The Lair (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (38 page)

No, Professor Peter Ga
par hadn’t received anything but the labyrinthine threat of an eternal and invisible strike. Ten days? Poor little Deste . . . she’s been putting up with consequences for ten days? What was happening with Ga
par the elephant during this time? He remembered only the nights. Intense nights. An exile can’t hope for more than ephemeral intensity. The days and nights had been intense, and, as it turned out in the end, also ephemeral. He couldn’t remember a lot, and didn’t even want to remember when and how he’d spoken with Jennifer Tang and Larry One and Larry Eight and Tara and the Sailor Dean and so and so; he wanted to forget everything quickly, to sweep it away, as if it had never been.

After half an hour, the old man who wasn’t quite that old, just fat and bald, speaks on the phone with the enchanting assassin. This he would remember, for sure. He’s determined not to forget anything about this, to speak to his erudite friend Gora about the burlesque
Commedia dell’Arte;
Saint Augustin will quickly find the bookish cross-references, enchanted by the farce’s finale.

An irresistible voice. A child with an irresistible voice. The specialist
on the ancient world was right. The assassin wants to invite Professor Ga
par to
dinner,
to talk to him. More specifically, to cook for him a special meal. Balkan cuisine. Does Professor Ga
par have a kitchen? Yes, the kitchen could be set up. Perfect. She’ll take care of everything. He should just tell her when she should arrive with the ingredients. She’d prefer not to disturb him. That is, to cook while the professor isn’t home.

“Yes, of course, that can be arranged, why not …” mumbles Ga
par.

“There’s something else, something important,” adds the child. Is the professor on a diet? It wasn’t that… she doesn’t want to … you understand, don’t you? Yes, the elephant understands and sweats, reeling from the most recent blow. How should the old, fat, bald man speak to an enchanting young woman about diet? How? He must admit the truth: it hurts him here, and there, every morning and sometimes in the middle of a seminar, gastritis, colitis, ulcer, hemorrhoids, kidney stones… are these subjects to discuss with the young woman from war-torn Sarajevo?

Deste waits; her enchanting voice allows itself an enchanting pause. All that can be heard is the sound of her breathing. Her breathing is diaphanous, like a summer’s night.

“What did you say? What was that?”

“I didn’t say anything, no, nothing,” the elephant burst out. “Nothing.”

“So then, nothing. No diet. Perfect!” decides the homemaker, victorious. “See you soon!” Professor Ga
par hears the flutter of the girl mirage.

That very afternoon, he finds an envelope blue as the sky under the cabin door, bearing the name and delicate handwriting of the Sarajevo Siren. Within, some typewritten sheets.

Dear President Avakian,

Following our meeting in your office with the Dean and Ms. Tang, I sent Professor Ga
par another letter. I reformulated the first letter,
with an addendum. It seems strange that Professor Ga
parhas not received any of my previous letters. I will send this one with Express Mail. As I’ve told you, it wasn’t my intention to provoke misunderstanding and trouble. I thank you for your help in calming the tensions.

Yours,

Deste Onal

Another letter, this one on blue paper.

Dear Professor Ga
par,

This is the third letter I am writing regarding my tortured art project,
The Lottery of Babylon.
I regret the unease that I’ve caused. The first letter, sent to the campus address, contained nothing but apologies. During the conversation with President Avakian and Ms. Jennifer Tang, I understood that you never received that letter. A second letter was addressed to the hotel where you live with your wife. President Avakian told me that this letter also didn’t make its way to you. Annexed, I expedite the copy of the letters, as well as the proposed project.

With deep respect,

Deste Onal

And stapled to this letter, the previous letter. The paper was white, like the soul of virgins.

Dear Professor Ga
par,

In the framework of the artistic installation entitled
The Lottery of Babylon,
I sent you, as well as other intellectuals, journalists, artists, writers, professors, and politicians, a postcard written by me containing a quotation from the short story “Death and the Compass,” by
J.
L. Borges, “Next time I kill you, I promise you the labyrinth made of a single straight line which is invisible and everlasting.” I found out that the letter made some of the addressees very uneasy. I neglected
to consider such a possibility. It wasn’t my intention to threaten or frighten anyone. Please accept my apologies for the trouble I have caused.