Read Online The Lair (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Norman Manea - Free Book Online
Authors: Norman Manea
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you have time to correct your mistakes. The death race, the burlesque horror movie.
The car engaged, but the driver didn’t. Slow commands, demonic, left, slow, stop, foot, brake, like that, gas, brake, foot, slow, left, too much, too much, now right, slow, mirror, watch the mirror, left, that’s it, stop. Red light, stop.
The prehistoric driver at the wheel of the modern car remained calm and absent. Slow bouts, short commands, the prayer slow. He didn’t hear the apocalyptic uproar of the road; the prayer was protecting him. Slow, slow, as the prayer says.
“The suicidal syndrome,” whispered Lu at one point, in the back seat and in Gusti Gora’s dream.
That’s it, left. Foot! Foot on the brake. Gas, that’s it. Right, the right-side mirror. Slow, stop. Red light! Stop! Collision, stop. A miracle! Arrival! Slow, slow, easy curbs, calm changes of direction,the blare of horns, the despair of drivers who passed alongside like comets, their fists raised to the sky. Happy ending: stoplight.
The gods had spared him; the stoplights had spared him; he believed in salvation. Slowly, terror-stricken, he’d arrived! When, how, who knew but here he was downtown. Little Italy, the celebrity’s residence.
He’d closed his eyes, exhausted, bent his head over the steering wheel, to sleep forever, to pass long minutes of dizziness and elation. Should you kill yourself? Dance every second, in front of the sacrificial altar. The pagan altar. The unknown around you and within you. Above the eagle of destiny, around, life, the primordial wedding. Fear, too, he felt fear, a gothic, luxurious horror. Gas, brake, mirror, horn. Left, right. Slow. Red. Stop. Saved! Short, unpredictable. Liquidated! Saved.
He woke up, smiling, in the mirror, over the wheel, kissing the complicit wheel; enlivened, he looked again at the wheeled monster. It was as if he were perceiving the magical machinery of death for the first time.
He climbed out of the car, rang the bell at the celebrity’s door. A short, agile gentleman. White moustache, a brush of white hair on his calabash of a head, blue bow tie, large hands, large nostrils, hurried, well disposed. He introduced himself quickly, threw the small valise on the backseat, and sat in the front passenger’s seat, near the hussar.
“How … what did you say your name was? Kaspar? Kaspar Hauser? The famous character? Is that it, Kaspar Hauser?”
The driver stared at him, lost at sea. He’d hit on a talker! He was ready for any conversation, if only it could be long, long, so that he’d never need to start that engine. He’ll talk about Kaspar Hauser until nighttime with this fabulous client, and he’ll forget all about the death race.
“My name isn’t Kaspar Hauser. That was a joke. Karl, that’s my name.”
“Karl? Marx? Karl Marx?”
“No. Rossmann. Mynheer Karl Rossmann.”
Peeperkorn would have been too much, Rossmann seemed all right.
“Mynheer? As in,
mister? Monsieur
Rossmann,
Herr
Rossmann?”
The passenger stared at him for a long time. Smiling. Ready to burst into laughter, smiling; he liked the game; he liked his playing partner. He was no longer hurrying to the airport. He’d found himself a talker, too!
“Rossmann, you say? Karl Rossmann? Kafka? The American novel? America seen from Prague?”
The driver smiled, too, convinced that the voluble gentleman could even have talked to Peeperkorn. It wasn’t easy to interrupt him, he was jumping out of his seat to find out the immigrant’s biography, his country, his profession, the languages he spoke. He knew a few languages, wasn’t that right? That was the fate of little countries, many languages, wasn’t that right?
“And your name? What’s your name, in fact?”
“RA0298.”
“What’s that you say?”
“My name has become a number. It’s engraved on my arm, just like … would you like to see?” The passenger’s eyes widened.
“You mean to say … no, no, you’re too young. That’s a bad joke.
The car engaged, but the driver didn’t. Slow commands, demonic, left, slow, stop, foot, brake, like that, gas, brake, foot, slow, left, too much, too much, now right, slow, mirror, watch the mirror, left, that’s it, stop. Red light, stop.
The prehistoric driver at the wheel of the modern car remained calm and absent. Slow bouts, short commands, the prayer slow. He didn’t hear the apocalyptic uproar of the road; the prayer was protecting him. Slow, slow, as the prayer says.
“The suicidal syndrome,” whispered Lu at one point, in the back seat and in Gusti Gora’s dream.
That’s it, left. Foot! Foot on the brake. Gas, that’s it. Right, the right-side mirror. Slow, stop. Red light! Stop! Collision, stop. A miracle! Arrival! Slow, slow, easy curbs, calm changes of direction,the blare of horns, the despair of drivers who passed alongside like comets, their fists raised to the sky. Happy ending: stoplight.
The gods had spared him; the stoplights had spared him; he believed in salvation. Slowly, terror-stricken, he’d arrived! When, how, who knew but here he was downtown. Little Italy, the celebrity’s residence.
He’d closed his eyes, exhausted, bent his head over the steering wheel, to sleep forever, to pass long minutes of dizziness and elation. Should you kill yourself? Dance every second, in front of the sacrificial altar. The pagan altar. The unknown around you and within you. Above the eagle of destiny, around, life, the primordial wedding. Fear, too, he felt fear, a gothic, luxurious horror. Gas, brake, mirror, horn. Left, right. Slow. Red. Stop. Saved! Short, unpredictable. Liquidated! Saved.
He woke up, smiling, in the mirror, over the wheel, kissing the complicit wheel; enlivened, he looked again at the wheeled monster. It was as if he were perceiving the magical machinery of death for the first time.
He climbed out of the car, rang the bell at the celebrity’s door. A short, agile gentleman. White moustache, a brush of white hair on his calabash of a head, blue bow tie, large hands, large nostrils, hurried, well disposed. He introduced himself quickly, threw the small valise on the backseat, and sat in the front passenger’s seat, near the hussar.
“How … what did you say your name was? Kaspar? Kaspar Hauser? The famous character? Is that it, Kaspar Hauser?”
The driver stared at him, lost at sea. He’d hit on a talker! He was ready for any conversation, if only it could be long, long, so that he’d never need to start that engine. He’ll talk about Kaspar Hauser until nighttime with this fabulous client, and he’ll forget all about the death race.
“My name isn’t Kaspar Hauser. That was a joke. Karl, that’s my name.”
“Karl? Marx? Karl Marx?”
“No. Rossmann. Mynheer Karl Rossmann.”
Peeperkorn would have been too much, Rossmann seemed all right.
“Mynheer? As in,
mister? Monsieur
Rossmann,
Herr
Rossmann?”
The passenger stared at him for a long time. Smiling. Ready to burst into laughter, smiling; he liked the game; he liked his playing partner. He was no longer hurrying to the airport. He’d found himself a talker, too!
“Rossmann, you say? Karl Rossmann? Kafka? The American novel? America seen from Prague?”
The driver smiled, too, convinced that the voluble gentleman could even have talked to Peeperkorn. It wasn’t easy to interrupt him, he was jumping out of his seat to find out the immigrant’s biography, his country, his profession, the languages he spoke. He knew a few languages, wasn’t that right? That was the fate of little countries, many languages, wasn’t that right?
“And your name? What’s your name, in fact?”
“RA0298.”
“What’s that you say?”
“My name has become a number. It’s engraved on my arm, just like … would you like to see?” The passenger’s eyes widened.
“You mean to say … no, no, you’re too young. That’s a bad joke.
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