The Lair (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (23 page)

The sailor raises his blond eyebrows. He listens to the details of the scandal in the faraway country, the refugee’s suspicions, the biography of the deceased scholar, the assassination of his apprentice, twisted, Balkan tales … as if they were sailor stories from the time when he was setting a course toward Indonesia and Dahomey. He’s never reached the Black Sea (and that area’s history certainly wasn’t on the forefront of the planet’s psyche), though it would have been worthwhile.

He doesn’t have time for confusion. The decision is simple and prompt. Action! If one professor was assassinated without apparent
motive, another could be assassinated for a minor motive. A mere review?! Just a review in a journal, and all this scandal on the other end of the world? It’s a bad joke, naturally. The threat might also be just a bad joke. Still, we must be careful. So, then: action.

Friday morning, the Eastern European professor presents himself to Ms. Tang, the college’s head of security. Small, amiable, elegant, precise, like a manager at a bank; laconic, determined, sparing in her gestures. Ga
par can’t take his eyes off her sleek, golden hair, her black eyebrows, her black and sharp gaze. Her dress suit is white, her shoes, small and white, with heels, small, dainty hands, short nails without polish. The professor sums up the twisted details of the twisted story, expressing his skepticism about the threatening letter. Ms. Tang has two clear dispositions: prudence and action.

“This is a death threat, Professor! A joke? Even if mortals are jokesters, death doesn’t joke.”

Maybe a Vietnamese proverb, co-opted by the American police? Ga
par wondered.

“A death threat!” Jennifer was satisfied by the European’s smile.

“We’re all threatened with death,” murmured Ga
par.

Jennifer isn’t in the mood to philosophize. She’d already alerted the local police. She requests permission for a visit the following morning.

“Where do you live on campus?”

“A cottage lost in the woods. Hard to see from the street.” The silence of Ms. Tang signals that the Eastern European hasn’t answered the question clearly. So he describes the surroundings of the cottage.

“No one seems to know about it. Nonetheless, it’s on the campus map.”

Friday night. An agitated forest, neurotic animals, hysteric branches, whistles, rustling. The resident sleeps with interruptions.

At 11 in the morning, Jennifer Tang’s car stops in front of the cottage. J.T. is wearing a red tracksuit and red sneakers and is accompanied by a tall man in police uniform. Slow with questions, even slower in the transcription of the answers. He introduces him-self
as Jim Smith, Trooper. J.S.T.? No, Trooper isn’t a name, but a title. State police.

Questions, answers. The semester had started Wednesday, February 1. The first class, Monday afternoon, from 3:30 to 5:30. P.O. Box 1079 was full. He closed it; he wasn’t in the mood for mail. Advertisements and information and letters asking for money didn’t interest him. When he was younger, yes, he was always waiting for the miracle, the magic message. Here, the mail is a garbage can. He’d hired a student to sort it.

“The name?”

“Of the student? Yes, of course.”

The policeman notes the information, makes a sign to Ms. Tang to note it as well. So then, he saw the mail only after a week? No, two weeks had gone by. The student had been busy; she’d brought the first batch only about the middle of the month. Then came another pile, and then another, and, then, the card appeared.

“Is it stamped, postmarked? Is there a date?”

No, you couldn’t see the postmark. Just the stamp and the address. The address of the recipient was clear. Might the sender have ties to the college? The college’s phone and address book wasn’t accessible except to professors and administrators.

The police officer looks at the criminal exhibit.

“It could be a foreigner. You don’t say ‘next time I kill you,’ but
’the
next time.’ The next time I will kill you.”

“That’s important!” the invigorated J.T. intervenes. The professor’s compatriots had been outraged by an article he wrote. Might the author of the letter be a compatriot?

The professor doesn’t answer. Compatriot? Didn’t Ms. Tang also become his compatriot?

“Do you have anything to add?”

“Two days ago, in the snow on the patio … there were footprints. Boots.” Maybe some workman who’d come to check the plumbing or read a meter or something? Yesterday, there was sun, and the snow melted. The tracks weren’t really visible any longer. Still, something. The steps go in a single direction. As if someone had just
crossed the patio, inspected the cottage and didn’t return to the patio. Someone inspected the area; that was sure. Now you could no longer see the tracks.

All three of them go out on the patio. Nothing special, says J. S. Trooper’s look. He puts the evidence in a plastic bag, the bag in a leather folder. The object will remain with the police and the professor will get a copy. J.T. will send the claimant a front and back copy on Monday.

“Ah, yes. One other thing,” the professor retorts. “I don’t know, in fact, if. . . maybe this is stupid stupid, but…”

“Tell us everything,” Mrs. Tang insists, under the bored gaze of the state trooper.

“Yes, let’s hear it,” adds J. S. Trooper.

Ga
par pulls out a crumpled paper from his pocket and hands it to the policeman.

“I found it taped to my door. Maybe it’s a stupid thing, I don’t know. I can’t tell anymore.”

“Lost cat needs help,”
reads the Vietnamese over the shoulder of the policeman, who raises his eyebrows, taken aback.

A photograph, on a black background, of a striped cat. The cat sits, as if posing for the photographer, well behaved, has one blue eye and one white, blind eye.
Gattino is a 6-month-old, slender gray male tabby with distinctive spots and stripes … Gattino is a 6-month-old tomcat, skinny, ashy gray, with spots and stripes. He is blind in his left eye. If you find him, please call 658.2704. He might seem confused because he is feeble. He has one sick eye and chronic respiratory problems. But he has a home and we’re beside ourselves that he’s lost.

Mrs. Tang and the police officer seem disoriented. The professor, however, provides some further information.

“There are also some lines written by hand. Under the typed lines, there are three handwritten lines.”

They’d seen them, of course, but they didn’t care. But now they had to care, there was no choice.
He’s very short-haired & vulnerable. Please, please … if you see him call him by name, clearly and sweetly.
If you have him in your home, please call us and we’ll come get him immediately.

“Yes, yes,”
mutters the trooper and puts the paper in his pocket.

In the afternoon, Dean P.C. requests that the FBI be informed. They look for Officer Pereira, with whom Ga
par had been in contact immediately after the appearance of his article on Dima, a year before, after the assassination of Professor Portland. The publication of the review coincided with the assassination, wasn’t that right? They’re waiting for a sign from Officer Pereira.

Saturday evening, Tara doesn’t show. Instead, she calls to excuse herself; she’s had an exhausting day; she has a migraine; even her workout has exhausted her. The professor retells the trials of the preceding days; the conversation lengthens. The subject animates her, she no longer seems tired.

Ga
par goes to sleep late. Strong knocking on the door. Sleepily he weaves in between the bed and the nightstand. “Security,” announces the voice of the woods.

On the front step, with a flashlight in the eyes of the suspect, the young police officer Garcia. It’s a dream, that’s it; Ga
par is smiling, not daring to wake up.