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

subject. I planned a scholarly work, but I never finished it.”
    “The history of the circus? The baroque in the circus, the Dada-ism of the circus! Bread and circuses? That’s what the ancients said, right?
Panem et circenses.
The people need bread and circuses. We’re a popular democracy, we need circus, too, not just bread. And we have it. Circus after circus. Maybe you have another idea.”
    Larry hired Peter Gaparas a visiting assistant professor after evaluating the needs of the college and establishing the subject of the new colleague’s first course.
    Peter Gapar responded to the prospect of his picaresque American debut without too much astonishment. He expected such unexpected adventures. For those who knew him in his faraway country, the indulgence with which he received the extraordinary and the detachment with which he assimilated intermittent shocks were not at all surprising.
    Still, Gora suspected something irregular in this fatalistic submission to chance. Was this the irresponsibility to which he aspired? He’d also dreamed of a similar emancipation, more than once. To be able to be anything, to simulate anything. The freedom of improvisation,metamorphosis and availability. At a certain age, and with an Eastern European background, it seems preferable to confront just about anything, rather than have nothing else happen to you ever again.
    Peter reappeared at unexpected moments. Long monologues followed by long absences. Gora’s silences didn’t discourage him. He didn’t limit himself to practical questions—quite natural for a newcomer—he offered intimate and sometimes embarrassing details.
    Exile brings together people who previously moved in different circles; Gora was well aware of this state of emergency and indulgence; now it seemed like a substitution, the progressions and surprises of which he measured with some embarrassment.
    Reasonably social in his home country, a good comrade and friend in a time of need, Peter seemed to codify his exuberance in small, incidental passages. Some thought him brash. Now he was punishing the listener through aggressive questions and revelations. Was it a suicidal vitality? A kind of trance that defies the normality; it was hard to know anymore whether it was benign or malignant. Was he finally experimenting now, in the American wilderness, with his own narration? Was he accepting his reeducation, the simplifications called for by the pragmatism of his new residence?
    “Peter on the phone. I hope the name still means something to you.”
    And voila, the ghost returned. Urgency granted it a victorious and superior air.
    “Larry was lying in bed. He’d fractured his leg. His apartment was relatively banal, but in the wealthy neighborhood. A long body, in a long bed, the harsh face of a martyr. White plaits, tied in the back like a rat’s tail.”
    “You said that Larry was short, with bristly hair, a mustache and exotic goatee.”
    “Ah, no, that’s Larry One. We’re talking about the newsman Larry Two. Larry One brought me to Larry Two. A real celebrity, this man! I had no idea. I was seeing him for the first time, and his name didn’t mean anything to me yet.”
    Enchanted by what he had to share, Peter allowed himself vast pauses in between sentences, mastering the rhythm of provocation.
    “Friday. I was at Dr. Koch’s office again. I was hoping, of course, to run into Lu. And, of course, in vain.”
    There was no need for a pause. It was enough that he’d mentioned Lu, their game of cat and mouse, or dog and cat. No, there was no need for such an aggressive silence, no need at all. The silence only emphasized the aggression with which he assaulted the husband.
    “On the street, I ran head to head into Larry. Larry One, the president, the historian. I’m used to it. Coincidences hunt me here; they could never find me in my former life. And so, then, Larry, Larry One, the president, the client from the taxi. ‘How are you? Where are you