calumnies of his own country showed, however, that he had failed to emigrate. The past was still alive in the present. His wounds coexisted with the illusionsthat provoked wounds. He was dragging his native terrain with him everywhere he went.
“I have in front of me one of our respectable cultural journals. From some time around Easter. Christian iconography. The Savior on the cross. The title is:
The Crucifixion of Dima.”
“Where did you get that journal? Who sent it to you?”
“Palade’s brother. Lucian. It would seem that I’m the one who upholds the vigilance and good humor of the Nation, week to week. The spy across the ocean,
c’est moi.”
After this intermezzo, Gora didn’t want to hear anymore. When some new information came, he refused to comment, accepting Gapar’s aggression mutely.
“Lu forced our coming to America. They’d taken the cap off the bucket of slops. Freedom. Poisoned, daily,
poisoned.
Filth that had been hidden for decades on end exploded at every step, just like the day when Lu had parked the car belonging to the driving school. She was just getting out of the car, when the angry man yelled, ‘Why don’t you all leave and go back to your Arab cousins!’ The unknown man had tried, probably, to find a parking spot and the car with the big driving school sign was in the way. Surprised, Lu turned around to see whom he was addressing. She’d never seen that brawler before. There was no one else around, as you might guess.”
Gora listened, silent.
“Was it her Oriental beauty? Yes, but not the one praised by King Solomon. Romanian, Hungarian, Armenian, one as good as the other. Russian, German, Italian, Peruvian, it didn’t matter. No, Lu is no typical Sulamite beauty. Is that important? It is. Not to mention the fact that she was raised on the lullabies of humanism. Indiscriminate citizens of the world. Universalism, humanism. Colored tags on jars of expired preserves. The guy had probably followed her, he could recognize a beautiful woman who wasn’t ashamed to go out at a particular time in an old, beat-up car, while putting on the mask of a common receptionist. ‘Tou brought us Communism! The comedy is over, get out of here!’ The guy was yelling at her, ‘Invent anothermission, another Messiah, somewhere else.’ Lu gave up on going inside the building. She returned home, overexcited.”
Heated discussions followed. The one who’d previously refused the departure now wanted it. We’re getting out of here! We should have done it long ago, we could have done it long ago. “I’m a joker in love with the baroque,” cousin Gapar had replied. “Does anyone need me there? Will anyone feed me?”
Surprisingly, Lu replied, “I will.” She spoke English and was willing to do any kind of work. A juvenile impulse, wanderlust and change. It was hard to imagine Lu doing “just any kind of work.” It was just her impatience to abandon the place that she’d refused until then to abandon. She’d separated from her husband, turned down the great adventure and the unknown. Liberation had come, the Communist morass was receding, reasons to leave seemed to be disappearing. Why push into the unknown
now?
The curses of a Mercedes owner seemed providential.
Professor Augustin Gora hadn’t forgotten his own embroilments with Lu; destiny’s new joke didn’t amaze him one bit.
“Larry One is on his third wife. They’re all subalterns of his at the college. Larry Two, though younger, is on his third, too. The energy of renewing oneself! Infantility? Humor? Imposture? Courage? The right to happiness! The constitutional right to happiness! Here, no speech starts without a joke. Even a funereal speech. Was Mynheer Dutchman a forerunner of all this?”
He’d changed the direction of the dialogue. The author of obituaries Augustin Gora had become pensive. The question was addressed, as usual, to no one in particular.
“Palade found himself a new wife … You’re the only one
“I have in front of me one of our respectable cultural journals. From some time around Easter. Christian iconography. The Savior on the cross. The title is:
The Crucifixion of Dima.”
“Where did you get that journal? Who sent it to you?”
“Palade’s brother. Lucian. It would seem that I’m the one who upholds the vigilance and good humor of the Nation, week to week. The spy across the ocean,
c’est moi.”
After this intermezzo, Gora didn’t want to hear anymore. When some new information came, he refused to comment, accepting Gapar’s aggression mutely.
“Lu forced our coming to America. They’d taken the cap off the bucket of slops. Freedom. Poisoned, daily,
poisoned.
Filth that had been hidden for decades on end exploded at every step, just like the day when Lu had parked the car belonging to the driving school. She was just getting out of the car, when the angry man yelled, ‘Why don’t you all leave and go back to your Arab cousins!’ The unknown man had tried, probably, to find a parking spot and the car with the big driving school sign was in the way. Surprised, Lu turned around to see whom he was addressing. She’d never seen that brawler before. There was no one else around, as you might guess.”
Gora listened, silent.
“Was it her Oriental beauty? Yes, but not the one praised by King Solomon. Romanian, Hungarian, Armenian, one as good as the other. Russian, German, Italian, Peruvian, it didn’t matter. No, Lu is no typical Sulamite beauty. Is that important? It is. Not to mention the fact that she was raised on the lullabies of humanism. Indiscriminate citizens of the world. Universalism, humanism. Colored tags on jars of expired preserves. The guy had probably followed her, he could recognize a beautiful woman who wasn’t ashamed to go out at a particular time in an old, beat-up car, while putting on the mask of a common receptionist. ‘Tou brought us Communism! The comedy is over, get out of here!’ The guy was yelling at her, ‘Invent anothermission, another Messiah, somewhere else.’ Lu gave up on going inside the building. She returned home, overexcited.”
Heated discussions followed. The one who’d previously refused the departure now wanted it. We’re getting out of here! We should have done it long ago, we could have done it long ago. “I’m a joker in love with the baroque,” cousin Gapar had replied. “Does anyone need me there? Will anyone feed me?”
Surprisingly, Lu replied, “I will.” She spoke English and was willing to do any kind of work. A juvenile impulse, wanderlust and change. It was hard to imagine Lu doing “just any kind of work.” It was just her impatience to abandon the place that she’d refused until then to abandon. She’d separated from her husband, turned down the great adventure and the unknown. Liberation had come, the Communist morass was receding, reasons to leave seemed to be disappearing. Why push into the unknown
now?
The curses of a Mercedes owner seemed providential.
Professor Augustin Gora hadn’t forgotten his own embroilments with Lu; destiny’s new joke didn’t amaze him one bit.
“Larry One is on his third wife. They’re all subalterns of his at the college. Larry Two, though younger, is on his third, too. The energy of renewing oneself! Infantility? Humor? Imposture? Courage? The right to happiness! The constitutional right to happiness! Here, no speech starts without a joke. Even a funereal speech. Was Mynheer Dutchman a forerunner of all this?”
He’d changed the direction of the dialogue. The author of obituaries Augustin Gora had become pensive. The question was addressed, as usual, to no one in particular.
“Palade found himself a new wife … You’re the only one
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