’t know exactly why I’ve started down this particular path, or where it will lead me, and us. Yes, why not? So, now everything seems coherent and explicable again. I know you’ve been taught, and that you need to believe, that there’s a reason, an explanation, for everything. .”

Her impression was confirmed: the fellow’s words, but also his voice and rigid countenance, had taken on a certain assurance, a certain indifference.

He was drumming his fingers on the desk, glancing only rarely now at his prey. He was still standing. He’d emptied his flask; he spoke rapidly, coldly, and with determination.

“The fairy story about the marvels that might be revealed by studying a complete series of your drawings or paintings of the house or, rather, the former house of Comrade Lucian Hariga turned out to be a convincing argument to my employers. My good sense — my relative good sense — and, in addition, this vague fantasy of mine, seem so crazy to them that, as time went by, I watched them become self-conscious in my humble presence. Whatever I suggest to them, everything I say to them, makes them hesitant, unsure whether I got it from books, or made it up myself, or even whether I made up the books. . In any case they have no way of knowing. They are possessed of a sort of humility — which is related to respect, let’s not forget — that constantly increases, of course, along with their hatred of me, of you, of anyone connected with books, of anyone who believes in books. Contempt, superstition, and hatred, whether the books are real or imaginary. . They wouldn’t be capable of understanding how unreal a real book can be! How real a still unwritten book can be, as long as its contents exist — virtually — in the mind of at least one person. . Anyway, as I see, my speculations haven’t disturbed you too much. To conclude, let’s agree specifically that you’ll be required to execute drawings on a given subject. We’ll just call it one of my whims. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that I tend to be capricious. As long as you go along with me in this fancy of mine, admittedly a rather unusual one, I don’t see why I should deprive you of the attendant privileges that will be granted you from now on. My promises will be carried out scrupulously. You’ll probably be spared, as I mentioned, the rigors of a political trial. Which will perhaps fuel — at least I hope so — your comrades’ suspicions regarding Sia Strihan. . Now we’ll turn out the light. We don’t need it anymore. You see, dawn has crept up on us. We can say that we’ve spent the night together. A gorgeous morning, look! Boundless, clear sky. Misfortune, unhap-piness, prison, these things belong, like the sky, like all joy or sorrow, to the life we’ve been given. We should welcome everything that belongs to life with joy and astonishment. We won’t get to enjoy anything else. .”