Norman Manea - The Lair

The assassin had stolen into the neighboring stall without a sound. One foot on the toilet seat, slowly, quietly, then the other foot; there, he’s up. He could see over the next stall perfectly, the professor on the relaxation throne. A short, identifying look. The shiny revolver aims at the temple of the condemned; the bullet releases, without sound.

As he wakes up, Peter Ga par tries to remember the faceless mercenary, his hands, his neck, his shoulders. He can only see his black mouth, the phosphorescent flash. Poor Peter is sweating.

Lined up among other skeletons, Eva Kirschner. From in between her pale legs, the head of a baby with a mousy face. The prosecutor David Ga par extends his left arm to the sentinel with the Red Cross armband. With a razor, the nurse cuts the number out of the dried skin. Slowly, patiently, digit by digit. Small squares of bloodied skin thrown to the floor, one by one. One digit, then another digit. Five digits; the pseudonym of the dead who didn’t die. The prosecutor is bilious, his eyes bloodshot, bulging out of their sockets, his head and hands trembling; the blood of the abattoir is draining from his arm.

After such a painstaking initiation, you wake up terrified. The Nymphomaniac has tested you again. Fear and insomnia don’t just exhaust; they humiliate you. Peter relives, endlessly, the moment before the fall off the ladder. He lifts himself up on his elbows, covers his eyes; the film rolls on. The ambulance, the operating table, the rods that slowly penetrate the crushed legs, while the pain penetrates the kidneys and brain. Sedatives don’t help. Mangled, sleepless nights; days dumbfounded by exhaustion.

He raises the receiver, slowly, slowly, dials Gora’s number.

“Professor? I have a question.”

Gora is silent, but he is there, listening, at the end of the world.

“You know that I was interested in deaf-mutes?”

Gora is silent, but he is there.

“Yes, I was interested in the deaf-mutes of deaf-mute socialism. I was one of them. Didn’t you ever read the little story that gave me my fame and nickname in socialism? My hero, Mynheer, was a deaf-mute, like all of us.”

Gora is silent, but his diaphanous breathing is audible.

“I don’t know if I told you this, but I’ve been in a real crisis with insomnia.”

“You didn’t tell me. What happened?”

“Nothing happened; my beautiful cousin is fine, though I haven’t seen her in a long time. You wanted to know that, I’m sure.” “No. I was asking about…”

“About me, you were asking about me; I’m enough of an idiot to believe it. Deranged by lack of sleep. Dreams, yes, dreams. No, drugs don’t help. The doctor? Avicenna? Only if I can see Lu, and now is not the time for that; I’m in no shape for it. So then, the deaf-mutes, that’s what we were talking about. Sometimes I sit all night long in front of the television, with the lights on. A few days ago, maybe yesterday, I don’t even know, I saw a movie about deaf-mutes. Yes, a documentary. It was good, good, the way things are done here, professional, very professional. It’s called, you won’t believe it, Sound and Furyl You can’t say that written madness isn’t sellable. Bill Faulkner, of course. Academy Award Nominee. Best Documentary Feature. Powerful. Insightful. . emotionally wrenching. That’s how it’s billed.”

Gora is silent on the other end of the line.

“So, then, I’ve found my old friends, here. And here, I’m one of them. Deafened and silenced by everything I don’t understand. Yes, there are plenty of things. Look, something happened recently, a threat, but never mind about that. So then, it’s a family, three generations of deaf-mutes. Not all, but the majority. Now, of course, Technology, today’s fairy godmother, offers remedies. The dilemma of Mr. and Mrs. S, both deaf, is whether they should take advantage of these advances for their daughter. Why so silent, Professor? You don’t understand how that relates at all to me? It does. I’ve been dropped from the moon, onto another moon. Another world, another language, another deafness, another muteness. Another code. I’m one of them, one of these deaf-mutes! But I don’t understand them, either. Not even them. So, now you see why the insomnia?”

Gora is silent, but he’s on the line; the connection is holding; he’s listening attentively, to be sure; he’s listening and taking notes.

“The child, Heather, is superb. Precocious, vivacious, excited by the saving implant. But what about her identity? What do you do about the great problem of Identity? How can you renounce the identity of the tribe, even if it’s a tribe of deaf-mutes? How, how? The sect is very proud, of the way it lives, compared with the so-called normals. Maybe they’re right. Solidarity, code, honesty, intimacy, everything you want! So then, Identity. With a capital I , with large, red letters. The magic key, sought by everyone, the one that opens any door, and all doors. I-den-ti-ty! That’s that, liquidated, finished. Fig-ure it out. Un-load.”

Peter no longer seemed interested whether Gora was listening or not. He’d given up on the pauses, he was merely chattering to himself.

“The child needs to choose between deaf parents and perfectly normal grandparents. They, on the other hand, can hardly wait to understand each other, at last, with the handicapped enchantress. Oh, I ought to slap myself; you can’t say things like that. Normal, abnormal, it’s not correct, it’s not polite and it’s not politically correct. Some time ago, there used to be a U.N. Day for the Handicapped. There was even a U.N. Year for the Handicapped, I remember. I was hoping that the United Nations would pull the handicapped East out of the socialist latrine. Now, we’re proud of any identity at all, isn’t that right, Professor? But what about me? I don’t have the magic key; or, if I ever had it, I’ve lost it.”

Gora’s silence continued. He was probably smiling. He had no idea about the threatening letter; Ga par had given up on telling him.

“Yes, I have a dilemma on my hands. Every day I am faced with a dilemma. Now, I don’t know if I should remain a deaf-mute, the way I was when I came here, or if I should throw myself, screaming, into the mouth of reality. I am going to call that child Heather; I abso-lutely have to call her. If she’s got her hearing aid in, she’ll answer, if not, I’ll go on living just as happy as I am.”

Gora was silent and still smiling, probably. The garrulous Ga par wasn’t done.

“Professor, is there a country more formidable than this one? It has everything, everything. Even I’m here. Do you know anything comparable with the Lunar City? That’s what I’ve wanted to ask you. You know everything, by the book; I’m sure you know the answer.”

Gora was silent.

“No answer, I see. Should I help you? There is, Professor, another country that’s just as formidable! Our quiet, faraway Homeland. A scholarly priest has managed to translate the Liturgy into sign language. A unique achievement in the Christian world! He followed the apostles’ sacred mission, to speak to everyone’s understanding. Now, barely now, there can be Mass for deaf-mutes. This is what’s happening in our magic, superrealist little country on the edge of the world. They don’t have the technological possibility to normalize the abnormal, but they have a spiritual one. And that’s superior, isn’t it? The sacred book is accompanied by photographs that explain every stage of the prayer in signs. The apostles of silence, that’s what the new blessed ones are called. They even have a choir. They sing in signs. What do you think of that? Which is better, our country here, or that one, there? That’s my dilemma. Should I go back?”