Norman Manea - The Lair

He’d tried to replace the gloves with reproductions of Dürer’s hands, gathered in a heap on the table. In vain. White and black and red, yellow, blue gloves made of leather and silk, out of the skins of antelope and snake, the most expensive wool and the finest cotton, hunted in the windows of the most expensive boutiques, during sickly pilgrimages.

Nothing could replace the joy of spending considerable sums of money on his cherished inmates. He studied them, he stockpiled them, he brought them out to the light, one pair at a time or all at once, in a moment of fury and ecstasy, such as on this evening.

The angioplasty is followed by depression, he’d been warned by Koch and Bar — El. Koch called him daily to remind him that, statistically, depression was a very normal consequence of the procedure, and that it will gradually diminish.

The statistics, of course, can’t do without them, Koch had become a real American.

“The calendar becomes a metronome, I know. But you are all right, you will be all right. You’ve won yourself some time, modern medicine does wonders these days.”

After a few weeks, Koch invites him to meet his family. He can’t keep refusing, he can’t keep postponing.

“You have to go out, you can’t keep sitting around among your old papers. They guard you, I know the theory, but sometimes they don’t guard you anymore, they suffocate you. My wife is a great hostess, and it has been much too long since you and I spoke for real.”

American time is short, good intentions rarely find their appropriate respite, but they both knew that they could count on each other. Yes, yes, that’s right, the patient confirmed.

Isabel instantly lit the atmosphere of the spectacular Koch family home on Madison Avenue. The children possessed the natural tendencies of the new generation, but also the residue of an old world upbringing, they listened attentively, they spoke rarely and intelligently.

Instead of the chocolate cake that everyone refused because of their diets, dessert was a discussion on a troubling theme.

“Now I’m convinced that you were right,” Izy began, loosening his burgundy tie, which was perfectly matched to his blue silk dress shirt, “you should be open, on the side of the victim.”

He felt no need to specify who the victim was.

“I’ve come to the side of the Chosen People. Exactly because I reject the role of the victim, and not because I take it on.”

The family had probably already heard this emphatic discourse many times. It was only Gora who understood the implications. A code established long ago, in the basement of the Koch family house. Antonio and Carla, the family’s beautiful twins, as well as Isabel, all saw Izy as the admirable fighter for the cause. They all remembered the manipulated news in the press, the games of the great powers, the displacement of grudges on the left and right.

“It’s not exactly displacement,” Izy had corrected him. “It’s an accumulation.”

Gora was watching him attentively, even though he wasn’t really paying attention. The pain in his chest persisted, amplifying his unease and timidity. He couldn’t concentrate. The doctor didn’t notice and it was all for the better.

“You were right back then, about the two apostles. I assume you’ve expanded your thinking about the matter … ”

“I haven’t.”

“I have. Paul was a radical, Peter wasn’t. But … ” The dinner companions were now having a coffee. “Izy shouldn’t have provoked me,” the patient was thinking. Neither coffee nor philosophy is good for a cardiac patient. The cardiac patient couldn’t focus.

“I wouldn’t have thought that you’d be interested in these kinds of discussions.”

“I’m not, I just want to make up my mind. The Messiah means finalization. Certainty, conclusion, an end point. A finite thought. You were saying at one point that incomplete, open, anticipatory thinking appealed to you.”

“I no longer need occult justifications.”

“But you had them.”

“Now it’s getting late, and the patients must go to bed.”

“I thought you’d become a writer. You loved books and fiction.”

“Unfortunately, I’m too rational.”

“So you’ve assimilated. Pragmatism is rational.”

“It may be, yes, but that’s a simplification. A limitation.”

The doctor didn’t want the patient to leave, he knew that no one was waiting for him at home.

“Let me tell you a story about our friend Ga par.”

They were in Izy’s room, the others had retreated.

“He came to see me, about a month ago. Before he disappeared. He’s disappeared, hasn’t he? I heard that, but I don’t believe it. I think he’s just hiding somewhere and will reappear. Before disappearing he came to see me. Not for a consultation. A courtesy visit. To pay me a kindness. He didn’t want to see me. He left a tube with a work of art inside, to be given to me.”

“A work of art?”

Gora had perked up, was in focus. Izy’s schemes had succeeded in getting his body out of his head. The cerebral machine was shaking again, plugged in.

“I’ll show it to you if you want.”

“Yes, I’d like to see it.”

“He gave me an inestimable work of art. A watercolor done by an elephant.”

Gora was present, he was focused, his heart beat intensely.

“Watercolor, drawing, I don’t know the difference. The master — work of an artist. Elephas Maximus. Elephantus. The revenge of Peter Ga par! B.B., the queen of animals, was right. You remember Brigitte Bardot? Raw, naked beauty. Now she’s an old crone who loves and defends animals. I would assume that she also has work by Elephantus.”

Izy pulled from under his desk a massive blue tube, out of which he extracted the drawing. He unrolled it, turned it over to show the stamp of authenticity. Thai Elephant Conservation Center. In English and Thai. Nearby, handwritten, Aet/Male, 11 years old. The trunk holds the brush. Rounded lines of yellow and black.

“The artist Aet is no worse than their bipedal counterparts who get millions for a scribbling. You know the story with Hokusai, I think … the king called him, asked him to demonstrate the making of a painting. The painter spread a canvas on the floor and asked for a hen. He put one of the hen’s feet in the red color, let her strut all over the canvas. Then he stuck the other foot in the blue color. The hen covered the field quickly. When the king asked the painter what the painting meant, Hokusai answered without hesitation: autumn twilight. I don’t know if the king got the joke. I appreciated Ga par’s revenge. I used to always call him an elephant. Because of his scandalous dimensions. He was just getting fatter and fatter, he didn’t care.”

Gora searched the yellow and black forms. The yellow ended in black, the black melted, suddenly, into yellow. It wasn’t bad at all.

“What’s the title?”

“I don’t know. Ga par didn’t mention a title. Let’s call it, ‘Untitled.’ ”

“The art of an elephant needs a title. RA0298. That’s the title.”

“That’s not a title. It’s a serial number.”

“We all become serial numbers. Not engraved on the arm, like in Auschwitz, but on the credit card. Visa Card, MasterCard, Platinum Card. Social Security Card, Insurance Card, MetroCard. Resident Card. Resident Alien Card Number 0298. That’s Ga par’s number. We’re all numbers, says the Soviet cabdriver Boltanski. I know him from Ga par, too. He’s his driver.”