The Age of Reinvention (24 page)

He'd had this close, intimate relationship with writing ever since he was a child, sitting on his father's lap and deciphering passages from the Torah. A man found fulfillment in reading and interpreting texts. A life without books was inconceivable. And—he could admit this now that Nina was no longer there—this had been the principal subject of incomprehension between them. Not that she was resistant to literature—she was a curious-minded woman with an instinctive intelligence—but she never understood how he could sacrifice his time, his energy, his friends for it; she never understood what it was in books that so absorbed Samuel. His obstinacy disconcerted her. The drawers of his desk were filled with rejection letters, but still he worked—hoping for what? Publication and recognition could no longer be expected. “Try to think about this clearly,” Nina exhorted him. To write—to choose to live alone most of each day without any contact with the outside world—you had to be crazy or willing to risk becoming so. And Samuel is—more and more. Crazy with solitude and sadness, crazy from missing her. And one day, when the pressure becomes too much, one day when he senses that he might be tempted by suicide again, he decides to call Nina. “I need to talk to you. I need to hear your voice.” He tells her he's begun writing again, and says he would like her to read it. “No, Samuel. The answer is no. We must never talk again. You must never call me again. It's over.”

I'm not asking you for anything

I don't want money

I just want to hear your voice

I miss our conversations

I miss you

It hurts

It hurts so much

At the other end of the line, she remains cold and impassive. He silently searches for the words that might touch her, like a man rummaging through his wife's things in the hope of uncovering a letter, a compromising object. Because that is what he wants: to compromise her. He wants to hurt her. He wants her to change her mind, wants to make her come home, so he can forgive her. He wants to coerce her through manipulation and lies: betray Samir. The day before, as if unconsciously hoping to increase his own suffering, he had reread a short memoir by the poet Joseph Brodsky, “Flight from Byzantium,” and he now surprises himself by saying to Nina the words the poet's mother, who remained in Russia, had repeated to her son, exiled in the United States: “The only thing I want in life is to see you again.” But this makes no impression on her. For her, it's over: she doesn't want to see or talk to him again. She has
turned the page
and her life has changed for the better: it's
more intense, crazier, richer
—the kind of life she always wanted. She doesn't let up: she is not seeking merely to dissuade him, to distance him, but to destroy him. There is a sort of sadism in her determination, and this is a facet of her personality that they are discovering together. He is aghast, in pain; she is jubilant. She enjoys playing the role of the predator that catches/crushes/kills. She feels alive at last, fully aware of what she is doing: putting an end to twenty years of emotional alienation, avenging herself for all he made her lose, ridding herself of the humanity inside her, and winning. Armed with her new strength, she is supercharged by Samir's love for her, by money and confidence, the certainty that everything is possible now, the knowledge that she has arrived, that she is at the top of the ladder while he is down at the bottom—and is going to stay there.
Stay there and forget me!
You think she's cruel? So what? She owes him nothing, and in a cutting voice she says: “The last thing I want in life is to see you again.” Why such contempt? Why such brutality? Is she testing his resistance? There is a long silence, undisturbed by even the quietest whisper, and then suddenly he is reborn. He gets to his feet like a boxer sprawled on the canvas hearing the macabre count—1-2-3—and there he is, dancing again, proud, armed with what remains of his dignity and strength, and he avenges himself for what she made him suffer. The balance of power tilts.
Now I'm the dominant one; now I'm in charge
. “So you're happy, are you? Happy, in your gilded prison, your artificial cocoon, your castle built on sand? Happier than you ever were with me, back when you were poor? Perhaps . . . but are you free? Do you really have the life you dreamed of? So your ambition was nothing greater than making yourself financially dependent on a rich man? All you ever wanted was a precarious romantic status that kept you from the clutches of poverty? It's a false security, and you know it. He could dump you tomorrow and there would be nothing you could do about it. He loves you, he desires you? Sure, for now. But how long will that last? You think he'll still be with you when you start to show signs of aging? How long do you think you have left? Three, four years of tranquil happiness . . . and then what? Shall I tell you what will happen after that? He'll begin by cheating on you, though you won't know about it. Then he'll cheat on you openly but he'll assure you that it doesn't mean anything—just a fling, nothing more. In the end, he'll leave you for someone else—a younger, more desirable woman—and all of this will happen without him ever divorcing his wife, because she gave him everything. It's just reality. Life is unfair, it's terrible . . . so what? What is he giving you? A life of luxury. You have a beautiful apartment, a cleaning lady, an expensive purse? Can't you see that he's treating you like a whore? That he doesn't respect you? Can't you see the machismo and the misogyny in the way he keeps you isolated in the name of his love for you? You've become exactly what you despised when you were twenty: one of those forty-something women who think they look ten years younger because they're wearing a miniskirt that shows off their legs, one of those women who simper in front of men like little girls in front of their fathers, dressed-up dolls, sex toys that obey the masculine order, that indulge the fantasies of the powerful men who chose them! You used to tell me you would always be independent, and look at you now! Do you tell him how handsome and intelligent he is when he comes to see you between two business meetings, or in the evening before he goes home to his wife? Do you relieve the tension he feels after a hard day at work? Do you thank him when he leaves you cash on the table before he leaves—a wad of nice, smooth bills that he withdrew from the nearest ATM before he came to see you? Or is it a sort of tacit agreement between the two of you: I give you everything you want and, in return, you give me what I have the right to expect?”

