Norman Manea - The Lair

“Did your review refer to him, too? He was a disciple of Dima’s.”

“I only wrote about Cosmin Dima’s memoirs. I brought up his political affiliations of the thirties.”

“Did he conceal or manipulate the facts? You said they weren’t new pieces of information.”

“Old information, new situation. The anti-Communist post-Communism. Or anti-Communism after Communism. It’s easier to fight with a corpse … Dima didn’t discuss his secret. Why should he confess in public? What matters is what you do, not who you were, isn’t that right? Pragmatism!”

“Did he have followers? Other than Palade?”

“Probably.”

“And were they scandalized by your review?”

“Probably. Not just them. General indignation.”

“Mario told me that you avoid your former compatriots.”

“I lived among them. There weren’t only horrors; there, joys, too. But here, yes, I avoid them.”

“Why did you contact Officer Pereira?”

“The college contacted him. After Palade’s assassination. The president of the college was convinced that I might be in danger. Mr. Pereira didn’t manage well in the whole Balkan mess. The motives for the assassination weren’t very clear. . Even now they’re not clear.”

The FBI envoy doesn’t write anything down. He just scrutinizes the face of the interrogated.

“Why would the same group return after two years?”

“What group?”

“The group that threatened you then?”

“I don’t know of any group that would have threatened me.”

“Have you published anything else in the meantime?”

“No, nothing.”

“Does the postcard seem to have been sent by an extremist group?”

“I don’t know.”

“A group of mystics, for example? I understand from Mario that the extremists from the thirties were mystics. Those with ties to Dima were mystics. Orthodox terrorism, no? Are there mystics here, too?

“I don’t know. It’s an odd text. It could be a ruse, to distract the investigation. We don’t know who the sender was, we don’t know anything. Certainly there must be extremist groups among the exiles, but I don’t know anything about them.”

“Is there anything particular to note about the handwriting of the message?’

“Only the name and address are handwritten. The rest, typed or printed by a computer.”

“What do you think about the text?”

“I think it’s a quotation. I don’t know why. Just an impression.”

“Something familiar in the text?”

“Labyrinth. The word labyrinth. One of Dima’s obsessions. He wrote a lot about labyrinths. I spent a few days in the New York Public Library last week. I revisited his books. The obsession is there. The Greek labyrinth. Myth and ritual in the labyrinth. The world as a labyrinth. The city as labyrinth. The mystic spiral and the labyrinth of the cross. The Celtic labyrinth. The labyrinth of human viscera …”

Annoyed, the policeman stands up. Short, thickset, dumpy. Thick, black, wavy hair.

“We’ll see each other in a week. Same time and place.”

“Perfect,” answered the professor, impatient himself to leave the room. Humiliated by his lapses of memory. He knew, and he didn’t know the quotation. The past refused to render the bibliography accurately.

The moment has come to tell about the incident, to reveal the postcard to others, to get opinions, to solicit advice. Gora could replace an entire library, he might be able to offer the solution. Or to call Lu. If she learns about the threat, Lu will want to hear about the adventure, to listen attentively and with great concern.

Peter hesitates, with the receiver to his ear. He makes up his mind, dialing Gora’s number.

“Yes, it is I, the Eastern Mynheer. Yes, you’re right, we haven’t spoken in a long time. But here we are, talking now. A lot, I assure you, we will talk as the condemned talks to his oracle. The impeccable oracle. The unvanquished. For the professor who has read and committed everything to memory, no question is too difficult. And so, then, I have to ask …”

He has the postcard in hand, the mysterious message in front of his face. He is ready, and then he changes his mind again. And that’s how it goes, revulsion wins in the end.

“I’m asking you about the student uprising, which you witnessed. So that I can also understand the world into which I’ve landed. You’ve already told me about it, you’re right. You told me everything immediately after Larry One hired me at the college. You described the atmosphere in the college; you were protective, concerned, as ever. An innocent produced by the library. I don’t want to call you a mouse; a mouse isn’t innocent, but you are a little angel, a milksop of words. Eh, tell me again about ‘La Passionaria,’ how they spoke from the balcony, the famous Dolores Ibärruri, Rosa Luxemburg, and Clara Zetkin, Ana Pauker and comrade Kollontai. And Senora Perön. Yes, I know, you never mentioned these names.”

Naturally, there was silence. Hypervexed by Peter’s ramblings, Gora yields, as usual.

“A student of mine. Quiet, civilized, I would even say shy. She used to come to class with her boyfriend. A handsome, athletic young man. One day this boy shows up in my office to tell me that the girl would like to speak to me. Babbling, he can’t explain why she didn’t come herself. Yes, there is a problem. . Two years ago, after getting into the college, the girl went to a party for freshmen. She drank beer, she walked in the woods with a young man. And, and, and. . what happened? Seemingly something and seemingly nothing. An embrace and then, then, no one knows, the girl doesn’t remember exactly what happened. The only clear thing was that more than two years had passed.

“Yes, now I remember them. Then the girl came, troubled. It wasn’t clear what happened two years ago, but it was clear what had triggered the flashback. . Two years after the uneventful or half-eventful or a quarter-eventful or a fifth-eventful event, the aggressor passes by the new couple, on a clear, autumn afternoon. He smiles obliquely, as if with a certain understanding. The girl feels insulted; her partner persuades her to file a complaint. The student goes to the president of the college and explains what she can explain. The party, the beer, the woods, the embrace in the grass, the confusion in the dark. Larry One listens. It was around the time when you were charming Bedros Avakian’s students, no? So, then, Larry one listened attentively to the narrative. Any accusation must be heard and resolved in a democracy. The presumed aggressor is punished: he is not allowed to participate in rehearsals with the rock group The Blind Band for two months. He will also lose his privileged access to the gym and pool.”

“The victim is unsatisfied, isn’t that right?”

“The student feels that she’s been strung along. The accused would reappear from time to time, at rehearsals and at the pool. He was from a wealthy family that donated to the college, that’s what her partner maintained.”

“You advised her to forget everything. You asked her if she has a good relationship with her parents. Yes? Then, take advantage of your summer break, enjoy yourself, protected, relaxed, that’s what you told her. Don’t make this twisted episode the center of your unhappiness; you’re young, pretty, smart, your whole future ahead of you, not behind you. Is that what you told her, Saint Augustin? Like a retarded grandfather just out of the premodern cave, an Eastern European idiot. Misogynist, macho, without scruples.”

“Yes, but nothing came of it. The students liked me; that was why the girl came to me in the first place. Avakian liked me, too.”

“And the Uprising? It exploded the following spring. Slogans and posters everywhere, protesting the administration that encourages sexual harassment. The administration was under siege for three days. Speeches from the balcony of the besieged building. Demonstrations, reporters, negotiations, measures to be taken. And what happened to the erotic trio?”