Compulsory Happiness

A WINDOW ON THE WORKING CLASS

Sunday keeps stretching out its arms. . a grasping, famished octopus. A net with threads as slender as a hair. Eiderdown and clouds, a treacherous nest sailing on the endless, swollen ocean of night.

Blessed, cursed peace. . To make it last forever and ever, to erase all sound, thought, the poison of fatigue, the nightmare of our times, places near and far, the past held frozen in a lowering sky, the future tossed into the clock grinder. The rusty toad devours pell-mell seconds, cells, flesh and dreams, tick-tock, no exit.

Light darts its first shaft, its first oblique ray, straight into the huddled body, which lazily divides in two: one being flops softly to the left, the other to the right. Shaken by gloomy storms, the placenta of sleep splits open in an instant, destroyed with a single movement: cruel day calls back her orphans.

The woman settles lightly on the right, the man rolls heavily to the left, while behind its bars the morning grows brighter.

And then a whisper: “You see, it’s that light again. . I’ve asked you so many times to. .” A mist of childish breath, rocking the words. “That. . light. . asked. . you knew. . again and again. . This torture, this same torture.”

And sure enough, Sunday recaptures its prisoners one more time. Really, that damned blind should have been repaired by now!

“That window again. . even though I asked you. I reminded you about it every day. You know it’s driving me out of my mind. I asked you to find someone to fix it. I mean, it’s just a blind — it can’t be all that complicated. There must be someone around who can fix it.”

They grope, haggardly, in terror of a new day. Shower, black coffee. Wide awake, sluggish, alert, groggy, sitting in front of their cups. Already belonging to this new day, no way out, none.

The rumble of streetcars somewhere, in the distance, close by, below, above, trolley bus motor bus blunderbuss, impossible to detect the teasing tick-tock of the stocky toad squatting in the bedroom. They keep an eye on the clock, without hearing it. But they know the pendulum is conscientiously nibbling away at the calendar’s poison.

Face to face, slumped in the two armchairs of worn velvet, they contemplate the black circles of the cups placed symmetrically on the small shiny black table. The slim white hand runs a long pale finger around the black rim. The transparent blouse slides across the shoulders with a brief rustle, as though coaxing.

“I didn’t sleep as much as I’d have liked. . There’s still this endless morning to get through. I’m going to visit the cemetery. But I won’t stay long. I’ll be back in an hour.”

She stops talking. She watches him remain silent. . Symmetrically, they take a sip of coffee, looking at each other. The morning authorizes such preliminaries. Silence as well — for a moment — from the motor bus trolley bus blunderbuss streetcars. They can hear the measured pulse of the toad chronometer rhythmically swallowing every last flicker of hope.

“Why don’t you sort through his notebooks? And they ought to be hidden somewhere else, you know. They’re too easy to find, here with us. . That’s probably what they wanted from him, that night: the notebooks. Maybe that’s why he died. .”

He keeps quiet, closes his eyes, waits for the rest. He opens his eyes, still waiting.

“We have to take care of the notebooks right away. They have to be sorted and put in a safe place. They’re all we have left of him. And you know perfectly well there’s more than just poetry in them, too. .”

Nothing more is said, or happens. The barbarity of the street breaks in on all sides, surrounding the nest.

Suddenly they’re both startled, on the alert. The doorbell. A long ring, then a long pause. Another ring, short, timid.

“Who could that be? On a Sunday morning, no less? No rest for the weary! Who could it be, at this hour?”

In front of their door, no, a certain distance from the door, practically up against the wall across the landing, there’s a kind of grayish raincoat that hangs almost to the floor. Above the tight collar, a face with pale, sunken cheeks. Large eyes, glittering uneasily.

“Excuse me if. . perhaps I’m disturbing you.”

The hollow voice adds to the impression of shyness and humility.

“Your shade is broken, you know. Your Venetian blind. In the window, I mean. If you want, I can fix it.”

Bull’s eye, bang on, a one-in-a-million shot. A sure-fire surprise.

“Uh, yes. . yes, but. . how did you know?”

“You can see it from outside. The cord’s broken. . You know, the lift cord, the one you pull. It’s jammed inside, I can tell. That’s why your blind’s drooping at one end. Not up, not down. The slats going every which way, you know what I mean?”

“It’s true! You’re right. But how did you figure out. . How did you find our apartment?”

“I counted, from out front. Fourth floor, door to the left. . It was easy.”

“Mm yes, well, what can I say? Please, come in, come on in.”

The door opens wide. The little man comes forward, then takes a step back. He’s left a heavy, battered toolbox sitting on the landing.

“Do come in, please. Oh, no, you don’t have to take your shoes off, really. .”

The man does so anyway and in no time stands there in his stocking feet. His raincoat is hanging on the coat tree in a trice; his toolbox, sitting on the floor next to his shoes, is already open, displaying screws, screwdrivers, pliers, wing nuts, keys, nails, bits of string, his stock-in-trade.

He moves at a slower pace through the living room, enters the bedroom. Short, bony, stooped, master of the situation. He examines the window from one side, then the other. His movements are relaxed and decisive. No trace remains of his initial hesitancy.

“It’ll cost you one hundred lei. If you want, I’ll get started. A hundred lei.”

He shrugs his shoulders. Frail shoulders, large hands, long arms for such a small, gaunt body. He turns around, runs his fingers through his hair, which he wears in a brush cut. Hands on hips, expectant, keyed up.

“It’ll take me an hour. For a hundred lei, as I said.”

“That’s expensive. Why a hundred?”

“That’s my price. A hundred lei. When I mend something, it stays mended. A good cord’ll last you forever. I’ve got some old ones that don’t fall apart.”

“Well, all right, but a hundred’s a lot. . Why don’t you get to work and we’ll talk about it later — I’m sure we’ll reach an agreement. So don’t worry about it.”

“No, no, I have to settle this first. A hundred lei, I told you.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll work it out. Please excuse us, we haven’t had time to make the bed yet.”

“Would you have a stepladder? I’ll need one. And newspapers, for the parquet, so it doesn’t get dirty.”

The stepladder is brought from the den. He opens it up and spreads around some old papers found in a closet.

At that point, the woman emerges from the bathroom, all perked up and ready to go out. She stops on the threshold of the bedroom. She glances distrustfully at the little workman perched on the stepladder. She’s delicate, blond, tense, a woman with a busy day ahead of her. She closes the bedroom door abruptly. Whispering is heard. Then a rustle of clothing. Then the door to the apartment.

“Well, how are you getting on?”

“So far, so good. The cord’s broken on the inside, just like I said. I’ve got some old ones, sturdy material, it won’t break again.”

The man of the house, in jeans and a comfortable sweater, leaves him to it. Fifteen minutes later, the workman appears while he’s reading his paper. The little guy stops in the doorway, looking around at the chairs, the desk, the bookshelves.

“You’ve sure got a lot of books!. . Books, books, and more books, everywhere.”

The other man looks up from his paper, nods in agreement.

“I’ve never seen so many books. I knew right away that this place was something else, really special, no doubt about it.”

Smiling, he puts down his paper. Waiting. As tiny as a splinter, the instant has already vanished into the maw of the chronometer, hop, croak, murmurs the old batrachian.

“I see you’re busy, so I wouldn’t like to. .”

“I was reading the paper. Nothing important, you can come in.”

“Well, since that’s the sort of thing that interests you. . books, I mean. You’re a reader, I can tell. I bet you spend all your time reading.”