She is about to start crying—she can feel the tears welling behind her eyes—and suddenly she drops the phone.
Bastard
.

He somehow saw it all. That discreet/available mistress he described is her. He saw the cash that Samir leaves in her wallet, the underwear and sex toys he gives her or has delivered—surprise!—the clothes and shoes and handbags he buys her every day, money no object, so that she always looks her best and he will go on desiring her for a long time to come. (He takes care of her, and he does it well.) And he saw the day when Samir entered the apartment, grabbed Nina by the hair, and pressed her mouth down on his cock when she was feeling ill—No, I'm not forcing you, I would never do that, but please, just do it for me—and she was SICK, she told him that, she said, Not tonight, I'm tired, I have a cold, I'm NOT WELL, and him insisting: Look at the state I'm in, you can't leave me like this, DO SOMETHING—and she did, the docile woman. Yes, he saw all of this, and she feels as if the entire world is watching her naked on giant screens. Her crying and them laughing.

Samir is still reeling, in shock, when he finally gets home. It is nearly nine p.m. and he has just walked across the sodden grass of Central Park—a detour he took to recover a little. He felt like he was choking, strangled by the thought of his brother in this city: he is toxic, toxic and venomous. And there is no antidote to this poison. François is a gun aimed at his head, a gun that might go off at any moment. Samir is no longer at the center of the social conflict; he has gradually moved away from it as he has climbed the ladder of success. Struggle? What struggle? His only real battle is professional: he wants to win his cases, gain more clients, raise his fees, merit yearly bonuses, be the lawyer everyone says is the
best
in his field, and that's all. François is from the other side of town—the dark side, where life has less value and people disappear in the night.
Well, that's not my problem
, Samir thinks.
Let him disappear
 . . .

Entering his apartment and seeing his children in their cotton pajamas, hair freshly combed and smelling sweetly of baby perfume, seeing their English nanny with her hair tied back, wearing a black-and-white apron, he thinks how much he loves his life and how he would do anything to protect it. He loves this effortless calm, this metronomic regularity, this natural discipline, everything that contributes to this perfect order, the little details that comfort him when he thinks of the choices he has made over the years.
This
is the life he was destined for. Pushing open the door of his apartment, he has often imagined what his life would be like if waiting inside was another woman, other children—a Muslim wife, for example, modern and secular like him, or religious and traditionalist, whatever, but a woman with whom he would share a common identity and certain values—and that woman, for some unknown reason, does not excite him but fills him with anxiety. His children shout happily and jump into his arms, covering his face with kisses. He asks them about their day, strokes their hair affectionately. Then the nanny takes them by the hand and tells them it's time to go to bed, and they follow obediently. This is what most fascinates him: this self-control, this discipline. He remembers his own father coming home from work, at one or two in the morning. He would already be in bed, on the foam mattress that his mother had picked up from a neighbor, his head covered by the blue blanket his grandmother had knitted (with poor-quality wool, rough and drab—he knows now that the quality of the fabric that touches your skin is a good measure of your social value). He wasn't afraid of the dark. In fact, he liked it: in the dark, anything seemed possible. He would hear the key turning in the lock and his father's heavy footsteps in the hallway. He would hear the toilet flush and then the drone of the TV that he always switched on, and that he would end up falling asleep in front of, as suddenly as if he'd been shot in the head. Sometimes Samir would get up and join his father on the couch, kissing his face, wriggling into his arms. But his father would always reject him.
Go to bed
. Hard. Cold.

