The Black Envelope

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A VIOLET SKY. A bluish silhouette with a pack of whelps. A bitch’s head, if you looked closely enough; it was nothing other than the oblong head of an angry bitch chasing the night sky, followed by clouds coming from all sides and covering the nocturnal sea. And somewhere, sometime, the ghost of the murdered father, forty years ago.

His hand trembled on the cup’s enamel rim. Tolea gripped the handle, lifted it slowly, and took a sip. The coffee was cold, as usual, having been left for hours in the pot until whenever. As if he were not alone: as if he felt around him the presence of Marcu Vancea, who had been killed or committed suicide forty years before. It had already happened to him several times; it was happening more and more often that he saw him, felt him nearby.

As they head for death, so do I head with them for death: that’s the premise. To see how I and my fellow countrymen present ourselves at the moment of the supreme embrace. One appointed morning, when you no longer hope for anything and you suddenly rediscover nature in its boundless indifference. One appointed morning of glistening spring, when we forget for a moment the guardians’ faces and the dirty streets and souls, and we lift our eyes to the empty golden sky.

Finally at peace — happy, and free from the panic of our tiny cell. Then, bang, heart attack, surprise! The murderous fraction, the last tangent, the end of it all.

It is night, creative night. At last the action is going to start! He knew it would be a highly ambiguous action, Operation Spring.

All at once the gentle night breeze enveloped him. He suddenly remembered Toma the pursuer. Miserable informers are not even servants of the devil: they don’t have such a high rank, no, they’re just fish in the swamp called the present. Wretched fish in the swamp, with souls and diseases and fears and pleasures of the swamp. What can his mission be, in fact, that mask called Toma? Why does he appear when you are not expecting him, after days on end of expecting him all the time? Is this a race of barbarians? Are the barbarians coming at last, as the old man Cavafy whispers? They will come because they came and multiplied a long time ago, gradually occupying not only the tumbledown fortress but the souls, diseases, and fears of the mice population. And the barbarians never stopped coming, never stopped interfering with the honorable rodent citizens. That is what the barbarians and their barbarianized prisoners became — a huge mass of hungry, cunning mice ready for the great fiestas of collapse. All of them attracting attention, with a scar wrinkle at the tip of their eyebrows. A barely visible sign in which one could read the tic of a sly and degenerate species — the winking of an eye.

At some point he finally fell asleep, lost in the oneirosphere of night.

The airplane rocks gently, and the man gently leans over to his left toward the little window. The seats vibrate slightly; a brief current of alarm shudders through the plane’s metallic pike-belly. The passengers look at the distinguished tourist, as if his behavior is the real test of how the flight is going. They look excitedly at their watches and then worriedly at one another. But the elegant foreigner does not show the least sign of unease. He looks at his neighbor, a slim, dark young man with an inoculation-type scar by his left eyebrow. He stretches out his hand toward the little table fixed to the back of the seat in front. But the stewardess leans over to serve him herself. In a long voile dress, with a silver tray in her hands. Naked beneath the purplish voile. Long white hands. A bronze bust, red lips. Rings of violet facepaint. She bends toward the turkey ear of the tourist. The voile dress flutters. Glossy breasts with their pea-mouth in the middle. But the senator appears not to notice. He smiles into infinity, listening enraptured to its music in the headphones placed over his ears.

Tolea is awake, has drifted off, asleep again, who knows.

The city was in darkness. Dirty winding little streets now swallowed up in obscurity. Just some dim yellow blots in the distance. Sick orbs of a sick city sunk in nightmares.

Silence. Now and then the steps of guards sound with their metallic cadence. Occasionally the night toxins can be heard in the sighs of a drunk, like the bubbling of a diver stuck in the thick oil of a bottomless crater.

Riotous, chaotic groans, a short green flame, cursing and alcohol. And again the unlit silence and the hobnail boots rhythmically striking the asphalt. The darkness grinds its teeth as rays of light suddenly spring up. Metal plate, wheels, and screws are banged; there is a massive sickly noise of something starting up. The monster moves off: its headlights sway in the thick black ocean. The crippled truck lurches about and noisily fills the desert — a gigantic deformed savage moving unsteadily forward, breaking up the darkness bit by bit. The edge of a rusty roof. Thickets of rubbish. The handlebar of a bicycle. A doorway with a broom resting on its handle. Another door, with a statue. The statue glimmers for the twinkling of an eye. The door is framing the nude, the statue. Under the golden stream is the man’s naked body. Large forehead, metallic pate. It’s Dominic, it’s Tolea, it really is! The driver wakes up properly; his hands tremble as they clench the steering wheel. He looks back to catch another glimpse of the phantom. Yes, the vision is still there: a naked man in the doorway. And it is Mr. Dominic, that scatterbrain from Hotel Tranzit! Quiet unmistakable. The appearance of the noisy vehicle does not disturb him. The driver brakes, stops, and switches off the lights, so as to recover his senses. The street disappears. The same endless silence. He turns the ignition key again: the engine starts up, the lights come on. As the rattletrap moves off, the driver nervously rubs the wart at the corner of his eyebrow.

