Norman Manea - The Lair

Climbed up on the seat in the next stall, the Messenger of Death targets the victim’s temple. It’s simpler than it was with poor Palade: he’s aiming at a standing victim, instead of sitting. It would be simple in the cabin, as well. It’s simple enough to duplicate the key. The nomad’s insomnias and nightmares would only help the killer. At two in the morning, Ga paris in the middle of a neurotic episode, at three, at dawn, he’s riding an elephant, out of whose trunk flow heavy streams of tears. From the sky to the earth. The cinephile watches on the screen to see the aggressor approaching, twirling the shiny toy in his fingers, turning it toward the condemned. A murderous trajectory, the invisible labyrinth, eternity.

Peter smiles. He’d dozed off smiling. The paper J.T. left behind was trembling on his ample chest. He inhales deeply, snoring slightly, like a fat and tired baby chick.

On his chest the list of students who took the Borges course. A white, thin shield.

“We have a suspect. We compared the handwriting from the postcard with that of the students in the Borges course. There’s a suspect.”

“The text was typed.”

“But the name of the sender is handwritten. As well as the address.”

“Well, then?”

“The suspect is from California. Appears to be Polish, is here on scholarship, studies political science and is the editor in chief of the Journal of Political Studies, which the college publishes. Very intelligent, very social, and with a very cultivated mind.”

“Very, very, very. What’s his name?”

J.T. pronounces the name from the sheet on her desk, syllable by syllable.

“E-rast. Erast. Lo-jew-ski. Erast Lojewski. Lojewski. Polish parents, most likely. He graduates this year.”

J.T. was satisfied; she’d worked quickly, and her makeup did her justice.

“Did you take him in for questioning?”

“We can’t. We sent the writing samples to the lab in Washington. If we get a positive match, we’ll ask the prosecutor for permission to question him.”

Ga par smiles, moved. The byzantine socialism that he was used to hadn’t prepared him for such scruples. The barbarian, I’m out of the cage. Captives and captors considered me a liberal buffoon, freethinker, good to let loose in the jungle of freedom. Yet I was a slave, just like everyone else. I had the mentality of a slave. More detached, maybe, longing for some kind of evasion. A barbarian, still. A real barbarian.

“Are you watching him?”

“We’re not allowed to. Not until we get the results from the lab. Would you feel more secure if he were under surveillance?”

“I don’t know… yes. I would. I didn’t sleep at home two nights ago.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“At a motel. On the main highway, not far from the college. I called a cab, I asked for the nearest motel, and the driver took me there. In the morning he brought me back.”

“Motels aren’t the safest of places.”

“I know. I’ve seen many American movies.”

“You should have called me. We would have figured something out.”

“I survived. I’m here. Honored both by the stalkers and the protectors. Excitement! I don’t have time to get bored.”

That same afternoon, J.T. — in a new, afternoon outfit — informs him that he wasn’t the only target. Two other professors had received the same threat! No, she couldn’t reveal their names. The information had surfaced during a discussion in the professors’ lounge; security had come by it accidentally.

One of the letters was written entirely by hand! The handwriting was identical to the other, and similar to Erast Lojewski’s writing. On the back the image of the Hermitage was replaced with a photograph from the New York Times, one image of Arafat and one of Pinochet.

The two American professors hadn’t notified the administration. The postcard had seemed a joke and didn’t warrant serious consideration. Was the Eastern European obsessed with specters and horrors? Is that what the Vietnamese American was suggesting? Hadn’t Professor Ga par tried to convince Larry One and the Sailor Dean and the taciturn Vietnamese J.T. that the threat was a farce?

The calming news did little to calm him. If there were more of the same letters, it means that he’s not the only target. The sender isn’t necessarily a compatriot, Dima’s admirer or Palade’s assassin. But it might be a simple diversion to calm the potential victim and misguide the police.

“Professor Ga par? I’m Gilbert. Professor Anteos Gilbert. Latin and Greek, ancient history. I hear that you’ve received a threatening letter.”

Aha, Tara’s professor! Tara’s letter? Yes, her letter, too, had been threatening at one point, in its own way.

Ga par understands just in time that another letter is in question. “I also received one,” the Greek continues, patiently. “I hadn’t known.”

“You’d have had no way of knowing. These robots at the police department don’t communicate among themselves. Three hierarchies. Federal, state, and local. The local police don’t inform the FBI, and those guys don’t care one bit about the state and local cops. It’s every man for himself. I went to the New York State police. On the very night that I got the letter in the mail. Valia, my wife, had panicked. She insisted that we go immediately to the police to show them the letter. Valia is Russian …”

“I didn’t know. And I don’t see …”

There were a lot of things that Professor Ga par didn’t know, a lot of things he didn’t see around him, blinded by invisible charades.

“There is a connection. Kosovo, the Serbs, Chechnya. You understand.”

The listener does understand, but he’s in no hurry; he waits.

“Valia was afraid that it was an Islamic extremist threat. Because of the Russian repression in Chechnya or the support that the Russians gave the Serbs in Yugoslavia.”

The Eastern European is no stranger to the complications of the region. He breathes heavily. The excess of news means more boredom. A dearth of events has the same effect.

“What happened? What happened at the police?”

“I spoke with a man named Martin. I told him the story, showed him the card. He questioned me for a few hours. He made me make a statement. I made it. I left the place in the middle of the night.”

“Did you locate the quotation? Did you tell him who the author was?”

“What quotation? That absurd proposition? A labyrinth! A labyrinth out of a single line. Invisible, eternal? One fell swoop! Next time I kill you with one fell swoop. . No, I’ve no idea if it’s a quotation. I don’t know, and I don’t think it matters. That’s not what interests the police. I told them who wrote the card.”

“Who? You know? How do you know?”

“A student. A student in my seminar. I recognized the handwriting.”

“Tara? Tara Nelson?”

“Tara Nelson? No, not a chance. An international student.”

“Where from?”

“Sarajevo. She came here on a fellowship. Deste, that’s her name. D., signed on the card. Deste.”

“Sarajevo? You recognized the handwriting? How? Just a few words written by hand … it would be hard to say.”