The Black Envelope

~ ~ ~

HE HAD BEEN AWAKE for a long time, but he still felt listless, stupefied. He opened closed his eyes, stretched out his hand to the alarm clock that had not sounded. His hand trembled on the rim of the clock, then fell back by the crumpled sheet on the floor at the edge of the bed. He had been sleeping naked, uncovered. He remembered that during the night he had probably gone onto the terrace to get some fresh air. It had been a restless night, burdened with strange dreams that had been chased away along with the darkness. He felt tired and clumsy. Only after an hour or so did he recognize the untidy table, the open window, his pair of slippers. Eventually he went into the bathroom, then lay exhausted in the armchair, then swung among the chairs. His mind started up with difficulty, stopped, procrastinated, started up again.

On the table was the long envelope with stamps and postage marks. He saw and recognized it, and seemed to begin speeding up. He was in a hurry, yes, in a great hurry. Suddenly he was speeding along crazily, and then he ground to a halt. On holiday, yes, he was on holiday: but where can you go in the season of uncertainty which is now just a pink haze? After an hour it became sultry and in another three it was whistling with gusts of ice. At Anton’s, at Toni’s, yes, at Dr. Marga’s — among our crazy fellow creatures there was always something to set your blood moving faster. Yes, at Marga’s, at Mr. Bazil’s, at Old Maid Moussaka’s, I’d find some of everything there. But I’ve just been there, I think; I was there three days or so ago. I spoke to Lord Marga about the letter and my little sister-in-law from Argentina and the foreign currency account in the name of receptionist Vancea. Yes, I’m sure I was at the Hysteria Cabaret and I danced the Tango Macabre with the famous Bazil Beelzebub and the Radiant Angelica, yes yes, and it was evening and night and morning, actually.

Costume already laid out on the chair: red socks, white pullover, white velvet trousers.

Lying naked on the sofa, the star still hesitated. The windows rattled as a bus went by. Look, the real world still exists: it has started up again, a bus is passing right in front of the window, the windows are vibrating, Mr. Dominic is receiving the signal and is in a hurry to get inside the day’s routine sounds. At twelve minutes before ten o’clock, the tenant Anatol Dominic Vancea Voinov, known as Tolea, left the building. He retraced his steps twice, as if to mislead someone tailing him. He checked the taps, cupboards, window, and gas valves — or perhaps only pretended to close them again. Scatterbrained and fastidious, perfect in the role.

He looked left right and crossed. tobacconist, dairy, tailor. “They’re all here, close by. As at the beginning of the world. If only we could look with detachment, historically.” He turned after the corner, passed the tram stop, kept moving away, and went into a small side street.

Dwarfish silence winding through humble, sloping, Oriental courtyards. Very occasionally, a long green strip of branches winks over the walls. Little rounded gardens alongside piles of garbage; thorny red rosebushes next to heaps of rags, boxes, bags — picturesque, patriarchal, canceling boundaries. To the left the drive opened onto the refuge of a villa manqué. Gates, pillars, balconies, the conceited haste of the parvenu, the nostalgia of a style, the speed of the heterogeneous that must prepare to compromise with the barbarians, the corruption of forms, the assault of rottenness …

He went up from the dirty little street to the Hill of the Metropolitan Church. At a short distance the market, the bustle of traders. Then the corridor of Lipscani Street, once the fairy scene of dealers, now completely hushed, slumbering in languor and dirt. A few moments in front of the little church of Ionikie Stavropoleos. The graceful façade with its baroque verve, in contrast to the austere, limpid, geometric interior. He passed beside the palace, stopped before the Atheneum, and looked at the frieze on the arch, still glowing with forgotten crowned heads. On the left, a new construction — a massive white block. Shells from the earthquake three years before, filled with the concrete of the new foundations. Apathy, remembrance. The new model cages, their constricted functionalism. Two rooms kitchen and bath. Couple child refrigerator television. Reproduction of the same sordid honeycomb struggling to make ends meet … Mr. Dominic Vancea put himself at the mercy of idle meditation, alibi of whatever surprises were being prepared. “I feel as if I were preparing to commit a murder, or for the great love of my life, or for revelations that have kept being put off.”