There is a crackling of levers, metallic claws, and screws, a bursting of air bubbles, brass tools, and springs.

The dinosaur moves slowly backward, crawls over to the curb on its right, and finally completes the reversing maneuver. It goes back along the lifeless street, then stops. The door is wide open. But there is nobody in its old wooden frame!

The driver strains his eyes as he looks through the dirty cabin window. No, there isn’t anyone in the door. After switching off the engine and lights, he lies there in wait. . But Dominic is no longer in the doorway. Dominic is asleep, naked, on the narrow sofa. He tosses about as he dreams that the driver is lying in wait, and sweatily tosses about in an attempt to escape. Two thin phosphorescent streaks — that’s all. The driver can no longer be seen — only the two luminous lines of the driver’s phosphorescent eyes follow him from afar, from the cabin of the truck. He is there at a distance, watching with stubborn hatred, nervously stroking the weird sign at the corner of his eyebrow.

The city is desolate. The night, the oozing putrefaction. Now and again the measured step of security guards. Or the spasm of an owl striking rooftop aerials. The little electric owls whirr for a long time, with rapid flashes. The rattletrap is swept off somewhere into the pitch-black depths. The air opens enormous black wings and, at the same time, huge nets to collect bats and airplanes and suddenly rejuvenated phantoms. The airplane keeps darting from side to side, to escape the talons following behind it. The inside is clean and functional. Geometry and luster.

The man gently leans over to his left, toward the square of a steamed-up window. Large blue round eyes, giving nothing away. A suit with a white handkerchief in the lapel, a tie, a long wrinkled neck, staring eyes.

The seats shake slightly: anxiety passes thinly among the ranks of the passengers. They all turn to the elegant Westerner, looking for signs of danger in his important face. The tourist is calm and unflurried. The plane rocks gently, and the man again gently leans over to his left toward the little window. Once more the seats vibrate; there is a brief current of alarm through the plane’s metallic pike-belly. The passengers again look at the distinguished passenger, as if his behavior is the real test of how the flight is going. They look excitedly at their watches and then worriedly at one another. But the elegant foreigner does not show the least sign of unease. He turns to his neighbor, a slim, dark young man with an inoculation-type scar by his left eyebrow. The spitting image of the stranded truck driver! That prehistoric, batrachian truck, in the slimy shipwreck of the night. .

Unable to settle down, the passengers fiddle with handkerchiefs and paper tissues, wipe their perspiring brows, crowd into the smoking area, watch out for the few coded gestures of the distinguished guest, and look at their watches as they rub themselves nervously in their seats. The aircraft banks slowly, from right to left, left to right. The elderly gentleman with white hair and expensive clothes leans from left to right, right to left, toward the window, toward his neighbor, again toward his neighbor, but the conversation with his traveling companion, or guardian, cannot be heard. “We are approaching the capital. Mentioned in documents from the fifteenth century, it is a junction of air routes, eight main railway lines, nine through roads.” The announcer’s voice shows no sign of unease. The travelers appear calmer as their heads obediently straighten. “It is a Romance language of the Indo-European family. The largest port is credited with 40 million tons a year — on the site of the old Greek colonies.” The old man again leans toward the humble orderly. He says something to him, but the voice does not take audible shape, as if it is sucked up and destroyed before it can become sound. The young man replies with large hurried gestures, out of keeping with his tight provincial suit and with the guest’s rare and slow movements.

“The country is a republic. The President is head of state and commander in chief of the army; he appoints and dismisses ministers and leading personnel in the administration; he establishes the status of diplomatic missions, accredits and recalls diplomats, receives letters of accreditation and recall, establishes the nomenclature of state secretaries and the names of towns, districts, and streets, lays down the citizens’ rules of behavior and the system of allowances and retributions, and signs international treaties.” The information flowed clearly and decisively; not a sound could be heard other than the firm voice of the announcer. “The stimulated birthrate is 18.6 percent. A majority of the population lives in the lowlands. It is a socialist republic, with a single party. The country’s President is also General Secretary of the single party, with 20 percent of the total population. The law prohibits contacts with foreigners. The currency is equivalent to 0.15 rubles and 0.2 dollars. There are universities, libraries, daily press, and radio. And television for four hours a day.”

