Norman Manea - The Lair

You hear that? Online! Elephant painting! Fifteen art academies!

Where do you find this stuff? In books? No, on the stupid little screen!

It had been hard for him to get used to the invention, harder than it was for Lucky with the brushes, but it became a necessity, just like all useless things that replace other useless things. In one second you find anything you look for, but one little mistake and you don’t know how to get out of the labyrinth. Lost, humiliated, you don’t remember the rectifying action to take. Only the Army of Technical and Infantile Aid can help you; three— and eight— and eighteen — year — old children with tiny laptops in their ears and nostrils. All of them conceived and born of the magic instrument, not in the maternal placenta.

In one second, the can of information opens again, just like in fairy tales. No need for a library, school or books, professors, the child presses a button and there it is: Information. Another era, other needs, another speed, other tastes, the charm of Lucky the elephant surpasses the barriers of time, space, and generations.

Lucky, the star of Cheyenne Mountain, prefers painting in tempera, in pink and red. She signed every artwork. While her trunk gracefully handled the brush, the giant quadruped vocalized her ecstasy: a little grumble of satisfaction, as might be heard only in the studios of the great artists. The voices of the plebe annoyed her. She would stop, disgusted at the buzzing of admirers, many minutes would pass before inspiration came back to her. When the instructor gave the final signal, Lucky would sign the piece with an arrogant gesture of her trunk, and her friend Kimba would apply the stamp over the artist’s signature, a proper hoof mark.

But what about Aet, the eleven — year — old male artist, the author of the masterpiece RA0298? Gora searches all over for him, among the celebrities, waiting for some telepathic sign from Ga par.

All of a sudden, dubious signals in his chest. He doesn’t have the courage to measure his blood pressure, he rejects the alarm.

New headlines had appeared on the screen, thank God: on the coast of the Black Sea, near the same Tomis where Ovid was exiled long ago, a certain Victor — nicknamed — The — Elephant walked the streets alongside an elephant dressed in a giant national costume, for his electoral campaign. So, then, Elephantus wasn’t active only in Uncle Sam’s electoral campaign, but also on the Pontus Euxinus, where the persecuted Ovid bemoaned his estrangement.

Gora was increasingly convinced that Peter Ga par was in Thailand, at a school for elephant instructors. At some point he’d published a book about the Baroque, the art of elephants would surely justify a new edition for mass distribution.

He pulled from the shelf the book in which Pieter had died, watched by the melancholic, bibliophile Castorp, and by Lady Chauchat. After Mynheer Peeperkorn had given up his burlesque soul, overcome by the tropical fever, the melancholic Castorp disappeared, as well, swallowed by the apocalypse of the war. “Farewell, brave, spoiled child,” whispered Hans Castorp’s obituary, which closed with the question, “Will love rise out of the burning sky?”

The question lingered beyond the pages on which Pieter Peeper — korn had died, but there was no more time for old questions. Gora needed to call the doctor. An enterprise even more urgent than reading.

Busy, busy, tack — tack — tack. The phone was busy. Five, ten minutes. Finally! The voice of salvation.

“Dr. Bar — El, please. I’m his patient. Last name is Gora. It’s an emergency.”

“Hold, please.”

Five, ten minutes. Click, the connection is broken. Gora takes his blood pressure. Raised. He breathes heavily. He tries to remain calm.

“Dr. Bar — El. The connection was interrupted. I’m … ”

“Yes, yes, Gora, the professor, please hold.”

He waits. No one was coming. Yes, the sleepy voice returned.

“The doctor is busy. He will call you in ten minutes.”

He closed his eyes. Ten minutes isn’t long, no one dies in ten minutes. Ten minutes, twenty, thirty. Thirty! Three times ten, you can die in less than thirty minutes.

“It’s Professor Gora again, Dr. Bar — El’s patient.”

“Ah, yes … he didn’t call? He really didn’t call? Hold, please.”

Click, connection to Dr. Bar — El’s office.

“Hello, yes. Professor Gora? What happened?”

“Well, today, about an hour ago … ”

“One moment, one moment. Don’t hang up, please wait just one moment … ”

The receiver to his ear. One moment, two, nine. The patient looks at his watch … ten, twelve minutes. He slams the phone.

Tension, heavy chest, restricted respiration. The nape of his neck ached. In the left side of his chest, the villainous neuralgia. The lining in his arteries, he could feel the lining in his brain. In his left arm, above his elbow in his underarm, sharp, shooting pain.

The vials on his nightstand. Plavix, Toprol, Aspirin, Norvasc, Cozar, Vytorine, Xanax. The remedies of old age.

“Now you’re young again, just like new,” Koch and Bar — El and Hostal had announced after the operation. “You can eat and enjoy what you want. In moderation, of course, but with pleasure. Joie de vivre, that’s the recipe.”

To assure his joie de vivre, Bar — El had renewed seven prescriptions.

In his palm, the small green pill. He broke it. Since he didn’t talk to the doctor, he takes a half of a Cozar, he will go to sleep early, will sleep profoundly, in the morning will be back to Earth. That’s what happened. The fingers on the keys of the computer. “Dear Dr. Bar — El, yesterday I waited over an hour to speak to you on the phone. I would like to be able to reach you when I need to.”

No response. A day, two days, nine days.

“How is it possible that he didn’t call you? Not even the next day, or the third day? Not even after you wrote to him? To hell with him! You need a doctor who’s available,” declared Izy.

“He’s a good doctor. He made the right diagnosis, despite the confusing test results. But he’s not accessible. I’m having some rough days. I can’t fully breathe, the volume of my breathing is incomplete. I stop at three — quarters, I can’t breathe to the end.”

“I know how it is. I’ll find you another cardiologist. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“I don’t want to find another. Bar — El saved my life.”

“Listen, Gusti, we’ve known each other a long time. I know that your favorite team is called The Chosen People. I did a residency in Tel Aviv, at Hadassah, their big hospital. Good doctors, better than we have here. But rushed, fast. They’re trained by alarms, they live on speed, in between wars and bomb attacks. They don’t have time, they’re in year five thousand seven hundred and God knows what, they don’t have time. Think about it, five thousand seven hundred! No discussion, you’re going to someone else.”

“I’ll try again with Bar — El. It’s hard for me to leave someone. You know the way I am.”

“I know. I know how you are about the homeland, about me … about Lu. It’s hard for you to connect with new people. Okay, I’ll give you another one of theirs. Of ours, that is. Yours, even, I don’t want to insult Saint Peter. Dr. Liebling. He treats me, as well. Lieb — ling! Are you happy with that? I will call him. Look, I’ll call him right now.”

Gora had muted the phone, he wasn’t giving up. He wanted to remain in the care of Bar — El. Fresh panic attacks. Sweating, shuddering, heavy nape. He would have balled himself up in bed or he might have called Boltanski to take him, bed and all, to the emergency room. Bar — El had no idea about the excessive loyalty of the patient. He didn’t answer the phone, the fax was dead, email blocked.