“You can come in, you’re not disturbing me.”

“Your missus has gone out? In that case. . I’d like to ask you. . since we can talk now. . otherwise, I wouldn’t. .”

“All right, tell me what you have to say. Come on, say it. Let’s see what this is all about.”

“I saw the books, so I got to thinking. . Maybe you’d be willing to help me write something.”

An angular face, knitted brows. Pants with the waist bunched up under a shabby belt, a child’s short-sleeved shirt, very clean. Lively, penetrating eyes.

“You’ve got a problem? You want me to compose some sort of petition, is that it?”

“I’ve got a problem, yes. A lot of problems. But I’ll come back another time, when it’s more convenient. Some afternoon. Or some evening, when you’ve finished work. .”

“Fine, come whenever you like. I’m home in the mornings, too.”

“Oh? You mean you work at home? Then the morning would definitely be better. Perhaps I’ll come by some morning, when you’re alone.”

Taking tiny steps, he withdraws, seeming to sway on his short legs and big feet in their socks.

He finishes his work in the allotted time, collects the screws, nails, pliers, the balls of string, puts everything back in his tool kit. The wife reappears at this juncture. He makes himself even smaller, hurries a little more. He asks for a broom, sweeps carefully, requests that the gentleman verify that the blind is once more in perfect working order, asks for permission to wash his hands. He wraps the hundred-lei bill in his handkerchief. Then he’s gone.

A slow, rainy morning. The doorbell. One long ring. A long pause. Another ring, short, timid, then silence again. The man is drowsy, befuddled with insomnia. He has difficulty recognizing the visitor, who stands at a respectful distance from the door.

“Oh! It’s you. . Do come in, please.”

The shadow detaches itself from the wall. Approaches, enters, takes off its shoes, boom, they’re already in his left hand.

“You didn’t need to, it’s not necessary. So. . Come in, come in. Leave your toolbox there, in the vestibule, and come in. No, no, you’re not disturbing me. Please sit down. I’ll be back, I’m just going to make some coffee. I’ll make some for you, too. I’ll be right back.”

And he does return quickly, bringing the cups on a tray. His visitor sits stiffly, self-consciously, in the armchair. After about half an hour of laconic answers, he finally begins to feel more at ease.

“I was right. . You’re different. I feel I can trust you. There’s only two people in the whole country who can still help me. The big boss, but I could never get to him. Or else that fat guy you see all over, on TV and in the papers, that show-off who screws everybody left right and center.”

“Drink your coffee, please, or it’ll get cold.”

“It used to be that you knew what you were dealing with. You could manage to get by in the old days. There were eight of us kids at home. A family of poor country people. It was hard, real hard. I got away from that village. Twelve years old when I left, off to the city. I knew where to go. To the comrades. I waited in front of the door for hours. But finally they let me in, they listened to me. They put me in a trade school. That’s how I learned my profession. Back then, you could find doors to knock on, people would listen to you. .”

“Drink your coffee, you haven’t even touched it.”

“Troubles, worries. . They’ve sure put me through it. . I went to the doctor. I don’t drink coffee anymore, it’s better not to. Everything’s changed now. No one pays any attention now to a poor bastard. These days nothing’s open and aboveboard. You have to have family connections or some other kind of connections in high places, where they divvy everything up. Ten or fifteen years ago, you could still get by. I was living with my wife and our two kids in a maid’s room, nine square feet, like sardines. One day I went to the park. I found someone with a camera. You know, one of those strolling photographers. I told him what I wanted. He gave me a funny look. Won’t do it, he told me. It’s too risky, I know exactly what you’re up to, I don’t do that kind of thing. I slipped him five hundred lei. Five hundred! Even that frightened the stuffing out of him, poor guy. He thought I was loony. He wouldn’t take my money, scared shitless. He finally came and took the pictures, but I had to swear I’d never admit that he was the one. .”

“Would you rather have some tea, or perhaps a snack?”

He doesn’t hear. His voice is steady and his brow is furrowed in concentration, just as it was that Sunday morning when he spotted, from down in the street, the broken blind that he and he alone would fix, and for a price agreed on in advance. Now there’s no trace of the hesitation or the embarrassed humility he showed when he first appeared, glued to the wall across the landing, standing as far as possible from the apartment door.

“One morning, I jumped in front of the official’s car. Right outside his villa I mean, one of the big guys. . I knew everything: the time, the itinerary, the precise moment. How? Well, it’s a long story. . I made it my business to do odd jobs for upper-class types. I found out how to get into their restricted neighborhood. Someone got me work in the home of a second fiddle, as he put it. I sweated for that guy for months, fixing this and that. Not much money, but I didn’t quibble, I put everything right. I can mend anything: locks, stoves, plumbing, cabinets, whatever. Afterward, I said to him, okay, I’ve slaved for peanuts, fine, now it’s your turn to help me out. Some advice, that’s all. I’d turned up at his place after work at the factory, every day, stayed late every night, I’d fixed up everything in sight, practically for free. He couldn’t refuse. He gave me a lead: one street over, there’s Comrade Whosis who lives at this number. . A big shot, a major heavyweight. Doesn’t matter who, someone well known, now he’s long gone, like the rest of them — the top dog keeps shuffling them around so that none of them gets a chance to grow too powerful. I kept watch for several days running. . I dashed out in front of the car. Well, I can tell you, those guards were all over me in five seconds flat, from out of nowhere and from all sides. But the man motions to them to let me go. Come over here, what’s going on, what happened? I give him the photos. An entire file, with the written statement, the pictures, the whole bit. Just like the other one suggested, the cross-eyed guy I did all that work for. This man, he takes a good look at me, he checks out the papers, then he goes through the papers once more, and looks me over again. So he says right, if what you’re telling me is true. . we’ll look into it and we’ll see. . Two days later, we’re moving. They’d assigned me an apartment. That was then. . I’m not saying those were the good old days, no way. It was a sewer even then. But you could run around, complain, scream your head off. Now it’s nothing but money and lies and pulling strings and making dirty deals.”

He grabs the dossier rolled up in newspapers he’s been holding between his knees, and brandishes it, a dangerous weapon.

“Today, getting all the way up to the guy on top, it’s just not possible. And the rest of them, they can’t do a thing anymore. Some people have managed to get what they want through that fatso who’s on TV, plus he’s got that magazine that comes out every week. I suppose you know him, you must know him.”

“No more than anyone else in Romania. In other words, I don’t know him, but I can write your letter for you, if you like. Perhaps you’ll be lucky. If your problem intrigues him, he’ll help you. But only if he can turn it to his advantage. Maybe you’ll be lucky, maybe he’ll help you out. .”

The visitor undoes the rolled-up dossier and places on the table between them a bundle of papers covered with large, childish handwriting, slanted to the left.

“It’s all written down here. But let me tell you about it first. My rating’s A-I. I’ve been at the boiler factory longer than almost anyone else. Before the foreman retired, things were all right, I didn’t have any problems. Two years ago they brought in this new guy from the provinces. A real operator. They gave him a place to live and everything. He had first-class connections that worked like a charm. He spent more time in meetings than on the shop floor. As long as you didn’t try to cross him, he wasn’t a bad man. A wise guy, on good terms with the director and all the others, he knew how to handle them. Me, I didn’t ask him for anything, and he left me alone. Except that I didn’t go out drinking. He’s the one who started that. On payday, everyone getting blind drunk. Together, the whole crew. Everyone has to go, no exceptions. You know, me, I don’t drink. . and besides, I do odd jobs after work, off the books. It’s not easy when you’ve got four kids. My wife, she doesn’t work, it wasn’t possible, not with four of them. I wanted her to stay home with the children.”

