The Lair (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

285 Pages·2012·1 MB·English

by  Marian

The Lair
The Lair
NORMAN MANEA
TRANSLATED FROM THE ROMANIAN
BY OANA SÂNZIANA MARIAN
YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS NEW HAVEN & LONDON
The Margellos World Republic of Letters is dedicated to making literary works
from around the globe available in English through translation. It brings to the
English-speaking world the work of leading poets, novelists, essayists,
philosophers, and playwrights from Europe, Latin America, Africa, Asia, and the
Middle East to stimulate international discourse and creative exchange.
Copyright © 2009 by Norman Manea.
Translation copyright © 2012 by Oana Sanziana Marian.
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in
any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S.
Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written
permission from the publishers.
Yale University Press books may be purchased in quantity for educational,
business, or promotional use. For information, please e-mail
[email protected]
(U.S. office) or [email protected]
(U.K. office).
Set in Electra and Nobel types by Keystone Typesetting, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Manea, Norman.
[Vizuina. English]
The lair / Norman Manea ; translated from the Romanian by Oana S nziana
Marian.
p. cm.—(Margellos world republic of letters)
ISBN 978-0-300-17994-1 (cloth : alk. paper)
I. Marian, Oana Sânziana. II. Title.
PC840.23.A47V5813 2012
859%.334—dc23
2011042645
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of
Paper).
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
PART I
PART II
PART III
PART IV
The Lair
Part I
A new morning, not yet opened. The long and powerful arm of a magician sets
in motion the trick of the day. The yellow box stops at the curb’s edge. “Penn
Station.”
Above the steering wheel, the mug shot and name of the driver: Lev
Boltanski.
“Are you Russian?”
“I was.”
A hoarse voice. A wide face, small eyes.
“Where from?”
“Odessa.”
“I thought Odessa was in Ukraine.”
“The Soviet Union! Like me, Odessa is from the Soviet Union. Few people
know the difference between Russia and Ukraine. You’re not American.”
“I am now. Just like you.”
No, it’s not exactly the beginning of the day … The day had started with the
stranger whose small, white hand handed him an immaculately white card with
gold letters.
“I wonder if you’d agree to appear in a television commercial. The pay is
very good.”
And before him, the diminutive Dr. Koch. And before him, the thought of Lu,
the failed attempt to see her.
The present! The present, mumbled the pedestrian. The new motto of his life:
the present. That was all: the present! In his past life, there was the guilty past
and the gleaming future forever deferred. Now, however … he stood bewildered
in front of the stranger who was reaching out a small, white hand to him.
“Don’t be alarmed. One question, that’s all. Just a question.”
It was a sudden confrontation. The approach gentle, but guarded.
The intruder is about forty years old. Long, beige mohair over-coat.
Immaculately white shirt. No jacket. Short, black hair; black, reckless eyes.
Rounded movements, like those of a dancer or a jester. He pulls a black leather
Rounded movements, like those of a dancer or a jester. He pulls a black leather
wallet out of his jeans. He unfastens the magnet clasp and pulls out the business
cards. He extends an immaculately white card, with an address in gold letters:
the code of happenstance.
The pedestrian isn’t paying attention, entranced by the aggressor’s footwear.
Cowboy boots! The elegant gentleman is wearing cowboy boots under
expensive, slim-cut jeans.
“I’m a producer. Curtis. James Curtis.”
That’s what it says on the business card: James Curtis, producer. “I wonder if
you’d like to appear in a television commercial. The pay is very good.”
“Me, in a commercial? What kind of commercial?”
“For Coca-Cola.”
“Me? Coca-Cola?”
“As a chess player.”
“Chess and Coca-Cola?”
“Yes, something like that. A man concentrating on the game. At a certain
point, he reaches for the glass on the table. Coca-Cola.”
“Aha,” says the chess player, smiling.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m no good for something like that.”
“The pay is very good, as I’ve said. The ads go into syndication and the
royalties come automatically. When you least expect it.”
“No, that’s not my kind of thing.”
“Think it over. You have my card. Call me. If you change your mind, give
me a call.”
“Thank you. I told you, I don’t…”
“Never say never, as we say here. You’re not American, isn’t that right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Do Americans not play chess? They drink Coca-Cola,
in any case. And Pepsi. I don’t, but I’ve played my share of chess games. When I
was younger.”
“See? I knew it. You look the part. Think about it. You have my number, call
me. What’s your name?”
“Peter.”
“Peter what?”
“Peter.”
“Peter.”
“Okay, Peter, I’ll remember. Give me a call.”
“You look the part!”
Peter the pedestrian mutters, abandoned on the corner of Broadway and 63rd
Street.
That’s what the producer thinks, if he’s even a producer. A nice day, isn’t it,
Dr. Koch? James Curtis, commercial producer, offered me the ad of the day,
Doctor! And so, I looked into the Curtis mirror.
A step to the left, and another step. Once off the curb, he raises his hand.
Taxi! The yellow cab stops at the curb’s edge.
“Penn Station.”
Above the steering wheel, the mug shot and name of the driver: Lev
Boltanski.
“Are you Russian?”
“I was.”
A smoker’s voice. A wide, soft face, small eyes, large teeth, weathered brow.
“Where from?”
“Odessa.”
“I thought Odessa was in Ukraine.”
“The Soviet Union! Like me, Odessa is from the Soviet Union. Few people
know the difference between Russia and Ukraine. You’re not American.”
“I am now. Just like you … Do you like it here on the Moon? The capital of
the wanderers, lunatics, and sleepwalkers. Do you like it? A real wonder! One of
777 wonders of the world.”
Lyova is silent, but seems attentive.
“Manhattan Island, bought for a song in 1626 by a Frenchman, Minuit. For
twenty-four dollars! He paid the Indians in glass beads. They were growing wild
strawberries and grapes here, corn, tobacco. All around there were wolves and
bears and rattlesnakes.”
Lev or Lyova listens, silently. He doesn’t ask anything, seemingly
uninterested in the gregarious passenger. He drives slowly, relaxed, atypical for
the New York taxi driver. He stops at 34th Street in front of the station,
simultaneously turning off the engine and the meter.