The eccentric pedestrian advances without haste, slowly looking around him. A delicate spring morning: you become its unassuming condottière, torn from lethargy for a still obscure mission that Fate is producing for you beneath the sky’s huge pink hat. You become— finally finally! — the lever or puppet of the epic, bang bang bang, scooby-dooby-do.

And so Dominic Vancea, aged over below fifty, employed as multilingual receptionist at the Hotel Tranzit and at a persistent initiation into the delights of carnival, is sauntering with thin but even steps down Victory Boulevard. The pedestrian on this calm spring morning seems to have no definite purpose, not even when, for the umpteenth time, he carefully searches the back pocket of his white velvet trousers.

He stops for a moment: yes, the envelope is in his pocket, where he put it. He remains undecided, then begins to turn back. He appears to change direction. But after a few steps he abandons the abandonment. Yes, he has finally remembered the quotation that has been obsessing him for the whole walk: “Only what cannot be turned around and brought back to a prior state constitutes a true event.” That was indeed the quotation. He can’t recall the author’s name, but it doesn’t matter: the memory exercise is enough to satisfy him.

So, the morning is starting up again. No, it is continuing; that is, coming true. TOBACCONIST, DAIRY, TAILOR, Calea Rahovei, Metropolitan Hill, Lipscani Street, the Atheneum, Strada Batitei, Strada Vasile Lascr: now the pedestrian is coming into Rosetti Square. At the crossing he again searches for the envelop in his trouser pocket. No, he won’t turn back: he seems determined to set a real event in motion.

Before pushing the metal gate, he took a large white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his perspiring face. As he removed the white silk, Dominic Vancea’s smooth firm face reappeared, now refreshed, from beneath the conjuror’s rectangle — a Roman consul’s head, as bald as if he had shaved it. Clear forehead, sharp eyes, straight, perfectly shaped nose, thin lips. He seemed to know the routine: enter quickly, self-importantly, with a distant air; don’t give any breathing space for someone to check your identity. Quite per-fect — the man on the door did not even have time to salute.

He went slowly up the narrow, twisting, dirty staircase and found himself in a dark corridor. Half of a bathroom, packed with stands and boxes, could be seen through a half-open door. It looked like a private lodging for several families. He entered a large open room, then passed a long table covered with red cloth to go into a similar room, smaller and rounder in shape. Four desks with some distance between them, and a typist’s worktable to the left of the door. Comrade Orest Popescu? the curly-haired blonde repeated in a simpering voice. Comrade Popescu is away at a briefing, and his deputy is in the organizing meeting. Meeting? Huh! What kind of meetings do they have? Surely we’re not at— But frank questions are not permitted. Vancea’s eyes stared, then he immediately pulled himself together, anxious not to appear taken aback.

The typist gestured toward the window without looking up from the keyboard. Yes, in fact there was a chair by the window. He sat on the chair, facing a solid, dark-haired man with a tie that was throttling him.

“You’ve come for the Year of the Disabled …”

“Well, I’d have liked to …”

“You must discuss it with the Executive first. I’m not allowed to give any kind of information. If she calls me in and says, Look, daddy — that’s what she calls me, daddy, or sometimes Iopo — discuss it with the comrade. If she tells me that, then of course—”

“I’ll wait, then: I’m not in any hurry. Will it go on for long?”

“Depends. It started just now. Maybe it won’t go on for long.”

“And you say it’s a meeting? What kind of a meeting can they be having?”

“Well, the Executive can speak normally. The president and the vice president, too — like us in fact, as you see. But that’s not to say, I mean, it makes no difference. We’re all united — we’re all one with the actual members.”

He looked like a foreman in a factory, tired, punished with having to wear a suit and tie and having to get involved in things that were too complicated and frightening for him.

“Maybe you’d like to read something. It passes the time, so you don’t get bored. Here are some of our publications. And our statutes. Maybe they will interest you.”

