crack. "What do you want?"
"Excuse me, it was about some information... We telephoned you... Miss Ludmilla... Is Miss Ludmilla here?"
"There is no Miss Ludmilla here..." the Professor says, stepping back, and he points to the crammed bookshelves on the walls, the illegible names and titles on the spines and title pages, like a bristling hedge without gaps. "Why are you looking for her in my office?" And while you remember what Irnerio said, that for Ludmilla this was a place to hide, Uzzi-Tuzii seems to underline, with a gesture, the narrowness of his office, as if to say: Seek for yourself, if you think she's here. As if he felt the need to defend himself from the charge of keeping Ludmilla hidden there.
"We were to come together," you say, to make everything clear.
"Then why isn't she with you?" And this observation, logical for that matter, is also made in a suspicious tone.
"She'll be here soon..." you insist, but you say it with an almost interrogative note, as if you were asking Uzzi-Tuzii to confirm Ludmilla's habits, of which you know nothing, whereas he might know a great deal more. "You know Ludmilla, don't you, Professor?"
"I know... Why do you ask me?... What are you trying to find out?..." He becomes nervous. "Are you interested in Cimmerian literature or—" And he seems to
----
mean "or Ludmilla?" But he doesn't finish the sentence; and to be sincere you should answer that you can no longer distinguish your interest in the Cimmerian novel from your interest in the Other Reader of that novel. Now, moreover, the professor's reactions at the name Ludmilla, coming after Irnerio's confidences, cast mysterious flashes of light, create about the Other Reader an apprehensive curiosity not unlike that which binds you to Zwida Ozkart, in the novel whose continuation you are hunting for, and also to Madame Marne in the novel you had begun to read the day before and have temporarily put aside, and here you are in pursuit of all these shadows together, those of the imagination and those of life.
"I wanted ... we wanted to ask you if there is a Cimmerian author who..."
"Be seated," the professor says, suddenly placated, or, rather, again caught up in a more stable and persistent concern that re-emerges, dissolving marginal and ephemeral concerns.
The room is cramped, the walls covered with shelves, plus another bookcase that, having no place to lean against, is in the midst of the room dividing the scant space, so the professor's desk and the chair on which you are to sit are separated by a kind of wing, and to see each other you must stretch your necks.
"We are confined in this sort of closet.... The university expands and we contract.... We are the poor stepchild of living languages.... If Cimmerian can still be considered a living language... But this is precisely its value!" he exclaims with an affirmative outburst that immediately fades. "The fact that it is a modern language and a dead language at the same time ... A privileged position, even if nobody realizes..."
"You have few students?" you ask.
"Who do you think would come? Who do you think remembers the Cimmerians any more? In the field of sup-
----
pressed languages there are many now that attract more attention... Basque... Breton... Romany.... They all sign up for those.... Not that they study the language: nobody wants to do that these days.... They want problems to debate, general ideas to connect with other general ideas. My colleagues adjust, follow the mainstream, give their courses titles like 'Sociology of Welsh,' 'Psycho-linguistics of Provençal."... With Cimmerian it can't be done."
"Why not?"
"The Cimmerians have disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed them up." He shakes his head, apparently to summon all his patience and repeat something already said a hundred times. "This is a dead department of a dead literature in a dead language. Why should they study Cimmerian today? I'm the first to understand, I'm the first to say it: if
"Excuse me, it was about some information... We telephoned you... Miss Ludmilla... Is Miss Ludmilla here?"
"There is no Miss Ludmilla here..." the Professor says, stepping back, and he points to the crammed bookshelves on the walls, the illegible names and titles on the spines and title pages, like a bristling hedge without gaps. "Why are you looking for her in my office?" And while you remember what Irnerio said, that for Ludmilla this was a place to hide, Uzzi-Tuzii seems to underline, with a gesture, the narrowness of his office, as if to say: Seek for yourself, if you think she's here. As if he felt the need to defend himself from the charge of keeping Ludmilla hidden there.
"We were to come together," you say, to make everything clear.
"Then why isn't she with you?" And this observation, logical for that matter, is also made in a suspicious tone.
"She'll be here soon..." you insist, but you say it with an almost interrogative note, as if you were asking Uzzi-Tuzii to confirm Ludmilla's habits, of which you know nothing, whereas he might know a great deal more. "You know Ludmilla, don't you, Professor?"
"I know... Why do you ask me?... What are you trying to find out?..." He becomes nervous. "Are you interested in Cimmerian literature or—" And he seems to
----
mean "or Ludmilla?" But he doesn't finish the sentence; and to be sincere you should answer that you can no longer distinguish your interest in the Cimmerian novel from your interest in the Other Reader of that novel. Now, moreover, the professor's reactions at the name Ludmilla, coming after Irnerio's confidences, cast mysterious flashes of light, create about the Other Reader an apprehensive curiosity not unlike that which binds you to Zwida Ozkart, in the novel whose continuation you are hunting for, and also to Madame Marne in the novel you had begun to read the day before and have temporarily put aside, and here you are in pursuit of all these shadows together, those of the imagination and those of life.
"I wanted ... we wanted to ask you if there is a Cimmerian author who..."
"Be seated," the professor says, suddenly placated, or, rather, again caught up in a more stable and persistent concern that re-emerges, dissolving marginal and ephemeral concerns.
The room is cramped, the walls covered with shelves, plus another bookcase that, having no place to lean against, is in the midst of the room dividing the scant space, so the professor's desk and the chair on which you are to sit are separated by a kind of wing, and to see each other you must stretch your necks.
"We are confined in this sort of closet.... The university expands and we contract.... We are the poor stepchild of living languages.... If Cimmerian can still be considered a living language... But this is precisely its value!" he exclaims with an affirmative outburst that immediately fades. "The fact that it is a modern language and a dead language at the same time ... A privileged position, even if nobody realizes..."
"You have few students?" you ask.
"Who do you think would come? Who do you think remembers the Cimmerians any more? In the field of sup-
----
pressed languages there are many now that attract more attention... Basque... Breton... Romany.... They all sign up for those.... Not that they study the language: nobody wants to do that these days.... They want problems to debate, general ideas to connect with other general ideas. My colleagues adjust, follow the mainstream, give their courses titles like 'Sociology of Welsh,' 'Psycho-linguistics of Provençal."... With Cimmerian it can't be done."
"Why not?"
"The Cimmerians have disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed them up." He shakes his head, apparently to summon all his patience and repeat something already said a hundred times. "This is a dead department of a dead literature in a dead language. Why should they study Cimmerian today? I'm the first to understand, I'm the first to say it: if
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