The other man leans across the small glass table and picks up the papers. He glances through them, nodding, as though seeing exactly what he’d expected to find.

“So I wouldn’t go out drinking, but one day I did go along with them. I couldn’t help it, I didn’t want him thinking I’d got anything against him. . They had this place they went to, they called it the President. The real name was something else. I forget what. A crummy little bar, smoky and crowded, but with red velvet banquettes and prices that were way out of line. They’d start out slowly and just keep going until they were all blotto. That was the rule, you weren’t allowed to slip away quietly. Hour after hour, all night long. At the end, when it came time to settle the bill. . Well, the boss didn’t dig into his pocket! The others paid for him. I kept my mouth shut and forked over. But I never went along again. Afterward, the others asked me. . to contribute my share for the boss, as they put it. I didn’t want to, so I didn’t pay. Yeah, well, that’s how it got started. .”

The other man listens, nods in understanding; he puts aside the pile of papers, considering the person before him with great attention.

The silence lengthens; the papers will lie there quietly for several hours. Dusk would be the proper time to leaf through them. . The tired man’s hand reaches out for them again, in a hurry, pulls a few from the pile, separates them, holds on to them. He walks up and down the room, alone. Violet, ash-gray curtains veil the windows, and the murmuring night drowns out the chronometer.

“Has it been pointed out that on the only day this worker was ever late, in twenty-five years of service in the same factory, transportation was at a standstill throughout the entire city?” The sentence has an impressive cadence and tonality. . “Why was he reassigned from the boilerworks to the janitorial department, which cost him a quarter of his salary?”

“The questions in these pages are all framed as though prepared for a court of law,” the man explains that evening to his wife. He holds the bundle in his hand, which trembles in his excitement.

“It’s all laid out simply and intelligently. You can understand perfectly what happened. . Why did the comrade foreman put him on the night shift, when it had previously been decided to exempt heads of large families with seniority in the factory? Why did they give him the most difficult and urgent work assignments without adjusting his pay accordingly? Why was he transferred from the boilerworks?. . Why, when he fell ill, was he told that there was no place for sick people at the factory?. . Why was he docked an entire work day for being one half hour late?. . Why, when he asked to see someone in authority at either the trade union or the ministry, was he warned that if he didn’t keep quiet, he might get into much more serious trouble?”

“Did he fix the stove, during all this? Or did you spend so much time talking that he never got around to it?” asks the wife with a smile.

“He fixed it. He fixed it while I was writing his letter to the newspaper. He thinks that fat pig will help him solve his problem. A kind of second head of state, that’s what people think he is. They know he looks out for himself above all, but as they’ve got no one else to complain to, they turn to him as though he were a magician. So that he can put them in his articles, so they can become human beings once more, have their troubles taken under consideration by someone. That’s basically what they hope for: some consideration. To have their confidence restored, that’s what they want. Burdened with anxieties, surrounded by pitfalls, they don’t know which way to turn. . I composed his letter carefully, to arouse the interest of that bastard of a finagler. . I tried hard to persuade our worker to accept a compromise with the people at his factory, but it was a complete waste. I explained to him that you can’t take on such a system all alone, that he’d get himself crushed. He didn’t even hear me. There’s a ferocious stubbornness in that little man. Well, you’ve seen him, he’s knee-high to nothing. Industrious, honest, proud. Clever at everything, assailed on all sides.”

“How much did he get from you? The same, a hundred lei? An even hundred?”

“No, not this time, no. He fixed the stove, the bathroom door, the lock on the suitcase. When I tried to pay him, he said no. I insisted, he refused. He said, while I was working, you spent the same amount of time on my letter, so you don’t owe me a thing.”

When the really hot weather arrives, something goes wrong with the shower. They telephone the workman, who turns up the following morning.

A hesitant trill at the doorbell, barely a flutter. He stands, as usual, away from the door. Already he’s used to the appearance of this childlike, sleepy gentleman wearing a cowboy-style shirt he hasn’t bothered to tuck into his too-tight jeans.

“Am I disturbing you? But I thought that. . My wife told me you’d telephoned.”

“Come in, please come in. I’ll make coffee for us. Ah! I forgot, you don’t drink it. I’ll fix you some tea, all right? It won’t take a minute. . You don’t need to take your shoes off. . No, really, there’s no need.”

The visitor’s shoes are already in his hand, his toolbox is already sitting open beneath the coat tree, he’s rummaging around in it, poking about among the screws, faucets, wing nuts, tubes of cement, coils of wire, bits of string, and other assorted junk.

The gentleman goes off to drink his coffee. He returns with a tray bearing a cup of tea and a slice of brioche, which the workman leaves untouched. The master of the house returns a few moments later, stands in the doorway, tries to think of something to say.

“So, what’s new? How’s your claim going?”

“Oh, that. . I won. I won, but they wouldn’t go along with the fourteen thousand I put in for, they only awarded me six thousand.”

“You won? I wouldn’t have believed it. That’s great! That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone winning a case against a company, which means winning against the state. I take my hat off — you’re incredible! And without a lawyer, that’s what gets me. . You did tell me that you weren’t going to hire a lawyer, that you were perfectly capable of explaining the truth on your own, right?”

“I’ve filed an appeal. I don’t take small change tossed at me like that, out of charity. I demand my rights. They’ve got no choice. They have to give me what’s mine. Fourteen thousand, I counted it all up. The salary they docked me and the layoffs and the work bonuses.”

“Let it go. You’re going to wear yourself out in the courts. Now that you’ve won the judgment against them and they have to pay you damages, put an end to this business. You’ll finally have some peace, instead of having to run around all over creation day after day.”

“That’s not the problem. I can earn my own living. But I want my rights. My place in the sun. Because otherwise — listen to what I’m saying here — the world has gone all to hell. Nobody believes in anything anymore. Honesty and faith and keeping one’s word — out the window. What’s the point of living like that, not giving a damn for God or man? I refuse to play that game. . Can I wash my hands?”

“Of course. You may use that towel over there.”

He washes his grease-blackened hands for a long time. He hesitates before using the towel. He holds his hands suspended over the sink for a moment before clumsily grabbing the towel. He puts away the screws, faucets, wing nuts, asks for a broom, tidies up carefully, gets ready to leave.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Well, a hundred lei.”

It’s hard not to smile.

“So, you always charge the same fee?”

“A hundred lei doesn’t mean anything anymore. I replaced the shower pipe. At the plumbing-supply store, it costs thirty-two lei and it’s a piece of garbage, rusts right out. I put in a good one, it’ll last. I replaced the washers in the faucets so they won’t drip anymore. I cleaned out the crud in the drain; it shouldn’t get stopped up now. Give me a hundred lei and you’ll have a bit of credit for the next time. I keep track of my accounts, don’t worry.”

“Which means we’ll be seeing you again. .”

A little more and the smile would break into laughter.

“You bet. So, goodbye and stay well. Above all, stay well.”

In other words, let the warm weather last a long time. .

No other news from the lone warrior until a chilly December evening, when a bulletin arrives in the form of a retrospective summary.

