NORMAN MANEA
279
the-wisps can be nice and innocent; they're not all mean and vile. Your
recent one, like the first, is humanitarian enough. It's just more
congenial, because it's useless and unpaid. So now you write as a
correspondent of the masses. Goo-ood. Letters instead of articles, right?
Right. Like those Latin American policemen who decide to form their
own gangs to have a crack at the villains - but as private individuals
using police expertise. Good. Only you have other passions. [ was going
to say manias - excuse me. So you investigate! You examine the past
to
forget the present, or to understand it better. Of course, it's not my
business. But it is also, or could also become, mine. [ mean, why don't
we concern ourselves with the same period, for different purposes? Only
I'd be paid for it. What do you say?"
"No. [ don't understand what you're after."
"What I'm after? To get excited about something, that's what. To
find a conjuring act. A game, a hobby, as they say in the capitalist par–
adise. Not to be bored any longer! Even death is not a greater tragedy
than boredom. The Old Scriptwriter likes us to amuse him, doesn't he?
After all, that's why he created us.
"So, could [ take part in your great work? I'm drawing up trees of
my family and also looking into the mysterious chapter in its story. What
do you say? Others don't know what I'm like, but when [ think of the
hearth back home, of my childhood years, I'm ready to start writing the
memoirs of my decimated family! Will you pay for my help, then? How
about it?"
[t became quiet again. As the silence continued to grow, the pro–
fessor felt he had probably gone rather too far.
" Let me make you another coffee, sir. [ haven't anything else to of–
fer. You don't drink or smoke, [ know, and [ can't offer you one of my
ladies, as they've got the day off today. But a genuine coffee - in our
times that's a real provocation, believe me. Almost an attack on social
harmony. Just think: a kilo of coffee on the black market costs a whole
month's wages."
The other man did not reply. The window was darkening as evening
fell. His movements grew slower, his voice less distinct.
"No," the voice could be heard at last, "it's late and [ don't sleep
well anyway. Let's talk about your job, instead."
"Pah, what is there to talk about? [ understand that you can't help
me. You're not the official journalist you once used to be, so you can't
work shoulder to shoulder again with mad Marga, the loonies' doctor,
to save me and take me away to the famous capital to work in the
sought-after post of receptionist at the Hotel Cunty. I'm sorry, I know
you're not so keen on slang. Let's say Hotel Pussy - that's the popular
