The Lair (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (21 page)

After such a painstaking initiation, you wake up terrified. The Nymphomaniac has tested you again. Fear and insomnia don’t just exhaust; they humiliate you. Peter relives, endlessly, the moment before the fall off the ladder. He lifts himself up on his elbows, covers his eyes; the film rolls on. The ambulance, the operating table, the rods that slowly penetrate the crushed legs, while the pain penetrates the kidneys and brain. Sedatives don’t help. Mangled, sleepless nights; days dumbfounded by exhaustion.

He raises the receiver, slowly, slowly, dials Gora’s number.

“Professor? I have a question.”

Gora is silent, but he is there, listening, at the end of the world.

“You know that I was interested in deaf-mutes?”

Gora is silent, but he is there.

“Yes, I was interested in the deaf-mutes of deaf-mute socialism. I
was one of them. Didn’t you ever read the little story that gave me my fame and nickname in socialism? My hero, Mynheer, was a deaf-mute, like all of us.”

Gora is silent, but his diaphanous breathing is audible.

“I don’t know if I told you this, but I’ve been in a real crisis with insomnia.”

“You didn’t tell me. What happened?”

“Nothing happened; my beautiful cousin is fine, though I haven’t seen her in a long time. You wanted to know that, I’m sure.” “No. I was asking about…”

“About me, you were asking about me; I’m enough of an idiot to believe it. Deranged by lack of sleep. Dreams, yes, dreams. No, drugs don’t help. The doctor? Avicenna? Only if I can see Lu, and now is not the time for that; I’m in no shape for it. So then, the deaf-mutes, that’s what we were talking about. Sometimes I sit all night long in front of the television, with the lights on. A few days ago, maybe yesterday, I don’t even know, I saw a movie about deaf-mutes. Yes, a documentary. It was good, good, the way things are done here, professional, very professional. It’s called, you won’t believe it,
Sound and Furyl
You can’t say that written madness isn’t sellable. Bill Faulkner, of course.
Academy Award Nominee. Best Documentary Feature. Powerful. Insightful. . . emotionally wrenching.
That’s how it’s billed.”

Gora is silent on the other end of the line.

“So, then, I’ve found my old friends, here. And here, I’m one of them. Deafened and silenced by everything I don’t understand. Yes, there are plenty of things. Look, something happened recently, a threat, but never mind about that. So then, it’s a family, three generations of deaf-mutes. Not all, but the majority. Now, of course, Technology, today’s fairy godmother, offers remedies. The dilemma of Mr. and Mrs. S, both deaf, is whether they should take advantage of these advances for their daughter. Why so silent, Professor? You don’t understand how that relates at all to me? It does. I’ve been dropped from the moon, onto another moon. Another world, another language, another deafness, another muteness. Another code.
I’m one of them, one of these deaf-mutes! But I don’t understand
them,
either. Not even them. So, now you see why the insomnia?”

Gora is silent, but he’s on the line; the connection is holding; he’s listening attentively, to be sure; he’s listening and taking notes.

“The child, Heather, is superb. Precocious, vivacious, excited by the saving implant. But what about her identity? What do you do about the great problem of Identity? How can you renounce the identity of the tribe, even if it’s a tribe of deaf-mutes? How, how? The sect is very proud, of the way it lives, compared with the so-called normals. Maybe they’re right. Solidarity, code, honesty, intimacy, everything you want! So then, Identity. With a capital
I
, with large, red letters. The magic key, sought by everyone, the one that opens any door, and all doors. I-den-ti-ty! That’s that, liquidated, finished. Fig-ure it out. Un-load.”

Peter no longer seemed interested whether Gora was listening or not. He’d given up on the pauses, he was merely chattering to himself.

“The child needs to choose between deaf parents and perfectly normal grandparents. They, on the other hand, can hardly wait to understand each other, at last, with the handicapped enchantress. Oh, I ought to slap myself; you can’t say things like that. Normal, abnormal, it’s not correct, it’s not polite and it’s not
politically correct.
Some time ago, there used to be a U.N. Day for the Handicapped. There was even a U.N. Year for the Handicapped, I remember. I was hoping that the United Nations would pull the handicapped East out of the socialist latrine. Now, we’re proud of any identity at all, isn’t that right, Professor? But what about me? I don’t have the magic key; or, if I ever had it, I’ve lost it.”

Gora’s silence continued. He was probably smiling. He had no idea about the threatening letter; Ga
par had given up on telling him.

“Yes, I have a dilemma on my hands. Every day I am faced with a dilemma. Now, I don’t know if I should remain a deaf-mute, the way I was when I came here, or if I should throw myself, screaming, into the mouth of reality. I am going to call that child Heather; I abso-lutely
have to call her. If she’s got her hearing aid in, she’ll answer, if not, I’ll go on living just as happy as I am.”