A great mass of people, all jammed together, waiting at the bus stop. It’s not the first time that public transportation has been the target of curses and insults, bitter grumbles distilled from the hatred and despair of would-be passengers. They mill about, bump into one another, lean out once in a while to gaze into the distance, hoping to see this monster that’s supposed to take them home finally heave into sight. Numb with cold and fatigue, they bitch unmercifully. Anyone overhearing their choppy burst of resentment might think they’re working themselves into a rage and will shortly explode in revolt. But whoever has heard them too many times, pouring out over and over the same hopeless torrents of abuse as they wait on line for meat, soap, matches, toilet paper, milk, cigarettes, shoes, or the bus, whoever has heard this daily chorus of humiliation and anger from these endless lines has already learned not to expect anything beyond such periodic sullen grousing.

A huge crowd at the bus stop on this dark, frigid evening in December. Shivering children, women lugging bags and shopping baskets, but quite a few men as well, stamping their feet to keep warm and contributing their fair share of profanity.

He’s easy to spot among them. Short, glum, three bulging plastic bags in each hand. Unlike the others, he stands quietly, stock-still. He doesn’t make a move, or a sound. Bareheaded, wearing a thin, frayed lumber jacket, he doesn’t seem to feel the cold. His brush cut is immaculate; he’s close-shaven, slender but broad-shouldered, with arms that seem too long for his frail body. He stares indifferently at the black winter sky. He looks like some lost adolescent bound for boarding school, where other young people just as poor and proud as he is confide their problems and ambitions to one another.

The gentleman who approaches him hesitates for a good long moment before addressing him. First he examines the man closely, from a few steps away, as though to make sure that he hasn’t been mistaken. He walks around the other man a few times before tapping him lightly on the shoulder, to rouse him from his reverie. They recognize each other, would like to shake hands, but those plastic bags are in the way. They lean their heads together, though, and begin to talk.

The city lies prostrate, overwhelmed by the night. The streets running into the public square by the bus stop seem like tunnels in a cavern deep underground. Darkness settles more and more thickly along the great arteries of the metropolis, as though it were a village lost out in nowhere. Only the headlights of an occasional passing car illuminate for brief moments the compact mass of black ants, a clump shaped like a dragon that occasionally opens its huge, gaping jaws to moan. A poisonous volley of invective. A chilling, somber rumbling.

The two men are oblivious to their surroundings, however, completely absorbed in each other.

The worker Valentin Nanu appears before the Supreme Court of Bucharest on June 8, 1982. He submits to the presiding judge a voluminous dossier containing statements, affidavits, and copies of medical records. These last concern not only his own state of health, which for the past year has been considered psychologically precarious, due to the plaintiff’s stressful situation at work, but also the health of his children: Maria, nineteen years old (anemia and hypocalcemia); Angela, sixteen (asthma and kyphoscoliosis); Mihaela, thirteen (acute rheumatoid arthritis and a defective mitral valve), and Marian, ten years old (rheumatoid arthritis and dysfunctional thyroid). About two months after this hearing, Valentin Nanu receives in the mail the decision of the Supreme Court in favor of his appeal. On September 26, 1982, a court order is issued requiring the reinstatement of the worker Valentin Nanu at his place of employment with no loss of seniority, and payment by the Republica Factory of Bucharest of damages to said worker in compensation for his arbitrary transfer from the boilerworks as well as the full salary due for periods of paid leave that were improperly denied him. This sum amounts in total to 8,730 lei. The plaintiff declares himself dissatisfied with this judgment, on the grounds both that it does not require punitive action to be taken against those responsible for the administrative abuses in question and that the said monetary award does not reflect the full extent of the damages to which he is entitled.

On September 27, 1982, Valentin Nanu reports to the personnel department of the Republica Factory to sign a contract of reinstatement with the firm and to collect the money awarded him by the court decision. Although the political authorities at the company try to convince him to return to work immediately, explaining that the official court order might not be delivered to them until almost a month after the actual decision in the case, the plaintiff refuses. He maintains that he will not come crawling back to the factory where he has been an exemplary worker for twenty-five years and that he will wait until all the relevant documents are in order and in his possession. In addition, he makes it clear that he is not completely in agreement with the judgment rendered and that he will continue to press, within the framework of the law, for the satisfaction of all his rightful demands. He is finally persuaded, after much urging, to go on leave without pay until such time as the new work contract is duly signed, which it is on October 22, 1982. On Monday, October 25, 19 82, Valentin Nanu returns to his job in the boilerworks; he is absent on Friday the 29th, having been advised by his doctor to go on sick leave. He returns to work again on November 8. On the eleventh, the firm’s cashier pays him 8,750 lei in accordance with court order #4444 dated September 26, 1982. On October 28, the plaintiff Valentin Nanu sends a petition to the Attorney General to request a review of his case and the decision handed down upon appeal. On December 18, 1982, he is notified by letter (docket #567,132) that the Attorney General of the Socialist Republic of Romania has declared the judgment of the Supreme Court in his case to be final and without appeal.

The man tries to tell his wife what the worker Valentin Nanu has related to him. With a brusque gesture, she cuts him off. She’s preoccupied by something else. Some painful reflection from which she cannot bear to be distracted.

“You went there again,” he says. “Were you at the cemetery? I can feel it. Each time, you seem to fall into a trance.”

“Not at all. When I’ve had a good day, suddenly I remember. . But it can happen when I’m depressed, too. So I go back. To remind myself that things might be even worse. As though it gives me strength, somehow.”

“I hope you don’t go there. . to remind yourself that I’m vulnerable.”

“No, but what I remember. . involves you. I come home terrified at the idea that something might have happened to you.”

“That’s absurd, it’s impossible to live like that.”

“No more absurd than the absurdity of all these misfortunes. They’re real, concrete, even though they’re absurd. Not even absurd. Mysterious. Incomprehensible. For the moment. Because we don’t know what’s behind all this. Perhaps one day we’ll find out, one day. And then everything will seem logical, only too logical. .”

“I live a fairly quiet life. I don’t see what else I could do to protect myself.”

“Your friend, he led a quiet life, too.”

“Not entirely. He wasn’t married, so that implies connections, affairs. . But what can we do? No longer allow ourselves the most simple, the most natural actions? We might as well accept or even scoff at danger. . In any case, you only die once. It’s easier than dying a thousand times a day. .”

“You see, that’s it. . You — you can live in despair. It even goads you on. Me, I just can’t. I need stability. And a bare minimum of hope. .”

She lights a cigarette, only to extinguish it almost immediately. She unbuttons her silk blouse. Her long, beautiful fingers gleam against the indigo silk, which casts a metallic reflection across her neck. She looks down; the tired blue grows dull, fades away.

“I admit, I’m nervous these days. But that guy, ‘the worker Valentin Nanu,’ as you call him, he irritates me. He’s bad luck, if you want my opinion.”

“Bad luck! But he fixed our blind. . and by sheer good luck. Otherwise, it would’ve stayed broken for I don’t know how long. That would have aggravated you a lot more than his turning up like that. . which was bizarre, I admit.”

“I’ve nothing against him. I just told you how I feel. . He’s got too many troubles. It’s as though he were a magnet for disaster.”

“So we distrust everyone? Fear everything? Everything that smacks of the unknown? We need to take risks as well. To reopen the wound every once in a while. To come into contact with unhealthy things. With dust, brutality, raw simplicity. We need antibodies acquired through contamination, believe me. From microbes and filth. We have to regenerate ourselves! Despite everything. Or else. .”