The tourist is voicelessly chattering, while his companion makes gestures of agreement with his hands and eyebrows. Actually, he even seems to say something in reply to the soundless phrases.

“The natural relief is well balanced: one-third mountains, one-third valleys, one-third plains. The rivers radiate outward from the center of the country. There is forest vegetation on a quarter of the surface. A temperate continental climate. Oceanic influence in the west, Mediterranean in the southwest, and continental in the northeast. There are tourist areas in the mountains and by the sea, as well as monuments of feudal art.”

The white-haired gentleman stretches out his hand to the little table to the right of his seat, but the stewardess is in position and leans over to offer him the elixir. A silver tray on which brown, yellow, and green glasses are vibrating. A loop of blond curls. Long white hands. A long voile dress. Naked beneath the transparent material. The customer does not appear to notice. The frame banks to the left and the passengers wince in their seats.

“The population first appeared with Bronze Age civilization. Waves of migrating peoples. . war with the Ottoman Empire. . rulers from the Greek aristocracy in Istanbul. We are in the proximity of the capital, which has a density of more than ninety inhabitants per square kilometer. Life expectancy at birth: sixty-seven years.”

The stewardess, without moving, watches and waits for her client — the elegant senator, pastor, lord, butler, or whatever he is. Wavy white hair, a narrow wrinkled brow, pink complexion, moist eyes, large ears, protruding nose, slightly open mouth, starched collar, dark-red tie, lips measuring out soundless words. .

Not a sound. Smooth silent flight. Like movement on the spot, in the belly of a silver whale, stone-still in the great aquarium of the sky. The tray with juices, aphrodisiacs, and poisons. White green yellow glasses, but the man from Mars does not notice. The mannequin keeps leaning over, with her naked breasts on the tray and that lightbulb in the middle. .

The man with a mustache on the pensioner’s right cannot take any more. He pulls a yellow square from the pile of cards on his table, holds it up to view so as to jolt the tourist awake, and then turns in irritation to his subordinate.

“He can’t hear a thing, girl, and he’s left his batteries at home! I’m telling you: his hearing aid isn’t working. And God knows why, kiddo, he’s on a diet; even tits are out.”

But the gentleman does stir and tries to fix the tiny transistor earpieces, to take off the headphones and put on the earpieces. And he does see the bust, yes, he finally notices the statue of Aphrodite— and, of course, he is very interested, he really is; there is a dry gulping sound in his throat, viscous saliva, strangled mumbling, the snake-like tie, and again the soundless battle of the crustacean mouth, until his neighbor understands the command and conveys it to the mannequin, who by now is standing paralyzed, with her breasts on the tray, deafened by the shouts of the man with the mustache. Only she appears to hear them, while the passengers remain impassive and seemingly unaware of anything at all.

“You load of dolts!” shouts the accompanying agent, not just to his guest, but also to the unfamiliar world that he represents. “You’re blind, blind as hell! You blind dolts, you stuff yourselves with all that information, all those relays and rockets. But you don’t understand a thing! And me? And us? Speechless, sir, quite speechless! The angels have taken away our voice. My bosses have taken mine as well as Lieutenant Aphrodite’s, as you can see. . And all our sleeping people are just waiting for you to come and save them! You, with your flying fortresses and your arrogant chewing gum.”

The foreigner nods pastorally, without understanding a word. Yes, the foreigner does look like a pastor. He looks with disappointment at the defective earpieces, which he checks once more without success. The little capsules are now hanging on a golden chain over his impeccable silk shirt front. He smiles with satisfaction and looks contentedly at the glass of milk lying on his table. Milk is what the missionary ordered. Milk is what the maternal agent Aphrodite has given him, and now she is agilely working to point her completely available body toward him — her glossy breasts, her electric button, her hips of gold. The customer smiles as he puts his hand out for the glass of milk. Just as he touches it, the alarm sounds in the aircraft. Gunfire is shaking the walls, the bodies, the seats — enough to raise the dead. An infernal alarm, the end of the world.

Anatol Dominic Vancea Voinov jerks dizzily to stop the inferno. The telephone is right beside his bed. The alarm clock right beside his bed. No, that isn’t it. His hand is trembling as it searches for buttons, cutouts, keys. The bell. . that long tinkling of metal wings, the air, the asylum bells sounding reveille. Yes, it is morning; the windows are shaking from the louder noise of the new day.