Gora was silent and still smiling, probably. The garrulous Ga
par wasn’t done.

“Professor, is there a country more formidable than this one? It has everything, everything. Even
I’m
here. Do you know anything comparable with the Lunar City? That’s what I’ve wanted to ask you. You know everything, by the book; I’m sure you know the answer.”

Gora was silent.

“No answer, I see. Should I help you? There is, Professor, another country that’s just as formidable! Our quiet, faraway Homeland. A scholarly priest has managed to translate the Liturgy into sign language. A unique achievement in the Christian world! He followed the apostles’ sacred mission, to speak to everyone’s understanding. Now, barely now, there can be Mass for deaf-mutes. This is what’s happening in our magic, superrealist little country on the edge of the world. They don’t have the technological possibility to normalize the abnormal, but they have a spiritual one. And that’s superior, isn’t it? The sacred book is accompanied by photographs that explain every stage of the prayer in signs. The apostles of silence, that’s what the new blessed ones are called. They even have a choir. They sing in signs. What do you think of that? Which is better, our country here, or that one, there? That’s my dilemma. Should I go back?”

Gora was listening, silently. Probably smiling.

“Do you think I’m ranting? I’m talking about the Mavrodoiu Church in Pitesti. Do you still remember where Pites,ti is? In the south of the Homeland, not in the Habsburgian Transylvanian north that was home to the Ga
pars, nor the Habsburgian north of Bukovina, which had the honor of bringing into the world the mathematician and philosopher Mihnea Palade and my cousin Augustin Gora. We’re cousins, aren’t we? Through alliance and semi-alliance and discrepancy. In Pitesti, then, in the south, where there were Roman legions brought from Palestine, Hebrews who impreg-nated
the local women and propagated the race. Did you know that? Of course, you knew it.”

Gora is silent.

“Anyway, that’s my insomnia, my dilemma. Do I go back to the church of the deaf-mutes, or do I stay here, in the exile hospital? I hope you understand, so that you can help me decide. And there’s something else. The new language of the deaf-mute church has facilitated two interpretations for some sacred texts. Parallel words, just as Palade had dreamed. What more can you ask for; what, what, tell me, Professor.”

Ga
par isn’t waiting for an answer, he’s merely breathing deeply.

“Do you vote? I need to know, it’s important for my decision. You’ve been here for twenty years. Surely you’ve already voted a few times. Have you voted? With the elephant or the donkey? For whom does the bewildered citizen vote? Here voting is important, not like back in our homeland.”

“Yes, it is. Too few vote.”

“No one is interested in politics. The government is called the Administration. Wonderful! The building administration! And there are no identity cards, just drivers’ licenses! Whom did you vote for?”

“I didn’t vote. I’ve never voted in any election.”

“Why?”

“When the electoral campaigns begin, you have the sensation that you’ve stumbled upon a children’s playground. The voters cry, skipping, hugging each other, putting on masks, chanting. The candidates seem like robots, reciting slogans. It’s a little frightening. No skepticism whatsoever.”

“Democracy! All the rights in the world. The right to stupidity, as well, of course. It’s important! Very important. No one shuns you, no one eliminates you, you’re human. For-mi-da-ble!”

A long, narrow room with metallic walls and a floor made of silver metal. A long, metallic cage, without windows. In the back, at the
far end of the office, a metallic table. Behind it, a rusted, metallic armchair. In front of the table, and on the sides, silver chairs.

At the table, the general. Tall, massive, white mustache and black hair. A brownish uniform; wide, golden epaulets with three large stars. Medals on his chest. The jacket and khaki shirt unbuttoned. Heat, as though from the inside of a kiln.

He presses the button on his desk; there’s a ring; the metal door opens; two guards introduce Lu, each one holding her by an arm. They cross the distance from the door to the metallic desk with light, small steps. The detainee is deposited into the chair in front of the general; the soldiers come to attention, salute, do an about face; the metallic door closes without a sound behind them.

The general considers the detainee. Like a Russian princess. Short, fur overcoat, long, black knee boots. A peasant’s kerchief, old and torn, covers her face.

Lu keeps her head down, holding herself in her short overcoat, shivering. Delicate green gloves protruding from the sleeves with the grayish cuffs. The gloved hands tremble; Lu clutches herself, clenching, in the fur that’s too short.

The bell rings long and violently, like a siren, three times. The general is stiff in his chair; the detainee, stiff in her own.

The door doesn’t open. The general stands up, waiting. He hurriedly buttons the front of his shirt and jacket.