“Perhaps, but some of us aren’t up to it. Me, he gives me the creeps. And that’s putting it mildly.”

A long silence. They’re too close to the dangerous terrain of truth, within an inch of turning aggressive. He’s disturbed once again by her. The noble enigma of an unshakable pride? A strict and honorable code? But their neuroses are incompatible; his demands the stimulation of a break in routine, the speedy relief that comes from upsetting an equilibrium.

“He intrigues me more and more each time I see him, in spite of all his worries and pigheadedness. I don’t have much contact with people like him. But there’s still something lukewarm in me, something purulent, petty, resigned, something painful and rebellious that feels solidarity with guys like him. Even if only for a moment. .”

“You’re not going to start in on me again about my inability to relate to other people! Reproaching me for loathing confessions, hating to humiliate myself, brooding over suffering instead of rushing to offer sympathy! I refuse to indulge in compassion as long as I’m unable to make myself useful. Which is simply beyond me, because I can barely manage to keep going myself. Frightened by my own vulnerability. .”

The husband goes off to his books; much later, around midnight, he goes out on the balcony. He gazes up at the night sky. He goes back inside. Distractedly, he studies the ceiling, the walls, the darkness. His thoughts become disjointed, chaotic. Blurred images on a phosphorescent screen of fuzzy cotton.

The second hand, tick-tock, swallows up sleep, digests insomnia. Insatiable, implacable toad. Tick-tock, tick-croak, croak-croak. . and now it’s climbing the wall. Fragile green feet. Huge, moist pop eyes, blinking rapidly, with only croak-what, croak-what for their viaticum. Jaws clamped shut, a steady rhythm, tick-hush, tock-shush. There are so many of them, they’ve multiplied, the wall is disappearing beneath their viscous, teeming mass. A wall of luminescent cotton wool, dozens of nosy periscopes beating out the same marshy, hellish cadence.

Little heads, all lined up next to one another. Identical faces, jeering, leering. He’s sticking out his tongue — whoa! That’s too much. . What do you think you’re doing, how did you get in among. .? Just a second, tick-tock, then he was gone. A frowning, ashen face. Sticking his tongue out, talk about gall! The deceitful toads couldn’t have cared less, they’d disappeared, what did you expect. . They didn’t give a damn.

The screen is murky, greenish. Random flashes of lightning, white bubbles, red, bulbous shapes. The clock faces have vanished. So has the unexpected visitor. A seething, swampy wasteland from which rises a thick, glaucous fog.

Just a single second, tick, it’s becoming an obsession, he’s back again. Suddenly face to face once more with the strange visitor. .

All dressed up. A navy-blue suit, good material, Chinese style, the Mao collar buttoned right up to the chin. A clean shave, hair en brosse. Getting ready, one would have thought, to attend some fancy ceremony. . except that his hands — and they’re large ones — are streaked with the stinking slime he’s busy dredging from the sewer.

He bends low, plunging his arms deep into what looks like a dark pit. Each time he straightens up, he hauls out a fresh batch of excrement, which he carefully drops into the gutter, without staining his impeccable suit. He seems unperturbed by the astonished gaze of the passerby who’s just appeared out of nowhere at his side. A gesture of bored resignation. . which means that he still has a bit more to do, and he can’t take care of anything else at the moment.

So he goes on leaning down, practically burying himself in his pit. Then he sits up and holds another double handful out for inspection — by no one — before tossing it neatly into the gutter. Another time, ten times, so many times. To the same rhythm. A robot, with great, dark, tranquil eyes.

Precise, perfectly executed movements that leave not a single wrinkle on the elegant party clothes or the fresh-shaven face, as ready as could be for the festivities. Again and once again and yet again, until the spectator feels dizzy, feels faint and nauseated out in the middle of this bog of a nightmare. Concentration is fading away, sapping his strength. . A loss of contact, a slippery descent into cottony fog, collapse.

Then the voice of the worker Valentin Nanu: “Speak, say what you have to say. Get it all out, I’m listening.”

A timid order, an expectant pause; now a kind of ironic indulgence, a staccato delivery: “Speak up, come on, say what you have to say, get it all out, I’m listening.”

Despite this urging, he can’t make the slightest sound. Not a syllable, zero, although the words are banging around somewhere, deep down, struggling to rise up and make themselves heard. Sounds strangled at birth. . and yet they’d made a beginning, it seems, of some kind, enough for Valentin Nanu to notice, and he was even repeating snatches of sentences left unspoken.

The face was no longer visible, only the voice could be heard, falling in with his thoughts, only the large hands could be seen, emptying the cesspool, only the voice could be heard, translating the words of the man whose voice remained stilled.

“And so this poet, this gentleman, your friend, was found dead in his room. Stretched out on the couch, naked. Yes, yes, completely naked, I got that. I understood, you don’t have to keep repeating it. Naked and dead, on the couch. Two glasses and a bottle of red wine on the table. All right, I heard you, it’s not that hard to understand. Keep going, we’ll see, come on, say what you have to say, I’m listening, I want to hear everything. . Go on, I’m listening.”

One couldn’t see the face, only the large hands, and the toad he’d dredged up from the foul muck, the big hands cradling the frightened, stinking toad.

“He was supposed to attend a conference a few days later? Okay, I didn’t quite get that, it wasn’t exactly a conference. Oh, all right, an international symposium of poets, fine. So he had his passport, his ticket, everything. I heard you, the door was bolted on the inside. The neighbors and his mother, yes, yes. . They broke down the door, I understand. His mother had come up from the country, poor woman, to see her son off on his trip abroad, yes, I understand. He hadn’t been waiting for her at the station as usual. She was astonished, of course, absolutely astonished when she rang his doorbell and he didn’t let her in. The neighbors, yes, then the neighbors, the forensic pathologist, the inquest, naturally. They didn’t order an autopsy? His mother asked for one but they refused, I see. Did she insist on having one or just let it drop? You’ve got to be more specific, you know, so let’s have it: did she insist or not? It’s an important detail, after all, I should hear everything you’ve got to tell me. .”

So he was instantaneously intercepting the thoughts of a person unable to utter a single word. He was instantaneously voicing the thoughts of the terrified person over there next to him and at the same time over here — and where’s that? Somewhere. . somewhere. . in front of that cottony screen on which the nightmare is unfolding. To be here, who knows where, but also over there, which is where? Next to the drain opening. . To say not a word, but to hear one’s thoughts on a simultaneous sound track. . He knew everything, every single last thing. . The marks on the body, the burns from cigarettes stubbed out on the skin, the lipstick on the rim of the glass, all the grotesque details. . Certainly, I understand, a very private person, taciturn, yes, yes, too reserved, yes, someone staid, very serious, a loner, of course, a solitary man. In good health, no doubt about that, perfect health. . Pardon your son who has died without confession, without the last sacraments, receive him into the Kingdom of Heaven. . Pardon your son who has left us unshriven, without extreme unction, chanted the priest before the coffin, yes, yes, so few people at that strange funeral, useless, those visits to the cemetery, your lady’s too emotional, she shouldn’t keep going back there. No one has ever figured out that sort of mystery, your wife’s torturing herself for nothing. . Without confession, without extreme unction, that’s right. Naturally, hearsay, vicious rumors, people are like that, cowards and scandalmongers. And then that bottle, very suspicious, definitely, it’s all a muddle, what’s the use. .