Tolea put the pile on his knees and took out the little brochure: statutes. “A public organization … which exists to train people for the political, economic, social, and cultural life of the country … for the work of construction … Socialism and Communism … its members are citizens … living within the country’s borders, deaf, deaf-mute, and hard-of-hearing, whose hearing loss is measured at more than 40 decibels … Also citizens who are able to hear and who support the Association may become members, in a proportion no higher than 10 percent.”

Dominic Vancea looked up at the office worker, who was keeping him under close scrutiny. They stared into each other’s eyes, as if communicating in some code or other. The visitor fidgeted on his chair in embarrassment. The office worker opposite him no longer appeared so weary — or so out of place in his role. For now the role suddenly struck him as unclear, as if those suspicious eyes, by scrutinizing the mimicry of reading, should have been able to guess at once whether the stranger did or did not deserve to be trusted by the sect.

“The numbers have increased,” he muttered, as if to himself, though still keeping a close watch. The intruder looked down at the statutes, but the guide continued to mumble.

“We have recorded a growth of more than 30 percent in the last five-year period. Forecasts for the next ten years show that we will achieve growth of—” A deep, soft, whispering voice — such was the activist’s way of speaking.

“The right to elect and be elected, to take part in discussions and to make proposals,” Dominic read in the brochure. The lines were beginning to dance in front of his eyes. “The Association is organized according to the principle of centralism. Leading bodies are elected from the bottom up; decisions are taken from the top down. The minority bows to the majority. Failure to comply—” He looked up and met the dark eyes trained on his bald head. Dark eyes, dark, bushy, knitted eyebrows. Dominic Vancea confronted the watching eyes. He tried without blinking to make out the scar by the dark-haired man’s left eyebrow. A faint mark, like a scratch, could be a sign or could be just a scratch — how was he to tell?

“Failure to comply with the statutes is sanctioned by criticism, reprimand, formal warning, censure, and expulsion”—recited the dark-haired man facing Dominic, with a smile on his lips. He was smiling! Why was he smiling, with those big yellow teeth? Dominic looked again at the eyebrow, at that scratch from a nail or razor blade or insect or whatever. He laid the brochure aside and took the first of the Newletters. Via¸ta Noastr, Our Life: that was the title of the Association’s paper, printed in big red letters.

At the top of the page: WORKERS OF THE WORLD, UNITE! VIA¸TA NOASTR, ORGAN OF THE COUNCIL OF THE ASSOCIATION. Then the front-page headlines. HOMAGE TO THE BELOVED LEADER. EULOGISTIC POEM. POSITIVE BALANCE SHEET, MORE EXACTING DEMANDS. PLENARY SESSION OF THE CENTRAL COUNCIL. He looked up. The office worker was no longer smiling. He looked down. “The conclusion of the Five Year Plan marks another major step in building the multilaterally developed society, the achievement of new, higher quality in the work and life of working people. The wise, clear-sighted leadership, the Leader’s precious directives and guidelines, dynamize consciousness and mark out the broad and intricate process of the construction of the multilaterally developed society. At the center of activity is man himself — created by the conditions for the multilateral affirmation of the human personality, which is an expression of the revolutionary humanism characterizing the Association.”

Dominic looked up, looked down, turned the page of the newsletter. “On the fourth Sunday of the month we celebrate the international day of the deaf, a splendid occasion for a balance sheet. Each member must display a greater sense of concern and act resolutely to achieve growth in labor productivity, tighter discipline, and constant improvement of the style and methods of work. The Best Locksmith competition. The Best Sportsman competition. The ‘Song in Praise of the Fatherland’ literary competition. The International Year of the Disabled. The care taken by the Party and state to create the right conditions for work and study. The football match between the teams Silence C. and Silence P. — a fine occasion to test technical-tactical capabilities and physical training. After the end of vocational training, the young man wanted to follow a course at evening college. Recognizing his qualities, as well as his exemplary conduct, his local organization accepted him into the ranks of the Party. Sorin is making every effort to ensure that his performance at work matches the confidence shown in him.”

