Norman Manea - The Lair

“She used to write me notes before class. Asking for bibliographies, advice. I seemed to remember the writing, but I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t want to find out. I left my statement with the police, for them to beat their heads with it. The meeting had been decisive.”

“What meeting?”

“In the library. After about a week, I ran into Deste at the library. She was at the computer. I went closer. I asked her what she was doing. She showed me. She was typing a text. I froze. It was the text I knew too well. I told her that I received her letter. Tes, you got it?’ She asked me. Good, I’m glad. She was laughing. She has an irresistible laugh.”

“Did she explain? Did you understand? What follows?”

“I asked her if I was the only addressee. Not at all. Forty. Forty letters! She’d sent them to all corners of the country! I told her that such things were lawfully reprehensible. She seemed amazed. Amazed, amused. Candid. The girl is enchanting. Innocent, but ironic. Full of charm.”

Professor Ga par learned more than he’d expected to learn; there was nothing else to ask.

“I wanted to know how she’d chosen her addressees. Interesting people! That was the criteria. That’s what she said, candidly.”

“She doesn’t know me. She’s never met me.”

“She’d probably found some things about you. Your biography published in the college handbook, or she heard something from other students. Only four addressees from the college. That’s all. We’re among few, you must admit. . Who knows to whom and where she sent letters. I told her I have to inform the police. ‘The police? Why the police?’ I explained to her that there’s no knowing what kind of effects such a game could have. She was stupefied. This was, in fact, her intention. The unknown! I tell you, she’s enchanting.”

“What was? What was her intention?”

“An exhibit! An art project, a conceptual installation. Installation. That’s what it’s called now. Something about the Byzantine Empire. I didn’t really understand, and I didn’t care to. That night I called the police.”

“So you denounced the innocent…”

“To the contrary. I withdrew my statement.”

“Withdrew? But didn’t you say that in the end you gave the name of the person who …”

“In the end, but not then. Then, I withdrew the statement.”

“Why? The student represents the Byzantine Empire. Exactly what Valia, your wife, suspected …”

“Nonsense. Deste is not a nationalist. Nor a terrorist. She’s got nothing against the Russian. Dr. Ga par, you yourself know what it’s like to be an old man, bald and fat, in front of a young enchantress. You know?”

Dr. Ga par knows, and keeps silent.

“We haven’t even met yet, and look, I’ve started to babble. . I’m asking ridiculous questions. Forgive me! If we’re on the topic anyway about this letter and Deste, then. . Anyway, I withdrew the statement. There was no point in putting her through stupid questioning.”

“An old man in front of the young woman?” Professor Peter Ga par asked himself suddenly and out loud. “Frustration? That’s it, isn’t it? From timidity to frustration, to revenge, a quarter of a step … You changed your mind, and then you changed your mind again. In the end, you did denounce her, isn’t that right?”

The Greek Gilbert Anteos had come across a Balkan neighbor, was in the mood for gossip, all of which meant that the story had ended well. Happy endings, Hollywood; everything can be fixed. Peter had no reason to be impatient; he’d been given a happy ending as only someone as ridiculous as he deserved. The elephant guffaws, humiliated.

“A month passed, Professor. A month! The FBI doesn’t connect with the Trooper, and these guys don’t connect with the other guys. For a month, neither knew about the other’s existence! I withdraw the statement, and Officer Martin calls me. He asks for the name of the person who sent the postcard. Why should I give you the name, I said. I withdrew the claim, the case is closed. It was a joke, I tell you, a stupid joke, I withdrew the grievance. Police Officer Martin gets angry. ‘Tou’re not the only one involved!’ he screams. ‘There are others, awful things could happen. Either you give me the name or I’ll arrest you.’ Arrest me! We’re not in North Korea or Iraq, not in the Axes of Evil. Neither in Sarajevo, nor Saudi Arabia. But I yielded.”

“You gave her name?”

“No, I didn’t give her name. I refused. Again and again, I refused. Valia was desperate. You know how immigrants are, fearful of the police. I kept on refusing. In the end, however, I promised to send the person to the police station. He took my word and left me alone. I had to convince Deste to turn herself in.”

“The old man in front of the young woman,” mumbled Peter. Enchanting, irresistible. The old, fat man in front of enchanting youth. “Irresistible youth, isn’t that right?” Ga par asked himself, into the receiver.

“I explained to Deste that the story had taken on new proportions. There was no time to postpone. She must go to the police, explain everything, prove her innocence. She was questioned for eight hours. But this wasn’t why I called you.”

Ah, the bomb hadn’t exploded yet. The banter was just preparation for the shock. Ga par pulls in his knees, ready to take on a new hit.

“I’m calling you on Deste’s behalf. She wants to apologize. But she doesn’t dare. She asked me to bring you up to date with the events.”

“Of course, yes, of course,” stammers Peter, short of breath. “When was the whole thing settled? When did she go to the police?”

“About ten days ago. In the end, they contacted the college. Not the FBI, but the college. The college had had no idea. I don’t like Ms. Tang. She’s got her nose in every pot, and so I didn’t tell her anything. Other consequences. With the dean, the president. The poor girl finally understood that, in the land of jokes, there’s no joking allowed. She wrote you at the hotel where you live. The president asked her to write to you, to apologize. She wrote you. You didn’t receive anything, it would seem.”

No, Professor Peter Ga par hadn’t received anything but the labyrinthine threat of an eternal and invisible strike. Ten days? Poor little Deste. . she’s been putting up with consequences for ten days? What was happening with Ga par the elephant during this time? He remembered only the nights. Intense nights. An exile can’t hope for more than ephemeral intensity. The days and nights had been intense, and, as it turned out in the end, also ephemeral. He couldn’t remember a lot, and didn’t even want to remember when and how he’d spoken with Jennifer Tang and Larry One and Larry Eight and Tara and the Sailor Dean and so and so; he wanted to forget everything quickly, to sweep it away, as if it had never been.

After half an hour, the old man who wasn’t quite that old, just fat and bald, speaks on the phone with the enchanting assassin. This he would remember, for sure. He’s determined not to forget anything about this, to speak to his erudite friend Gora about the burlesque Commedia dell’Arte; Saint Augustin will quickly find the bookish cross-references, enchanted by the farce’s finale.