He tried to stem this flood surging out of his control. Cold sweat, a slow descent, drawn by thin threads, so thin, helplessness and befuddlement. Time stopped, cut to ribbons, the body fraying, surrendering. . until where when how, the tinkling bell. . a twittering, a chiming, a mountain spring, the booming monastery gong, bells in the sheepfold, jingle bells on a horse’s harness, a school bell, a church bell, cow bells, a child’s rattle. . the doorbell. The doorbell’s ringing.

Silence. And. . the doorbell rings again. A timid buzz, a faint lapping, a rattling toy. He clutches the bedposts, he must feel the bedposts. Something solid to lean on, proof of purchase, a guarantee one won’t be torn away and swept into the void. He feels around at the foot of the bed, pulls on his jeans, his shirt, his slippers. He staggers, still half asleep, toward the door. Yes, it’s morning, it’s light out, tick-tock, the alarm clock on the bedside table, tick-tock. Daylight, another day, off we go.

The man stands, shyly, far from the door. How, how did. . when just a few moments ago. . back there, what were you doing in that other place. . and now, so quickly. . Who knows if. . The man stands, silently, far from the door. He leans down to collect his toolbox. A few steps and that’s all it takes, he’s inside. A slight nod in greeting, that’s it, he’s inside.

“How did you. . Listen, there’s no need to. . Don’t take off your shoes. . Put it down right there. . The bottle. . the bottle of red wine, yes, it was half, only half full, that’s what’s suspicious. It had been left uncorked, and that is just something he never would have done. Ab-so-lute-ly nev-er, you hear me? Anyone who knew him knows that. . No, there’s no need. . Yes, I got out, but only just. . The swamp, sleep, sliding, yes, yes. . So, come in, I’ll make some coffee. A cup of coffee, yes, that’ll help. .”

One drinks coffee; the other, tea. They exchange furtive glances, ill at ease. The handyman replies without enthusiasm to inquiries concerning his health, his lawsuit, the latest presidential decree ordering that apartments may not be heated to more than 54°F. He sets the same bundle of papers down on the table. He repairs a switch on the desk lamp, reglues some tiles in the bathroom.

“I’ll dismantle the glazing on the balcony, what do you say?”

“No, it’ll wait. . I’ve filed an appeal. There are tens of thousands of people in Bucharest in the same position, who’ve enclosed their balconies to gain a bit of space. They had permission from the municipal authorities. Now they’re being forced to tear everything down. Because someone, and we know who, took a walk around the city one day when he was in a bad mood, waved his hand, and said, ‘Get rid of all that glass on those balconies!’ In our case, the previous tenants had enclosed the balcony by the time we moved here eight years ago. The work had already been done. We have the papers to prove it. The people down at city hall can just come and tear everything out themselves! It seems that’s what they’re doing, after first raking in outrageous fines.”

The little man doesn’t seem to be paying attention. He washes his hands. He shakes them vigorously over the sink to dry them. When he’s handed a hundred-lei bill, he appears not to notice. But he pockets it in a twinkling, without a word.

“I’m in a hurry, the attorney’s waiting for me.” “Which attorney?”

“Well, yours, the one who lives in your building. Right above you, except that he’s got two apartments he’s made into one. As big as yours and the teacher’s put together.”

“Oh yes, I know who you mean. He’s the president of the tenants’ association. Very polite, well-mannered.”

“But stingy, take it from me. I’ve been doing odd jobs in his place for years. An attorney. . I told myself, you never know when you might need one. With that guy, I have to haggle each time until I’m exhausted. It wears him out, too, but he never gives in. .”

He disappears, the worker Valentin Nanu, just as he had appeared, here one moment, gone the next. You can’t even find him again at night, back in that stinking fog of darkness he was trying to muck out.

It’s winter again, in the afternoon, when a ring at the doorbell is a sure sign. Someone rang, no one rang, it’s as though someone rang. . as though one hadn’t dared to ring. And then there he is, standing away from the door, backed up against the opposite wall. The distorted image glimpsed through the spy-hole shows him perfectly: a gray jacket, too tight, with worn lapels, a clean white shirt, pants twisted and gathered at his waist, arms hanging down, too long for his short, bony frame. Gaunt, with deep-set eyes. His hair en brosse. . and those huge, those ancient shoes, so patiently polished over the years. And no overcoat.

He knows he’s being studied through the Judas. He approaches, he murmurs, “It’s me.”

The door opens a crack. The woman, that lovely woman, stares out at him with frightened eyes. “Oh, it’s you. . I’m sorry, my husband isn’t home just now.”

The apparition doesn’t budge an inch.

“And it’s so cold out, too. . You should have telephoned, I’d have told you to come by later in the day. My husband won’t be home until this evening, but he’ll call you. Or you can call him tomorrow morning.”

“But. . it’s just that. . It’s you I wanted to talk to. .”

“Me?” She hesitates. “Well, come in, then, if you like.”

The words lack spirit, as though she regrets saying them even as she speaks. As for him, he’s in no hurry. He lingers an instant in the doorway, picks up his heavy toolbox, another step and there, he’s inside, shoes already off and in his hand.

“Come in, come in. Sit down here, I’ll be right back.”

She does return quickly, in fact, wearing a large, bright red housecoat. It’s cold in the apartment; the blanket she had wrapped around herself before the doorbell rang is lying on the couch.

“I thought of you. . because you’ve got a job. Perhaps you could find me something, where you work, or you might hear about an opening from someone you know. .”

“What kind of. . I mean, since you’re already employed, I don’t see how. .” “But it’s not for me.”

It’s his daughter he’s talking about. Soon she’ll be finished with school, either trade or business school, it’s not clear which he means. If the lady could find her a quiet job, in an office, among nice people. .

“They’re not hiring, where I work. . They keep laying people off. . They’re running out of excuses for letting them go. First it was your sociopolitical background, then it was your material situation, those who didn’t have any children, and now. . I just don’t know. But your daughter will be assigned to a position, all the young people who graduate from a school are given a job.”

“Sure, they’re going to send her the hell out into the sticks somewhere. She’ll be posted to a lousy factory, she’ll live in a dorm for female workers, I know how it goes. It won’t be long before someone takes advantage of her. Off among strangers, with that kind of job, these days. . She’s a child, she has no idea what’s in store for her. And besides, her health isn’t good at all.”

Silence. The woman shivers, crosses her arms over her chest.

“If necessary, I’ll. . I mean, I’m ready to pay these guys what it takes, if I have to. That’s how it is everywhere you look today, I know that. I’m prepared. I put a little money aside, on purpose. I need to find somebody in charge somewhere who’ll fix things up. .”

“To tell you the truth,” says the woman, now speaking in a direct and friendly manner, “to tell you the truth, I’m not too close to the higher-ups at my job. You’re right, that’s how these things work, as you say, but I don’t really know those people in my office. I’ll try to look around for you, I promise, yes. I promise you I’ll ask around, I might come up with something. Call me in a little while. Or rather, no, my husband will give you a call if we have any news.”

One Wednesday in March, the worker Valentin Nanu is busy taking down the glass enclosure around the apartment balcony, which has a view of the greenery in the Botanical Garden. Thick glass, a very heavy metal frame, deeply anchored in the wall. Frail but stubborn, he sweats for hours, wielding his hammer, screwdrivers, pincers, blowtorch. Even after the sections are dismantled, after so much effort, they still seem too heavy for him. He keeps going, though, straining under the weight of the panels, which leave streaks of rust on his overalls.