Dominic looked up. The office worker was smiling. His dark unblinking eyes were trained on him. And the blue eyes of the man with disheveled hair in the middle of the room, and of the bespectacled man next to him who was furiously smoking a cigarette. Only the sweet little typist clicked away without pause, her role being to cover the silence, the sequence with the rigid office workers who did nothing but keep the intruder under observation.

“It’s not an ordinary public association, any old collective of — do you know what I mean?” resumed the whispering guide, Comrade Daddy or Iopo, or whatever the comrades called him. “It’s a model, do you understand?” And he nervously rubbed his eyebrows — both ruffled eyebrows at the same time, with both hands.

“Many people, oh yes, too many, could be taught a thing or two. They should learn from — from our members, I mean. They’re not distracted by anything during working hours. They don’t talk, don’t hear, don’t listen; then can’t gossip or tell jokes. Nor do they waste themselves on all kinds of trifles. They spend the whole time concentrating on their work — tidy, disciplined, and loyal. Above all loyal: that’s what matters most. Without any frivolity, without jokes or any of that nonsense. Double-dealing, grumbling, all those whims which—”

He stared straight in Dominic’s eyes, severe, distrustful, accusatory, and yet he smiled. He smiled! A weird smile was stuck to his lips — impossible to tell whether it was scornful or malicious or idiotic. A rigid smile which ended up scaring him. Dominic again looked down at the paper. “A call for socialist competition addressed to all branches. The stages of affirmation. Labor — an honor-bound duty. Discipline — as much discipline as possible,” but he couldn’t escape the sound of the guide.

“They’re conscientious, extremely conscientious. They keep their minds on their work, carrying out instructions to the letter. They’re punctual and see through to the end what they are entrusted with. We had an exemplary case of a woman comrade who for ten years has been head of a machine shop at the Brotherhood Shipyard. A shining example. What more can I say!”

Had the others also smiled that uniform smile printed forever on their mask? Dominic was just on the point of looking up when the guide’s voice suddenly became higher, rising above its usual pitch.

“Ah, here is the Executive. It means the meeting of the executive bureau is over. Now you can talk to the comrade herself.”

Beside the typist stood a short, modestly dressed housewife. Thick gray skirt, knitted blue jacket. Spectacles, long nose, sparse tangled hair. She held out a small, moist hand, with nails cut down to the flesh.

“No doubt you’ve also come because of the new law. It’s a state measure. I can’t discuss it.”

The voice was hoarse, rusty, but calm and weary.

“You know, all I want is to—”

“If you want to know my personal opinion, my private, not official opinion, because I’m an employee here representing the Association, my opinion as a human being, shall we say, well, come along inside and we can talk it over.”

She invited him into an enormous long room with a long table against the wall, draped with red cloth and flanked by ten or so chairs. At the end a small desk, full of books, with one chair behind and one in front. Dominic quickly sat down without waiting to be asked. The woman remained on her feet for a moment, as if to get the interview over with as soon as possible, but she eventually sat down as well.

“Yes, the Year of the Disabled. We’ve just been told not to use that expression anymore. Sure, it was a decision of the UN — the United Nations Organization; but our leading bodies think it is inappropriate. We’ve been instructed to avoid the term. The editor of our paper was also at the meeting, to be officially informed of the latest directives. The expression is unsuitable: it gives rise to too many comments and generalizations and, well, that’s that. So that’s what you’re here for. The new law is not necessarily connected to this Year of the — well, let’s call it this UN Year. It’s a long story, and I have to say that I myself, speaking strictly personally, as a human being, think they’ve made a mistake.”

“You know, madam, I’ve actually come to—”

She shuddered, feeling both angry and flattered at the unexpected word “madam,” one she was not used to hearing. But it encouraged her to sit back in her chair and to slow down the monologue.

