Read Online The Lair (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Norman Manea - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Norman Manea
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Auschwitz is a bad joke.”
“Okay, okay. It’s a bad joke, I’ll give you that.”
“So then, what is it? Your driver’s ID?”
“Resident Alien. RA 02987896. RA 0298, for short.”
They spoke endlessly, that is, for five minutes. Little Italy, like America, was hurried, pragmatic, energetic, hurried. The engine needed starting.
The driver started the engine. He stepped on the gas, repeated the magic formula of the devil that had brought him to Little Italy and that will take him further. Slow, slow . .. Gas, and so on. Foot, yes, foot on the brake, left, mirror.
He stopped. No more than a few meters, and he stopped. Happily,he stopped. A stoplight. A divine, red light. The talkative passenger had stopped talking. Stupefied, he watched the taxi driver. The driver waited a second, the light turned green, he waited another second, “Slow, slow.” Another one-two-three seconds. He could hear the horns behind him, but he had the magic formula. Slow. There was no other solution. That was how he’d gotten to Little Italy, and that was how he’d get to the cemetery of the airport. Slow, this was the only password the devil understood.
He started again, cautiously, was just about going.
“No, no!” The mustached gentleman yelled. “Enough. This isn’t working. No, no, it’s not working,” the VIP was screaming, exasperated. “This isn’t working,” or, “this isn’t working anymore,” or whatever he was jabbering. Red in the face, on the brink of apoplexy.
“Stop! I’m getting out.”
The driver stopped, waited for the elegant gentleman to ask for his valise and for the scandal to start. The celebrity forgot about the bag, however; he didn’t even look in the backseat.
“Get out! You get out, too!”
The driver didn’t understand. He watched the client in a daze; he didn’t understand; he lacked the courage to understand. “Get out. We’ll change places.”
He got behind the wheel, and by the time they arrived at the airport, they were friends.
Before heading over to the departure corridor, Larry forced Peter Gapar to call Stolz, to say that he’d gotten sick at the airport and he’d left the car in the parking garage, and someone should come and get it.
“Here’s my card. I run a college. It’s small, bizarre, but vibrant; I don’t have open positions right now; I can’t offer you anything. If you can’t get by, call me and we’ll figure something out. Give up driving. Choose poison or a bullet. Death at the wheel is trivial, and you’re a sensible man.”
Peter stared, bewildered, at the card. Bedros Avakian! Professor Bedros Avakian. That was all it said. It meant that he was famous, there was no need of other details. Bedros Avakian. So then,Larry! Peter the Driver, alias Kaspar, alias Karl, had decided to call him Larry.
That’s how he’d met Larry. In later retellings, the immigrant Peter would identify through the same generic name, Larry, all the harbingers of his American destiny.
After the failed meeting with Death, the improvised taxi driver was hired by Stolz at one of his gas stations. Lu became the assistant to Dr. Koch. The couple’s situation improved somewhat.
Peter never forgot the first Larry’s advice. Any other kind of death is better than death at the wheel. Even falling off a trampoline.
He’d become friends with the manager at the gas station, a Syrian with his own network of schemes and shady earnings. Cars came and went; it was the sexual hum and hub of the city. A city with no equal, muttered Peter, in love with the Lunar City, unique and unifying.
A seasonal observer of the sky, Peter Gaparobserved, without actually taking in, the red sky. The Hamletian clouds, astral and archaic symbols, birds of every color, elephant bodies riding the improbable batons of their legs. A drizzly twilight. The new Babylon was brashly raising the arrows of its buildings. Pylons stuck into the sordid subterranean depths, where rats, vagabonds, roaches, beggars,
“Okay, okay. It’s a bad joke, I’ll give you that.”
“So then, what is it? Your driver’s ID?”
“Resident Alien. RA 02987896. RA 0298, for short.”
They spoke endlessly, that is, for five minutes. Little Italy, like America, was hurried, pragmatic, energetic, hurried. The engine needed starting.
The driver started the engine. He stepped on the gas, repeated the magic formula of the devil that had brought him to Little Italy and that will take him further. Slow, slow . .. Gas, and so on. Foot, yes, foot on the brake, left, mirror.
He stopped. No more than a few meters, and he stopped. Happily,he stopped. A stoplight. A divine, red light. The talkative passenger had stopped talking. Stupefied, he watched the taxi driver. The driver waited a second, the light turned green, he waited another second, “Slow, slow.” Another one-two-three seconds. He could hear the horns behind him, but he had the magic formula. Slow. There was no other solution. That was how he’d gotten to Little Italy, and that was how he’d get to the cemetery of the airport. Slow, this was the only password the devil understood.
He started again, cautiously, was just about going.
“No, no!” The mustached gentleman yelled. “Enough. This isn’t working. No, no, it’s not working,” the VIP was screaming, exasperated. “This isn’t working,” or, “this isn’t working anymore,” or whatever he was jabbering. Red in the face, on the brink of apoplexy.
“Stop! I’m getting out.”
The driver stopped, waited for the elegant gentleman to ask for his valise and for the scandal to start. The celebrity forgot about the bag, however; he didn’t even look in the backseat.
“Get out! You get out, too!”
The driver didn’t understand. He watched the client in a daze; he didn’t understand; he lacked the courage to understand. “Get out. We’ll change places.”
He got behind the wheel, and by the time they arrived at the airport, they were friends.
Before heading over to the departure corridor, Larry forced Peter Gapar to call Stolz, to say that he’d gotten sick at the airport and he’d left the car in the parking garage, and someone should come and get it.
“Here’s my card. I run a college. It’s small, bizarre, but vibrant; I don’t have open positions right now; I can’t offer you anything. If you can’t get by, call me and we’ll figure something out. Give up driving. Choose poison or a bullet. Death at the wheel is trivial, and you’re a sensible man.”
Peter stared, bewildered, at the card. Bedros Avakian! Professor Bedros Avakian. That was all it said. It meant that he was famous, there was no need of other details. Bedros Avakian. So then,Larry! Peter the Driver, alias Kaspar, alias Karl, had decided to call him Larry.
That’s how he’d met Larry. In later retellings, the immigrant Peter would identify through the same generic name, Larry, all the harbingers of his American destiny.
After the failed meeting with Death, the improvised taxi driver was hired by Stolz at one of his gas stations. Lu became the assistant to Dr. Koch. The couple’s situation improved somewhat.
Peter never forgot the first Larry’s advice. Any other kind of death is better than death at the wheel. Even falling off a trampoline.
He’d become friends with the manager at the gas station, a Syrian with his own network of schemes and shady earnings. Cars came and went; it was the sexual hum and hub of the city. A city with no equal, muttered Peter, in love with the Lunar City, unique and unifying.
A seasonal observer of the sky, Peter Gaparobserved, without actually taking in, the red sky. The Hamletian clouds, astral and archaic symbols, birds of every color, elephant bodies riding the improbable batons of their legs. A drizzly twilight. The new Babylon was brashly raising the arrows of its buildings. Pylons stuck into the sordid subterranean depths, where rats, vagabonds, roaches, beggars,
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