“Good steel and thick glass. You should have saved this marvel. They don’t make anything as solid as this nowadays.”

“There was nothing I could do, I told you. The order came from the very top. The courts have cold feet, they don’t want to hear a single word about arguments or appeals.”

“The courts weren’t the place to handle it. . since they’re useless anyhow. You should have found someone who would’ve lost track of the paperwork. You would’ve slipped him a nice little piece of change under the table and the paper would’ve gotten lost. Lots of balconies have been rescued like that.”

“I know, but they’re on the garden side, they don’t look out on the street. The First Lady doesn’t see them.”

“Courts, they make you sick. Nothing but lies and dirty money.”

“But you went through all that, too. I advised you to give up, and you wouldn’t. I didn’t think you’d be able to get anywhere. You won, though. And you still weren’t satisfied. You went back again.”

“Well, as long as you can hand out money right and left, you can manage like that, with underlings. In my case, that wasn’t working anymore. . I told you the story. . I was used to taking on the small fry first and then working my way up to the big shots. You didn’t need to pay anymore. . In the old days, you just needed a fucking big mouth, excuse the expression. Now it’s bribes everywhere, only money talks. You take this as far as it will go, until the point where. . the point where money doesn’t mean anything anymore. Then you need something else. It’s hard to find a way out. You realize you’ve come to a staircase different from all the others you’ve climbed. The old step-by-step routine no longer works, that’s all.”

Tired, crouching down on the cement strewn with bits of glass and metal, he speaks quickly, without looking up. “So that’s where I am now. After a whole. . a whole lifetime of troubles. I see that this is what I’ve come to. I need a hand, I need a hand from someone big. But I can’t see who, I just can’t. Luckily, above all these staircases, and all these devils, there’s still someone. .”

A long silence. But he’s not sure he’s made himself clear, he feels the need to be more precise. “There has to be some hope left somewhere, or else. . Who’s still looking out for us? Everything’s going to hell, everything. .”

“Are you a believer, perhaps? That’s a question I hadn’t asked myself. I mean, I hadn’t wondered if. .”

“Well, what do I know. . otherwise. . what’ve we got left? We’ve lost everything, you know. It’s all gone. That’s the problem.”

He accepts a cup of coffee! He drinks the steaming liquid in quick little swallows.

“Did you get a job lined up for that girl of yours? For your daughter, I mean.”

The workman stiffens, his cup held motionless in the air, no reply.

“Have you found something? You were worried, weren’t you? You seemed quite upset about it.”

Valentin Nanu emerges from his few seconds of torpor, sets down his cup. He gets to his feet, goes to pack up his tools, quickly, then he changes his mind, wipes his hands on his overalls.

“She got married, what can I say? I wanted to spare her that, help her find her way. An idiot, that’s all. And now. . the idiot’s teamed up with another idiot. They had to rush to prove they were idiots through and through. Too bad. So, now. . in poverty up to their necks. She’ll figure it out real quick. . Tied to the grindstone with a man but no money. Too bad, that’s not what I wanted, it’s a pity.”

Now he’s in a hurry. He finishes putting away his tools, sweeps up, deftly pockets the two hundred lei. His coat’s on, he nods, that’s it. He was there, now he’s gone. No time! Times are hard, no time to lose.

. . He returns, but at night. More and more often, at night. He approaches slowly, through a sticky, steamy tunnel. His figure grows larger, comes closer, becomes familiar: short, frail, with long arms, a youthful brush cut, and a hard look in his eyes.

These absurd nocturnal encounters happen suddenly but are preceded by a murky incubation period: sleep, insomnia, tick-tock. Staring vacantly at the wall opposite the bed. More and more cotton wool on the phosphorescent screen. A blurry image slowly takes shape, grows larger, becomes clear.

. . In white overalls, like a parachutist. A white helmet in his right hand. Approaching. . Unbelievable — he’s approaching the speaker’s platform. The huge deserted public square stretches out endlessly in all directions.

The silhouette of the diminutive orator stands out crisply on the black rostrum. He doesn’t move a muscle. You can see his pale, angular face, his dry lips. Standing stiffly, he delivers packets of words, in equal portions. In a weak, monotonous voice.

“We’ve had enough of your flattery! Liars, from all around the world! Leave us in peace, liars! Stop tricking us out in gold braid and angels’ wings!”

The screen quivers frenetically, matching the rhythm of his sentences, but his voice remains low and even. The screen undulates. . oily, green mud. . black foam.

“Into the flames with our gold braid, our angels’ wings! The proletariat doesn’t want to unite anymore! We’ve had it up to here with these masquerades, leave us alone. We want bread and sleep, that’s all. We don’t want any more of your promises or your persecution! Tell the truth about yourself and about us! Our own little everyday truth! We’re poor, weak, lost creatures, no better than anyone else! We snuffle about in our pigsty, like you, we clutter up the earth. Leave us to hell, leave us to swarm all over the planet! Naked, without your uniforms. Leave us alone. .”

His pathetic appeals are broadcast by hundreds of loud-speakers. A timid, monotonous voice, on hundreds of loudspeakers. There is no one in the square, only loudspeakers. He lowers his head slightly, brings his hand to his mouth, coughs. Once, twice. . The loudspeakers repeat, once, twice. One time, another time, hundreds of times, in hundreds of metal funnels, on hundreds of poles.

Silence, for a moment. There — the words are coming back, little by little, an even murmur.

“Leave us alone, liars! We don’t want to rule the world, we don’t want to be its salvation. . Tear off these heavenly wings, toss our gold braid into the fire! Stop insinuating yourselves among us, stop speaking in our name. We’ve had enough of your promises and your terror. Get us out of these uniforms. . Our truth is so much smaller. .”

The cough drags on, amplified. A tumultuous, jabbering cannonade from all the loudspeakers. The screen has gone dark, too dark to see a thing. But then he’s back, sitting on a stool this time, in the middle of the square.

“The window blind is fixed, sir. Don’t worry, I did a good job. .” A sugary voice, a humble procession of sly, sarcastic words. “Was I an interesting case? You tried to listen to me as a philosopher, to understand me. . An experiment, this voice from the underground? A mole who amused you for a moment? How annoying, sir. You started avoiding me? You can’t help me, man, we can’t help each other. They’ve taught us fear and selfishness, and so we’re all off, each in his own corner.”

He rubs his hands nervously. His white Adidas keep kicking the white helmet sitting at his feet. In his hands is a round toad, as big as his paratrooper’s helmet, and. . he’s already tossed it into that white pot-shaped thing. . He takes aim, gives a quick kick, and the missile is out of sight. Apparently reassured, from then on he stares, I mean really stares, at his audience, he takes up the entire screen of the nightmare. He runs his hands over his brush cut, wipes them on the front of his overalls.

“You’re not strong enough for my tomb. You’ve already given up visiting the poet’s, and he was a friend of yours. Perhaps I’ll make up my mind to do it, to blow it all sky high. The hell with everything! Everything, everything, in our cemetery. .”

The screen goes dark, lights up again. It’ll light up again tomorrow night, of course. . The worker Valentin Nanu no longer has any spare time except at night. His days are too full — one fucking nuisance after another, his damn job, dealing with all this shit. It’s only at night that he still visits his friends, pops in on them with his astonishing routine.

In fact, these nocturnal visits are becoming more and more frequent. And there’s no way to prevent them. Sleeping pills, tranquilizers, late-night reading, booze — all useless.