“Yes, to be quite frank, my own view is that it’s a mistake. The years of general training shouldn’t be reduced. There are difficulties, I know: the economic situation, of course. But even if the number of school years is reduced, there shouldn’t have been a cut in the years of general training. What this means in practice is that our members can no longer go to a better school. Nor will they be able to get anywhere as workers. If they don’t have enough years at school, they’ll stay stuck on the first rung they are put on. That’s how pay grades work here, as you know. Everything depends on your education; if you don’t have any, then you stay at the bottom, no matter how good you are. Just think: I did horticulture. And I ended up here. This is where the comrades put me. You know how it is: duty is duty.”

Dominic looked at her attentively. The Madam Executive was flattered to receive so much attention from the distinguished stranger.

“It’s a pity Comrade Orest Popescu had to leave. He’s our president, as you know. He could have told you more.”

So the high-class tailor Orest Popescu is not at his command post; he must be moving among the masters. Comrade Reserve General Orest Popescu! A tailor by vocation — and quite brilliant at it according to ones in the know — who lost his voice and so many other qualities there at the front, but learned how to survive at any price, any price. And then, after being discharged, he kept rising and rising, thanks to the comrades he served. General in the reserve!

But if you look at the paper Via¸ta Noastr, there is no trace of a cult for the general who leads the hard-of-hearing infantry. He must be a sly old fox, that blockhead who hasn’t even lost his voice. In fact, nothing gets lost: everything is transformed — signs, substitutes, and invisible networks.

“What are you thinking?” the florist, the horticulturalist, said gently.

“Oh, you know, I’m thinking about what you told me. Comrade Popescu — you said that Comrade Popescu would have more—”

“Well, not necessarily, because I know the situation, too. In fact, he doesn’t have time to cover everything. Anyway, he represents us at the top and passes down the line we have to follow. And he represents us very well, as you know. The comrades in the top leadership have a high opinion of our president. But what were we talking about? Oh yes, that law reducing the number of school years. Mmm, it’s certainly a problem. You know, we’re supposed to be a model organization; we enjoy special attention from the leadership bodies. We regularly report the situation and our results; we’re greatly appreciated at a high level. But however understanding the members are, however submissive and disciplined, there still has to be a minimum of — how shall I put it? — encouragement. You know what happened last month with your colleagues.”

Dominic kept perfect control, deaf and mute at the surprise.

“Mmm, that’s what journalists are like; they think they’ve caught the big fish this time. What with this Year of ours they’ve really gone to town: that the number of school years is being cut from ten to eight; that we have no clubs or stadiums or subsidized trips as in other countries; that our members have to meet in the evening in front of the Association or in the courtyard. You’ve seen what a huge yard it is: the building used to be a large boyar’s house. The members fill the yard every evening and kick the door so hard it breaks. Is that what’s called a protest? Such a violent and sudden action? It’s true they’re very sensitive. Sure, they’d like there to be more talk about themselves, about their achievements and our organization. That’s true. But how can we possibly explain our special status to journalists? Of course there are difficulties; things aren’t easy. We hosted the World Championships, and we came out champions, you know. But when we had to go abroad, we weren’t able to: we weren’t given passports. Yes, there are certainly difficulties. But we don’t have to kick up a rumpus about them, to give ammunition to the slanderers. It’s no good journalists getting all excited to land a punch. I told them right from the start: don’t get so worked up, think carefully about what you write if you want it to be published. That’s what I told them, without going into details. Our special status, the special attention we receive, our duties, an exemplary model! I warned them. Not a word. And it’s proved true. Nothing of what they wrote has been published! Not a word. But those unpublished articles have done a lot of harm to us on the executive bureau. Comrade Orest was summoned to Party headquarters and given a talking-to. And since then we’ve had one meeting after another, so that we can’t think straight anymore.”

Dominic Vancea was listening too attentively, and the Executive Secretary of the Association was watching his nonexistent reactions. She looked him straight in the eye, he looked her straight in the eye; she passed her small hand across her forehead, tired at the effort of explaining, while he suddenly rubbed his eyebrows like a madman. What could have happened for that strange gentleman to rub his eyebrows with both hands?

