Norman Manea - The Lair

“I’m really sorry. Please forgive me. Look, here’s my MetroCard, with twenty dollars on it. Take it. I only just bought it today.”

“When? When did you buy it? Before the doctor or before the library?”

“I got it when I arrived at the station.”

“What am I supposed to do with a MetroCard? I don’t ride the subway.”

“Maybe someone in your family can use it?”

“Ah, so now you’re subsidizing my family! It’s probably used up. Or there are only two dollars left on it. So I’d be better off taking the two dollars in cash. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just asking you to forgive me. Believe me, I am ashamed. But things like this happen. They can happen to anyone.”

“And what do we do when they happen?”

“Look, let’s go to the subway station. Right here, near the bank. We can check the card on the machine. It’ll show that it’s not used up. Twenty dollars left on it. It’ll only take a minute.”

“And who’s going to do that?”

“Well, I … or no, better you. You check it. I’ll wait here in the cab.”

“Sure, I go check it, and you take off!”

He whistles out a short phrase in Russian, or Ukrainian.

“Take my bag with you. Believe me, I won’t leave without my bag. It’s too important. Here, I’ll give it to you. I’ll wait here.”

The passenger struggles to get the bag over the divider. Lyova takes it and groans at its weight.

“What’ve you got inside, granite? Mercury? Mercury is heavier, isn’t it?”

“Books, stuff. Personal things.”

“Personal things! That’s why they’re so heavy!”

Lyova heads toward the subway station, with the bag in tow. He waddles like a potbellied duck. He comes back, slouching to the left, because of the bagful of mercury.

“Okay. It’s unused. Twenty dollars. I’ll take it.”

He goes to get back into the car but his door is blocked by a cheerful Italian. Jacket, pants, hat, all made of black leather.

“I have to get out to Westchester, fast. It’s very urgent. I’ll give you a hundred.”

“Westchester! I can’t. I’m in enough of a mess as it is. This jerk doesn’t have the money to pay for his ride.” “How much is it?”

“Eight dollars. Actually, twelve. Now it’s twelve.”

“I’ll give you eight bucks, twelve, whatever. I’ll give you twenty. A hundred and twenty bucks to Westchester. Let’s go. Right now.”

Lyova measures up the mobster, takes a step toward the car, raising his hands up in the air like a heavyweight.

“Look buddy, I’m not going to any Westchester! I’m taking this passenger to Penn Station. Penn Station! He’s going to miss his train.”

“Penn Station! Let the guy walk, it’s close enough! I’m offering you a hundred and twenty bucks!”

“I’m not going! I already told you.”

“You’re an idiot! An idiot!” yells the mobster.

Lyova doesn’t seem offended. He agrees, “Yes, sir, I’m an idiot.” He returns the bag to the passenger in the back, slams the door, spits some words in Russian, or Ukrainian, and sits behind the wheel. He doesn’t start the engine. He wants to calm himself. Distracted, he looks at the passenger in the mirror.

“Why were you at the doctor’s? Are you sick?”

The patient doesn’t answer.

“Is it serious?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Why did you go to the doctor? A checkup, as Americans call it? But you’re not American. What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing, I told you.”

“Here, we’re just numbers. Nothing more. Insurance, accounts, credit. Numbers. Why see a doctor? The wife? Is your wife sick?” “My wife?”

“Your significant other, as they say here? Wife, friend, partner, significant other. Is she sick?”

“No, she works at that doctor’s office. I go there to see her from time to time. She finds out when my appointments are and makes sure she’s not around. She knew this time, too, I’d bet on it. No sign of her.”

“Divorced? I mean, are you separated? You go to see her even though she doesn’t want to see you? Is that how it is?”

“We’re not divorced.”

“Okay. Let’s go to the station.”

Lyova turns the key, the cab sputters, and then they are at the station. The customer descends; the bag descends.

“Wait, mister! Take your goddamn MetroCard. Take it with you.”

“What’s that? I thought we agreed …”

“Beat it! Go on, get out of here!” Lyova shouts, swearing in Russian, or Ukrainian.

Crowd. Hubbub, commotion. The traveler eventually finds the timetables, then gets lost. Then finds track 9. Then the train.

The present, nothing else. Not too bad, not too bad, the train repeats in rhythm as it slowly leaves the metropolis behind.

It’s not bad, it could be worse, the exhausted passenger thinks, once in his seat. The bag next to him in the empty seat by the window. He considers the brand new MetroCard. Lyova’s gift. A good man, that Russian. Or, rather, that Ukrainian, er, Soviet. Solid. A solid, good man, that’s the conclusion of the day, Doctor. Lu wasn’t there, but it was better that way. I need to get used to it. She’s already gotten used to it, probably. No, she hasn’t gotten used to it. Otherwise, she’d be there. She wouldn’t care. She’s avoiding the past. As well as the present, of late. The present is the past; that’s why she wasn’t there. So that I’d have no mirror. She’s sparing me the mirror, the old as well as the new. She’s protecting me, the sweetheart.

No, that wasn’t how the morning had started … The irreversible chronometer of the day had been set off earlier in Dr. Koch’s office.

“Look in the mirror,” the doctor ordered.

The patient looked at his shoes. Giant. Surly. Mummies, prehistoric animals!

“Have you looked in the mirror recently? I’ve told you before, exercise. Exercise, diet, rest! In the old days, the plowman didn’t have neuroses. And neither did the forester, who worked in the woods whole days on end. The body is our home. If we don’t take care of the body, life becomes miserable. Have you looked in the mirror?”

Leaden back of the neck. Pain in his arm. Shivers, cold sweats, panic.

“Lose some weight! Get some exercise, avoid stress. Your head aches? Take an aspirin. Confusion? Apathy? This time, it wasn’t a crisis. Tics. Nervous tics. Neuro-vegetative, as we used to call them in the Old Country. Lazy stomach. The sedentary life.”

The doctor stares at the patient, the patient stares, thoughtfully, at his shoes.

“Ulcer? Maybe. Pressure 140 over 92. That’s not too bad. Pain in the back of your neck? From sitting still too much. Movement, man! Have you looked in the mirror? Have you looked in the mirror, recently? Electrocardiogram? Money in the garbage. Your heart’s not the problem. Exercise, diet, fresh air! That’s the prescription. Lifestyle. Did you look in the mirror? Did you look? An elephant!”

The patient abandons the doctor’s office, stumbling. He sits on a bench, in a nearby park.

Friday, after lunch. The rush before the break. The nine-to-fivers hurrying across the week’s river, toward the weekend. Before anyone is aware of what’s happening, another seven days and nights blow by. Spring’s uncertain sky; the doctor is there. Avicenna-Koch! A mirror, what do you know! The patient waves the image away. The trio of puppeteers in the park juggles burlesque marionettes on the ends of long, delicate fingers. Thundering music. Alleys to the left and right. Passersby of all ages and ethnicities. The doctor among them. The kaleidoscope of the city spins, with little Koch in the center of it all.

The river moves gently to the left of the train. You never step twice in the same primordial water. This is what the passenger sees out the window, along the length of the train tracks: water that doesn’t grow old and is never the same water. Nor the air. Nor the fluid, therapeutic horizon.