Day, on the other hand, brings some measure of peace and forgetfulness. Even his name isn’t mentioned very often anymore. One hears questions like these much more rarely now: “So, whatever happened to him, that worker of yours? He’s forgotten all about us?” The husband doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to talk about his secret meetings at night, he knows his wife is too fragile for this sort of thing. He avoids answering, just as he avoids arranging to have the handyman come around, in spite of all the stuff that’s falling apart in their home. He claims he can’t get hold of him. And so the worker Valentin Nanu no longer shows up during the day at the apartment near the Botanical Garden, and his name no longer comes up except during those inevitable nocturnal tempests he brews with such cruel indifference. And yet. . Suddenly, just like the first time, when no one was expecting it: the doorbell.

A timid ring. The lightest touch, barely brushing across the skin of the morning, almost imperceptible, as before. After a long pause, the sound is repeated. Finally, something or somebody moves, in the quiet apartment. Dragging steps scuff over to the door.

A long gray raincoat, glued to the wall, across the landing. Above the tight collar, a pale, wasted face. A stubble of black beard. Raw suffering still glittering in the angry, brooding eyes.

They look at each other a long time, and then some more, carefully, each one waiting for release.

“They killed my wife,” mutters the little gray man.

The ensuing silence grows almost palpably heavy.

“They killed my wife. I had to. . I wanted to tell you.”

“Come in, come in, please,” stammers the other man.

The raincoat on the hook, the shoes on the floor, by the door. His hands are shaking. That rough beard. . His gaunt cheeks have been invaded by a wild growth of black beard. . He sits down immediately without waiting to be invited. He tells his story quickly, in choppy, hesitant phrases. A changed voice, hoarse; whenever he stops talking, the silence is painful.

It was Tuesday morning, March 16, 1985. His wife had died the week before, at the hospital. In accordance with the latest presidential decrees, she’d had the right to request an abortion, since she was over forty years old and already had four children. She’d had to obtain official permission from the authorities, however, and the proceedings had been complicated by new provisions, still somewhat confusing, designed to raise the age beyond which abortions would be permissible. Finally, all the papers were signed on a Friday. In the opinion of her doctors, the patient’s case was neither serious nor pressing, and the operation was scheduled for the following Monday. By noon on Monday, she was dead.

“I’d promised the surgeon money, of course. I know how these things work. But seeing how poorly dressed I was, he probably thought I was broke. Those bastards in their white coats! Supposed to help people, them? Not on your life. . All they think about is stashing away as much money as they can get their hands on. . An infection, can you believe it! An unexpected complication, that’s what they’re claiming, those sons of bitches! They’re all covering for one another. The nurse on duty left early on Saturday; on Sunday the doctor only looked in on the most serious cases. . as usual, what do you expect. I spoke to the two women who were in the beds next to hers, they know the truth. I wrote everything down. They won’t get away with it like that, they won’t get away with it!”

He’d brought a whole file. Medical certificate, death certificate. Statements from the doctors and nurses. Memo of his interviews with the other pregnant women. Report sent to the city’s health department. Report sent to the Ministry of Health. Report sent to the Supreme Court. Report sent to the World Health Organization. Report sent to the Patriarch of the Romanian Orthodox Church. To the Secretary General of the United Nations.

He apologizes at length for this visit. He’d had no intention of ever bothering them again. . Just a prayer. . if he might be allowed to ask. . from the lady. . If your missus. . if she still goes to the cemetery, for your friend the poet, she might perhaps also stop at the tomb of Valeria Nanu. It would please her so much, the poor woman. He’d often told her about that lovely lady and her kind husband.

The husband can’t stand the cemetery. One Sunday, however, he goes there with his wife. They stroll around a long time on the side paths, to the right, to the left, before heading for the two graves. At the modest tomb of their friend the poet, bare of offerings, they leave a bouquet of flowers. They find the other grave at the far end of the cemetery, near the fountain. A massive slab of imposing black marble, covered with flowers and candles. They add their sprigs of lily-of-the-valley to the tributes and hurry away.

The visitor reappears that night. In the small hours, at the uncertain approach of dawn. In suit and tie. His face stern, clean-shaven. He explains in great detail, but with few gestures, how he intends to reorganize the running of the establishment. Cleanliness, order, supervision! New schedule: limited hours, but greater convenience. Support services, competent personnel. A well-thought-out, meticulously planned project. .

He returns the following evening with additional information. And again the next, with ever more elaborate explanations.

Husband and wife are growing increasingly irritable, ill at ease. An unhealthy situation. They almost avoid looking at each other, and speak only when necessary. Sometimes they huddle together at night, but after a few moments they withdraw tensely, each to his own side of the bed, one on the left, the other on the right.

One day, the husband takes the initiative. Simple good manners: to return all those visits, see his guest again, at his new place of work.

At night, the cemetery is well lighted. Everything is spotless. The plots are nicely cared for, pedestrian traffic has been efficiently organized, the tombs are clearly numbered and easily located on maps of each section. Flower shop, refreshment concession, a checkroom for one’s belongings — nothing has been forgotten. Capable management for the public good. Open only at night, so that people won’t be cutting into their workday, neglecting their family and other obligations. The entrance fee is stiff: a hundred lei. But worth it, considering the quality of the services provided. And then, there’s only one price, general admission, no exceptions, no discounts pegged to age, sex, class. Here, instead of proliferating, injustices, machinations, and influence-peddling are completely unknown. No effort has been spared to guarantee profitability and self-sufficiency, in the interest of the general welfare. Otherwise, it would be chaos all over again, bankruptcy, a shambles.

In fact, the improvement has been outstanding, and remarkably rapid. Provision has even been made for friendly conversations, like the one taking place at this moment. . Any subject at all may be discussed, for here there is no room for fear. But idle chatter should be kept to a minimum, there’s no time to waste on empty words. There are constant, varied, and pressing matters to be attended to, explains the manager, shyly running his big hand across his close-cropped hair. It’s important not only to maintain the plots but also to show the proper solicitude for their tenants. You can’t have one without the other. Absolute peace and quiet must be assured. Silence, regeneration. Regeneration, future, new order. A period of recovery, as I suppose you’ve already gathered. Reconstitution and preparation. Preparation for a new time. We speak to them regularly about this, we prepare them for the crucial moment. Here they’re at rest, able both to understand why they were defeated and to find a way to recover everything they’ve lost. Here, no more fear, no more terror, no more lies. They’ve got the time, a lot more time than we have. They’re calm, untroubled. Our efforts on their behalf will be rewarded, I’m sure. We speak to each one, we assist every one of them. You’ll see how well prepared they are when they get going again, you’ll see for yourself. . The tranquillity they so longed for guarantees complete recovery, believe me. Really new people for a new time. Honesty, order, order and cleansing. New times.

His face truly glows with tranquillity. No longer rigid with tension, his features have somehow acquired more clarity and resolution. His countenance, radiant with faith in the future, fills the entire screen.

Yes, a deep tranquillity indeed. Tranquillity is boiling away, its red vapor clouding the screen, which quivers under the intense light of the fire. Impossible to see anything anymore.

But here’s a whole new morning coming up, ignorant of what may happen, peeping through the huge windows of the calendar. Tick-tock, singsongs the toad on the bedside table.

“That light again, a different window. Another blind must be broken. .”

The blind. . the blind. . the word whispered over and over, the voice drowsy, slurred with sleep.

A childish murmur. The click that starts the great wheel of day rolling once again.