“I only wanted to trouble you for a few—”

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. It’s two already and I’ve got to be back by three. Some comrades are coming with instructions for us; there’s going to be a new and urgent operation, which has to be launched at every level of the Association. The Code of Socialist Ethics and Justice has to be debated in every branch and every cell— in every organization, with every member, at every level.”

“Debate the code? But the members are—” the journalist who was not a journalist found himself imprudently muttering. “In fact, actually—” The detective quickly tried to correct himself. “Actually, you know, I only came here to—”

“I’m sorry, I’m late as it is,” the comrade repeated in irritation as she stood up. “Go and see Comrade Ionel; tell him I sent you. Comrade Ionel — the editor. Go down the corridor, turn left, and go out into the yard. Go through a door with a little green curtain. That’s where Comrade Ionel is: he does the paper. He’ll give you a few copies. The paper will give you an idea of our activities. It’s a special paper: it’s not sold in kiosks, and it’s only for members. So, into the yard, where there’s a small office with Comrade Ionel, the editor, and Mrs. Irina, who does the dummies. As soon as you go down — a door with a little green curtain. Comrade Ionel is an old hand here. He knows everything: he’ll fill you in.”

She had already put on her worn brown overcoat, already donned her woolen hat.

“You’ve got to have nerves of steel, you know. Our work’s not easy, not easy at all, and our status, our aims, our— Yes, Comrade Ionel will tell you everything. I’ve got to rush. I’ll hardly have time to give my daughter something to eat. Then back at three for the drilling session.”

She threw her enormous bag over her shoulder, pulled straight her crumpled green scarf, and scuttled away. Yes, the Comrade Executive had scuttled away.

Detective Vancea went into the main room, greeted Daddy Iopo with a smile, then went down the corridor and turned left into the yard.

He stopped in front of the door whose window was covered with a little green curtain. He went through into a small dark room with two desks. A lightbulb was glowing in the ceiling. Editor Ionel was pale, huddled, speckled with paper.

“I was talking to Comrade Popescu. She sent me to ask you …”

“Popescu is the president: Comrade Orest Popescu is the president. The Comrade Executive is called Boca. Well, tell me what it’s about.”

“I believe you have here a list of all the members.”

“I don’t deal with the records. Of course there are proper records. We have files for every member. Tens of thousands of files — a special archive. It can’t be looked at. Only people with special authorization have access to it. But if Comrade Boca sent you — well. If the Comrade Executive approved it, then go along to the archive. In the Cadre Department. That’s where the archive is, too. There are files for everyone. Thousands of files, all in perfect order. You’ll find whatever you’re looking for.”

Detective Vancea did not want to give up Comrade Ionel; he was his only chance.

“I’m looking for one in particular. He must be around sixty years old. A photographer. He used to be a photographer. I’ve heard he worked as a photographer: maybe he still does. Octavian. An old acquaintance. Octavian, yes, that’s certainly his first name. But I don’t remember his surname. Gua, Dua, Vua, Ppua — I’m not exactly sure. But it’s certainly Octavian. If you have a listing by occupation …”

“Of course, we also have a listing by occupation. By age, by social origin, by occupation, by work performance, by education, by family life, by sport — yes, yes, even by sport, that’s important. Every aspect is covered. Life at work, life in any organizations, political formation, military training, specialist training, emergency training, intervention training. Yes, we do have some photographers, as far as I remember. A few have even worked with us on the paper. I know those people better. And the others can be found in the listings — of course they can.”

But just then the door opened. Flashback, with sighs. “Oh, it’s you.” “What the devil!” “Mamma mia!”

So the visitor was no longer in the charge of all-knowing Ionel. Comrade Ionel confined himself to giving him the last two issues of Via¸ta Noastr.

“Here, they might be of interest to you. Mrs. Radovici will take you upstairs for the information — I see you know each other. Irina, make sure you tell Iopo that the Comrade Secretary has spoken with the comrade. So Iopo should put him through to listings: he should be shown the occupational listing, that’s all. Nothing else. No need for the files. Just the occupational listing. Iopo will understand what it’s about.”

