Norman Manea - The Lair

The candidate was silent; he couldn’t think of what might be exotic enough for such an exotic country.

“Communism? Could you talk about Communism?”

“No. Not exactly. But if there’s no other way …”

“The Holocaust?”

After the letter from Augustin Gora, President Avakian wasn’t surprised that Ga par wasn’t answering the question.

“You know what this is about. You come from damaged territory. You have a lot to say, I imagine.”

“I don’t. I prefer not to. No.”

Larry gave him a long look and shrugged, dejected.

“Anything else? Another subject. Something unusual.”

“Circus,” muttered Peter to himself, considering the meeting in which he was participating.

“The circus, you say? Did you run a circus?” Gaspar’s former passenger became more animated.

“Not exactly. Somehow, out of curiosity. I’ve read a lot. I was passionate about the subject. I planned a scholarly work, but I never finished it.”

“The history of the circus? The baroque in the circus, the Dada-ism of the circus! Bread and circuses? That’s what the ancients said, right? Panem et circenses. The people need bread and circuses. We’re a popular democracy, we need circus, too, not just bread. And we have it. Circus after circus. Maybe you have another idea.”

Larry hired Peter Ga paras a visiting assistant professor after evaluating the needs of the college and establishing the subject of the new colleague’s first course.

Peter Ga par responded to the prospect of his picaresque American debut without too much astonishment. He expected such unexpected adventures. For those who knew him in his faraway country, the indulgence with which he received the extraordinary and the detachment with which he assimilated intermittent shocks were not at all surprising.

Still, Gora suspected something irregular in this fatalistic submission to chance. Was this the irresponsibility to which he aspired? He’d also dreamed of a similar emancipation, more than once. To be able to be anything, to simulate anything. The freedom of improvisation, metamorphosis and availability. At a certain age, and with an Eastern European background, it seems preferable to confront just about anything, rather than have nothing else happen to you ever again.

Peter reappeared at unexpected moments. Long monologues followed by long absences. Gora’s silences didn’t discourage him. He didn’t limit himself to practical questions — quite natural for a newcomer — he offered intimate and sometimes embarrassing details.

Exile brings together people who previously moved in different circles; Gora was well aware of this state of emergency and indulgence; now it seemed like a substitution, the progressions and surprises of which he measured with some embarrassment.

Reasonably social in his home country, a good comrade and friend in a time of need, Peter seemed to codify his exuberance in small, incidental passages. Some thought him brash. Now he was punishing the listener through aggressive questions and revelations. Was it a suicidal vitality? A kind of trance that defies the normality; it was hard to know anymore whether it was benign or malignant. Was he finally experimenting now, in the American wilderness, with his own narration? Was he accepting his reeducation, the simplifications called for by the pragmatism of his new residence?

“Peter on the phone. I hope the name still means something to you.”

And voila, the ghost returned. Urgency granted it a victorious and superior air.

“Larry was lying in bed. He’d fractured his leg. His apartment was relatively banal, but in the wealthy neighborhood. A long body, in a long bed, the harsh face of a martyr. White plaits, tied in the back like a rat’s tail.”

“You said that Larry was short, with bristly hair, a mustache and exotic goatee.”

“Ah, no, that’s Larry One. We’re talking about the newsman Larry Two. Larry One brought me to Larry Two. A real celebrity, this man! I had no idea. I was seeing him for the first time, and his name didn’t mean anything to me yet.”

Enchanted by what he had to share, Peter allowed himself vast pauses in between sentences, mastering the rhythm of provocation.

“Friday. I was at Dr. Koch’s office again. I was hoping, of course, to run into Lu. And, of course, in vain.”

There was no need for a pause. It was enough that he’d mentioned Lu, their game of cat and mouse, or dog and cat. No, there was no need for such an aggressive silence, no need at all. The silence only emphasized the aggression with which he assaulted the husband.

“On the street, I ran head to head into Larry. Larry One, the president, the historian. I’m used to it. Coincidences hunt me here; they could never find me in my former life. And so, then, Larry, Larry One, the president, the client from the taxi. ‘How are you? Where are you headed? How are things? I haven’t seen you in ages. Are you busy? On your way to meet someone?’ ‘No,’ I say. ‘Come with me, I’m going to see a friend who’s bedridden.’ We arrive. It’s Larry Two. The famous newsman. The famous intellectual. ‘The Phosphorescent,’ as Avakian calls him.”

Silence. He was waiting for a reaction from Gora, who savored his silences.

“I had the Times Literary Supplement in my hand. I still bother with this nonsense; I haven’t found a cure yet. In the paper, a review of our great Dima.”

This didn’t elicit amazement, either; Gora just gazed at the folder in front of him, the computer and the white gloves on the edge of the table.

“Who could have guessed that Cosmin Dima was Larry Two’s professor! At the same university frequented by the historian Larry One.”

Pauses, breathing, shock; Gora accumulated shocks.

“The beginning of a passionate discussion. Enlightened by the devil, Larry One suddenly proposes that I review the last volume of Dima’s memoirs. Me? Me! I’m speechless. I refuse. No, not me! He feels that he’s pressed a tender point. He’d read the TLS review that scorches Dima. Fascist, Nazi, reactionary, hypocrite beneath the mask of a man of culture. He looks askance at Larry One and insists. I make excuses, I stammer. I find my way out: I can’t write in English. ‘No problem, we’ll find a translator.’ ‘Dima’s biography is complicated,’ I say, ‘the review needs a historian of complicated times.’ I look desperately at the historian, for his confirmation, his help, his salvation. My boss is silent. ‘My man,’ says the invalid, ‘there’s no better historian than life itself, and you have the best qualifications.’ Again he looks at Larry One, who remains silent. ‘Careful, Bedros, make sure your man sends me the review next month, not later than next month.’ Done! Liquidated!”

Gora should have muttered something, at least after this scene, something to himself, should have hummed a song, something, anything. Nothing. Niente.

“And there you have it, Professor Gora; it’s a disaster. Will you save me? Will you write this review instead? It’s great for your curriculum! Larry Two’s journal is important. Plus, you know Dima’s life and work better than I do. I’ll call the journalist and tell him that I found the perfect replacement. The distinguished Professor Augustin Gora will write a better review than I could. Out-stand-ing, that’s Saint Augustin.”

Gora was looking at the lustrous table, full of papers. He rifled through the scribblings and, yes, finally found what he was looking for, pulled the document closer, inspecting it ecstatically, as if it were the transcript of the conversation he was just having with Peter.