Samir calls his wife and hears her voice coming from the living room. He puts down his briefcase, removes his jacket, and goes to see her. But when he enters the living room, he has a shock: his brother is there, sitting across from his wife, a glass of wine in his hand. Dressed in a black suit and a blue tie, he looks like some life insurance salesman from the 1950s. For an instant, Samir is paralyzed: he has no idea what he should do or say. His wife—after first expressing her surprise at the blood on his shirt (it's nothing, he assures her, I just had a nosebleed)—introduces him as François Duval and explains that he works at Pierre Lévy, is spending a few days in New York, and wanted to meet Samir. “Oh, yes, Pierre mentioned you might be coming,” he replies with false enthusiasm. “Pleased to meet you.” He offers François his hand, which is clammy, and sits close to him. “You must have forgotten to tell the night watchman,” Ruth chides him. “I had to go down to the main entrance. I was a little doubtful, I must be honest,” she says, laughing. “I called you but you didn't answer.” “Luckily, I had my business card with me,” François jokes. Samir is tense, nervous, somehow conducting the conversation in English. François's English is terrible, so Samir switches to French, asking him abruptly in hard-to-follow street slang what he's after, why he has come to his house and embarrassed him in front of his wife. Ruth watches them uncomprehendingly. François looks at her, then turns to Samir: Does he really want him to answer now, here? Yes—Ruth doesn't speak French well enough to follow. Go ahead! And suddenly, François panics. He is terrified by the thought of expressing himself in front of this woman, to Samir's face. He is frightened of measuring himself against his brother. Even when he first arrived here and found himself standing next to her, having to explain himself and the reasons for his visit, having to coax her into inviting him into their home, he had been seized with the most awful anxiety. Thankfully, she had not been suspicious. Probably she took pity on this poor young Frenchman who stammered and barely spoke English. He too, like everyone else, is impressed by the money, the furnishings, the decorum, the self-assurance that speak of power. He had thought he had the upper hand, but no: here in the United States, in this immense apartment, where every object had been chosen at the most prestigious antique dealers, where everything seemed in its place, surrounded by this silent staff that came and went, he is nothing. Ruth watches them. Samir turns toward her and explains that he is sorry, but François finds it difficult to speak English, so they're going to continue the conversation in French if that doesn't pose a problem for her. No, she says, that's fine: she has work to do (and, she thinks, nothing to say to this man). Before leaving the room, she smiles and says goodbye to François with the usual polite formulas, not forgetting for a moment the codes of her rank. Finally, the two men are alone. Samir attacks first. He is trembling, his face red. He feels like punching his brother, but controls himself. “What the hell gives you the right to come to my home without warning me? What exactly is it that you want from me?” This is quickly followed up by a threat: he could file charges against him, prevent him physically from ever coming back—he has the right contacts and connections. He'd better not be trying to blackmail him: you can't play that kind of game, with him, Sam Tahar, here in New York. All it would take is one word and he'd be deported, imprisoned. Does he understand the risk he's taking? Does he understand the seriousness of what he's doing? No, François doesn't understand. He shrugs. All he wanted was to meet his family, his nephew and niece, to see where his brother lives. “Your brother?” Samir asks sarcastically. François is nothing to him: he is not and never will be part of his family. The only family he has is his mother. He starts to talk too loudly: “Go home!” “Take it easy . . . do you want your wife to find out your real identity? Do you want me to go into the kitchen and
tell her the truth
about the father of her children? I could . . .” Samir stands up, pours himself a drink and swallows it, then asks in a shaky voice how François found out where he lives. “Oh, you're not very careful, Samir.” (And, at this, he takes a step back, as if his brother were talking about a stranger.) “Don't call me Samir here.” François smiles contemptuously. “When you came to see Mom, you left your jacket in my room. I went through your pockets, found your passport, opened it, read it, and put it back. I also took a business card from a guy in your firm. That's it. But actually, how should I address you now—Samir or Samuel?” “What do you want? You come to New York, you turn up at my office and now at my home. You want money, is that it? How much?” François leans toward the pedestal table to his left and, pointing at the large, seven-branch candelabrum that sits on top of it, asks: “That's nice. Where did you find it?” Samir does not reply. “This thing's Jewish, isn't it?” Clearly this is an attempt to provoke; Samir remains impassive. François starts wandering around the room. Pointing out an old photograph of rabbis studying a page of the Talmud, he says: “You have pictures of rabbis in your home? Have you turned Jewish?” He continues, pausing at every object that attests to someone's Judaism—a prayer book, a mezuzah—and suddenly Samir tells him to stop:
That's enough!
“Wait for me outside. I'm going to talk to my wife.” Samir leaves the room, struggling to conceal his discomfiture. He tells Ruth that he has to accompany François to his hotel. “Can't he take a taxi?” “No, he's a new employee. I can't let him go back alone. Anyway, I need to talk to him.” And he goes.