Pushing, laughter, frolics. Keep pressing the old buttons. “What a surprise, Ira! Is it really you? I’d completely forgotten. You know what I’m like.” “It’s normal, Tolea, quite normal. Yes, I’m here in the mousehole, as you knew perfectly well. In this poisoned hole for mice.”

So Mr. Vancea came to the tram stop again. He waited impatiently for the tram, climbed aboard, found a free seat by the ticket seller, opened the newspaper. He leafed through the pages; the phantom Octavian did not appear, nor the president Orest Popescu, nor the name of Irina Radovici. What could Ira be doing at that creepy Association? Designing special-announcement boards, posters, or graphic displays of its achievements and tasks? Or producing dummies for festive issues? And why the same old hatred of the comrade general and tailor in the reserve, Popescu? Has she still not shaken him off? And where could Señor Octav have got to? Why weren’t his portrait and eulogy among all those leaders and model workers? Mr. Vancea kept reading and reading, bent over the pages, although he had long since got off the tram.

The photographer Octavian, then, does not appear in the foreground; he prefers to lose himself in the blurred mass of the sect’s members. He must be used to mute efficiency, among so many exemplary members of the model organization. Just miming and code? Was he, in fact, just acting out his basic character as it already revealed itself forty years ago? Opaqueness, deception, seclusion, lack of humor? Rage against the frivolous, complicated, shabby world which manages to muddle through in the end? Hatred of the beauty he covets, the intelligence that humiliates him, the goodness in which he does not believe? Is the Model Association precisely the ideal occasion, the ideal mask? A way of carrying through the dark initiation into which he threw himself in youth? The legion of frustration? Mystery and imprecation and wounded vanity?

Mr. Vancea shifted his weight from one foot to the other, searching the paper in which he found no answer. Its language perfectly resembled the model used by every paper available up and down the country; not the slightest difference could be glimpsed. Did the special status operate under the banal cover of perfect adaptation to the surrounding environment? Had the model seed bed of the underworld been created so as gradually to complete the sect’s organization, to consummate its potential for intervention? That would certainly suit the photographer Octavian. But what about the others? How do they receive and how do they understand the standard instructions? Does the amputated structure still have any resources of ambiguity? Or are they just model operatives, always focused on the immediate goal and the minimum necessary for successful completion? Armored in their own isolation, in which there are no deviations, detours, or postponement, no playful jokes, no backbiting or disputes, no hesitations or dilemmas? Just the gruffness of the instruction, the elemental act. But what about festive recitals, the taste for spectacle and mirage? What about their immediate, and essential, needs?

Don Octavio ought to explain how he has changed or fulfilled the times in which he has evolved. He would like to offer suggestions about the future in store for us. A minimum of communication: muteness, sign language, pictures, merely figurative imagination.

But what about unforeseeable reactions, strangled instincts? A wild, random outburst at an uncontrollable moment, when the crowd suddenly begins to hop and skip and shout, to destroy everything on the way? Should there be advice, requests, and dialogue only for centuries gone by, for those whose hearing loss did not exceed 40 decibels? Even that is a diversion, probably, a false provision in the statutes. Diversion, diversion, network, network, mumbled Detective Vancea, swaying from one foot to the other in front of the telephone booth.

He looked incredulously at the newspaper, on which he had noted down two addresses and telephone numbers. How could they speak on the phone, those exemplary deaf-mute members? Or maybe their children do the speaking? Does Octavian, too, have children? Has he adopted one to make the double game more sophisticated, as the operational plan requires?

He went into the booth and dialed one of the numbers. It rang and rang. “Maybe it’s another number. Have I gone soft in the head? Was it her number instead of his that I wrote down — Mrs. Radovici’s? Who isn’t Mrs. anymore, she’s Irina again. Irina — again Irina.”

After half an hour the detective repeated the attempt. He no longer had the newspaper in front of him. He had lost it, of course, but he could still remember the number. Or could he? Tolea’s memory was like Tolea himself.