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

space extended beyond the immediate present.
    This was the start of Professor Gora’s gradual dedication to a laborious project.
    The file on Peter Gapar RA 0298 didn’t begin immediately following the conversation with Avakian. Gora preferred small deferments: if in two weeks Peter is still alive, then, yes, he will be honored with the yellow folder that he very much deserved.
    The first notes were older accounts, then the conversation with the historian Avakian. There was also, already, the copy of the letter of recommendation that he sent to Avakian.
    It didn’t suffice to say that Peter Gapar had been, in a superrealist country, the author of a minor work (because it was a parody) and an unknown masterpiece (because he never wrote it) adored by a gallery of admirers. The work existed while the literary cafe intelligentsia said it existed, but couldn’t be proven to exist, and perhaps this wasn’t even necessary. Gapar’s bylines about sports and shows and philatelic exhibits and horseraces were worth mentioning only in the obituary, but not in the letter. Gora underscored Peter’s lucidity in hard times and even slipped in a wave of sympathy for Ludmila’s bewildered cousin, referring to that first encounter whenthe chauffeur had attempted to bring Avakian to the Other World instead of to John F. Kennedy airport. He didn’t forget to include a paragraph about Gaspar’s parents, survivors of the most infamous of all the Nazi concentration camps, a chapter that the son—a survivor of socialism—refused to discuss. As president of the Conference on the Armenian Genocide, Avakian was certain to be sensitive to such a detail. He mentioned, finally, the intellectual and pedagogic potential of the immigrant.
    Once out of the hospital, Peter found himself unemployed. He inspected the business card of his partner in the race of death. There was no point in calling, he wouldn’t be able to access the celebrity. He consulted the train timetables; he’d arrived in the idyllic mountain setting and the college run by the ancient European historian.
    While he waited to be received, the secretary informed him that the president wasn’t just a historian but also an authority called to testify in scandalous human rights violations cases, and a translator of ancient Greek.
    “America!” Peter bumbled ecstatically. Universities hidden in the woods, like in the Middle Ages. University professors ready for adventure! Historians who plead in famous cases, musician chemists, psychologist bankers, athlete film directors, mathematicians blocking the mise-en-scene, actors turned senators, governors, presidents.
    “The baroque? The baroque was your thesis? The baroque and the Dadaist derivation, you say?
Fine, just fine.
I’d like to hire you on this subject. But I can’t. Be a little more modest. Something else. Something else?”
    The candidate was silent; his imagination balked.
    “Something else. Something more exotic. Less academic. We have a lot of American literature doctors. As historians, I admit. Something more exotic, another subject?”
    The candidate was silent; he couldn’t think of what might be exotic enough for such an exotic country.
    “Communism? Could you talk about Communism?”
    “No. Not exactly. But if there’s no other way …”
    “The Holocaust?”
    After the letter from Augustin Gora, President Avakian wasn’t surprised that Gapar wasn’t answering the question.
    “You know what this is about. You come from damaged territory. You have a lot to say, I imagine.”
    “I don’t. I prefer not to. No.”
    Larry gave him a long look and shrugged, dejected.
    “Anything else? Another subject. Something unusual.”
    “Circus,” muttered Peter to himself, considering the meeting in which he was participating.
    “The circus, you say? Did you run a circus?” Gaspar’s former passenger became more animated.
    “Not exactly. Somehow, out of curiosity. I’ve read a lot. I was passionate about the