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

that secrets remain confined in the soul’s memory of previous lives? Was it a camouflaged message? Camouflaged in writing, in fiction? These things nagged him to the point of intoxication. There was always ample intoxication of words and alcohol among us. There was no end to questions. What need did Dima have, after the war, for his old obsessions? Why did he continue to see an old, fanatic doctor who still endorsed the slogans ofthe Movement? Was it the intensity of idolatry, its magic? Drugs, bordello, Utopia, even writing … He would smile like a baby, no longer seeing.”
    Gora remembered Palade’s smile. It was no longer clear whether Gapar was quoting Palade or had moved on to his own questions.
    He recognized Palade’s discourse, but also Gapar’s seasoning.
    “At some point I mentioned to him a former lover of Dima’s, one who stayed behind in the country, in danger,” replied Gora, apropos of nothing. Deported to Transnistria, she’d survived and returned to the village where she’d been hidden for a while, until the authorities found her. After her return, she committed suicide, in the same village. Dima never even looked into her fate.
    Gapar wasn’t asking questions any longer, and Gora couldn’t guess if Palade had talked to him about Marga Stern.
    “When Palade grew enraptured again with the great Dima, I would intervene. When he would dissect esoteric mysteries or dubious incidents, I would let him be. I watched Ayesha, his Indian fiancee and former student. They both wanted to become Buddhists. ‘Any disorientation was better than orthodoxy,’ Palade cried. ‘Better than any orthodoxy.’ And he gazed, adoringly, at his fiancee. ‘We’re both looking for a religion that’s not a religion. We’ll be Buddhists or Martians or polytheist pagans.’ The girl was laughing; we were all laughing. Those were long days and even longer nights. I didn’t know I’d be representing him postmortem. ‘Write the review,’ he said, ‘it will be useful for the book I’m writing. If our countrymen don’t kill us.’ That’s what he said. He’d received threatening letters, phone calls. He was assaulted on the street by an unknown man who told him that the hour of judgment was near. Bad signs in his horoscope. He was anxious, obsessed. He was living out his destiny intensely. He was working on three books at once, unloading. Students swarmed around him.”
    “Had he won them over?”
    “He exalted the juvenile imagination with extravagant lectures. An encyclopedic mind and memory, just like Dima’s. He’d enchanted the Indian girl. ‘We’re all searching for Ithaca, exiled justlike Odysseus/ that was his leitmotif. We discussed exile often, Dima’s exile, Palade’s exile, yours, mine. Lu’s…”
    Gora lay in wait, as usual, for the moment when the phantom would utter the explosive name. He was silent, waiting.
    “Often, often we talked about exile, the second chance that becomes the only one. Was it an imposture? We’re the same and we’re different, we rid ourselves of ourselves, we change without changing. Palade was head over heels in love, vitalized. The right to change, to happiness! The opportunity wasn’t about truth, but about love.”
    Love, happiness, the pathetic words were preparing the attack, and Gora waited.
    “Palade had found a new wife; you’re the only one left without one. Here you can choose. Whatever your heart desires. Choose your heart. That’s all.”
    Palade had also spoken with Gora about threats and stalkers. The professor didn’t diminish the gravity of the danger, only its mystique. “You receive the results from some medical tests. You have cancer, an incurable kind. Everything changes around you. You’re condemned! You look behind you with bitterness and ahead with terror. This I understand. Terror of death provoked by a medical test, not by some vague premonition.”
    Palade had called him the night before the assassination.
    “This time, it’s