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

obtained an interview and a job. A dangerous move, as Professor Gora was about to find out.
    He didn’t need a name to recognize her voice, which was inside of him, beyond good and evil, beyond space and time. He grew silent. Embarrassment on both sides. Lu had certainly arrived with great difficulty at this decision, he knew too well. Despair had provoked the call.
    “Chauf … chauffeur! Chauffeur … listen. The great Stolz. He . .. hired him! Chauffeur. I didn’t know that Peter. .. that Peter had wanted to commit su … su . .. suicide. He doesn’t admit it. Or he does, but only as a joke,” the suave voice from long ago said.
    “Suicide. It’s no longer about walking ten dogs in the park at fivedollars an hour. Or triage at the post office. This is something else altogether.”
    Lu paused to gather her strength. The couple had obtained drivers’ licenses, before leaving for America. They didn’t have a car, but they knew that it would be impossible to get by in America without driving. They took driving lessons; they took the test, theoretical and practical, and there was also, of course, the inevitable Balkan socialist bribe. Nothing was possible without it. Gora knew this well, as he’d gone through the same ritual himself. The examining officer took home a private bonus for every license obtained. Conscientiously, Lu took the exam and received the license that had already been paid for. Peter didn’t even show up. He received the license in an envelope, in the mail. For the same fee, of course. Yes, Gora remembered the procedure well.
    “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. At all. He has no driving experience, at all. But he says he’s fascinated by the Lunar City. As a chauffeur, he’ll scour the cosmos. ‘The lunar monster is made for us somnambulist wanderers,’ he keeps saying.”
    Silence. She seemed as frightened by her own words as by the potential digression into another subject. Silence. Gora didn’t feel capable of deviating, either.
    So as not to prolong the danger, Lu began to string together the wonders to which Peter aspired, quickly, like a labored recitation from a touristic guide: the Brighton Beach’s Moscow, Little Italy’s Naples, Queens’ Balkans, Pakistan and India, Chinatown, Harlem’s Senegal, Hasidic Brooklyn.
    The iceberg of silence that spanned two decades wouldn’t thaw. Gora promised to talk to the potential suicide. To no effect, of course.
    He was left only with the echo of Lu’s voice. That wasn’t nothing.
    On his first day of work, Peter was to present himself at the house of a certain celebrity, driving one of Stolz’s limousines. A top-level university personality, a politician, a diplomat, it wasn’t too clear. A VIP, that was all, and the rest didn’t matter. He was to take the celebrity to the airport. After that, the taxi-limousine was to arrive atanother address, and another, the schedule established by Stolz’s dispatcher.
    The novices had trained for two days, three hours per day, in a car that belonged to the porter of the small hotel where they lived.
    “Key in the ignition, foot on the gas. Brake. Left, brake. Mirror! Mirror, watch the mirror,” warned the Mexican, sweating in panic. “Slow. Not that slow. Not enough gas. Back! That’s it, left. Your foot, your foot, yes, on the brake. Foot on the brake! Gas, yes. Left. Mirror! Right, mirror on the right. Check the mirror. Always check the mirror.”
    The Mexican’s hair was greasy now from perspiration and fright; his small, grimy hands were trembling, his eyes popping; he was crossing himself; he was gripping his small head between his small hands, covering his face so as not to see the next moment. Peter, on the other hand, was perfectly calm, grateful for the training; he liked the wheeled dragon.
    He muttered the same word over and over, “Slow, slow…” He’d found his prayer and motto: slow. That was all he needed to keep saying; the mantra would mollify the gods. Slow, go slow,