The Lair (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Norman Manea Read Free Book Online Page A

books. An essential experience. “Pushed into an extreme situation, you reinvent the strategy of renewal,” the feeble voice was saying.
    He considered his relationship to his native country—full of so much collapse and nostalgia—with the same detachment, or apparent detachment. And lately, it was apparent, indeed. If you were up to date with the newspapers of the Library of Congress, you understood that it was only
apparent.
    He would say, ad nauseam, “Existence is a privilege! Immense and fleeting,” the timid voice repeated.
    As if to amplify the enfeebled sonority of the voice, his small hands, which were stained by ink and disease, animated the words, vibrating above the piles of manuscripts.
    And death? Gora asked himself. He’d read Dima’s celebrated texts about Death and the morbid labyrinths; he knew the slogans of Dima’s acolytes, who were armed for the Apocalypse of Purification. Just like his former comrades, the Old Man had made many pious bows to Death, with studies and exegeses.
    After a short pause, Dima added melancholically and without having been solicited, “Supreme Death! Reigning over all, absolute Queen, and God Himself. It’s only through Death that we get to embrace Him.” He advised the newcomer to remain in touch with people back home, not to disavow anything, good or bad, from the past. “Our graves are there, in the past. More lasting than we are.”
    Dima drew his pipe from the edge of the desk, embarrassed, and began to twirl it between his fingers. “I’m not allowed even this pleasure anymore,” he whispered, still turning his pipe. There was no tobacco in sight.
    “Don’t forget the privileges of the past, and take advantage of the present!”
    Empty rhetoric, thought Gora. After a few days, in a letter to Lu,he mentioned the conversation with the idol of those lost souls in the attic where they’d first met. The famous Dima seemed amenable to taking legal steps with the American authorities in order to secure a passport for the young Mrs. Gora, left behind on the other side of the Iron Curtain.
    The situation in the faraway country had worsened; Gora hoped that Lu had reconsidered her initial refusal. Her stupefying decision hung heavily. Without qualifying it, he evoked that night so long ago, that attic room full of tempestuous and juvenile debates, when one of the students victoriously put on the table three French volumes by Cosmin Dima.
    The discussion surrounding the famous and exiled scholar ignited instantly, but, to everyone’s surprise, Gora was quiet and unengaged, answering the students’ questions with curt, paradoxical remarks. He didn’t need to remind Lu why he hadn’t managed to pay attention to those earnest and heady speculations—he was convinced that she hadn’t forgotten their first meeting, either, and that she’d understood, then, just like the others, the reason for his uncustomary silence. He wasn’t simply retreating into himself. He was distancing himself from the loquaciousness of the audience, which he generally dominated, in order to attract—through his sudden silence—the attention of the unknown newcomer.
    No one knew who had brought Lu into their midst. But everyone noted the person who accompanied her out at the end of the night.
    The following nights they came and left together, and then they were absent for a long time. When they returned, they no longer seemed very interested in subversive controversies. They appeared unexpectedly, disappeared for weeks on end, until they disappeared altogether. After a year, they were married. After the wedding, Lu looked more beautiful than ever. Now, she was also happy, voluble. Even while his marital responsibilities seemed to mature him, Gora infantilized himself. He intently followed his wife’s every gesture. A happy time, devoid of history.
    Her refusal to follow him to the majestic United States of America represented for Gora an unfathomable enigma, even after so manyyears. In