The Age of Reinvention (28 page)

His greatest regret is never having been recognized as a writer. Several times, at different moments of his life, he attempted to get his work published, but he remembers that dreadful period as if he had contracted a serious illness, some terminal disease that twisted his entire being with violent pain. Yes, he remembers it as a time when he felt the constant desire to put a bullet through his brain. He collected rejection letters—his novel did not correspond to the editorial line; the publishers regretted to inform him that . . . etc.—and he read and reread a quotation by Singer: “I thought about killing myself almost every day. What tormented me most of all was my lack of success as a writer.” He wasn't even a writer at all.

He never felt he had succeeded at anything in his life.

Samuel no longer fears his novel being rejected. Something inside him, some sort of ambition, has simply died away: not literary ambition—he still feels the same obsession with creating his own personal language, a language that is identifiably his, a strong voice that will carry far—but social ambition. He no longer seeks fame/recognition. He has given up on that furious, destructive fixation. The desire to elicit admiration, to be loved for his achievements, to have a clearly identifiable social position . . . he gave up on all of that as he neared forty. And he has to admit it's a relief no longer to be dependent on others' approval for his own happiness: the pressure has eased, and he feels as if he has passed to the other side. Yesterday, it was still possible; yesterday, it was an obligation, an imperative: SUCCEED! A social norm to which everyone had to submit (or be marginalized, excluded from the society of men). But today, it's over, and he can say that without anger, without the fear of being judged. His promise has been shattered, and it lies now in fragments . . . all that remains of his ambition, or the ambition that his parents had for him: the construction of an EXCEPTIONAL being, a member of the ELITE. What a joke! What a hoax.

And so, when he sends his manuscript to four publishers, he has no expectations at all. He is calm, lucid. He knows that no one can succeed in literature. To write is to be confronted on a daily basis with failure.

And so he returns to his calm and perfectly compartmentalized existence: two apartments, two women, two lives. Nina has shown signs of impatience, it's true—she is
weary
of this isolation, she's
not happy
—but Samir reassures her: she has an important place in his life. This place is off to the side, admittedly; it is a quiet and shadowy place, but no less important for all that. And, he explains in order to appease her: “The most intense feelings, the greatest love stories, are always played out in the shadows, in secret.” “But I feel there's something missing, don't you understand?” No, he doesn't understand. “Look at it objectively: you have everything.” Everything: money, material comfort, sexual closeness. That should be enough for her, he thinks. What he experiences with her every day belies all Berman's prophecies of doom: never has he felt so serene, so free of the anguish and confusion and guilt engendered by the mechanics of imposture. He has entered that phase of personal and social euphoria where everything he attempts is successful: he wins all his cases with a new authority, his mind ramps up in a frenzy of excitement. He plays, he wins.

This lasts for some time.

Samir and Nina live in a vacuum, disconnected from the outside world. She sees no one but him. Samuel is right: she lives like a geisha. That is what she tells herself—like a geisha, not like a whore—but deep down, she has her doubts. (What does she do apart from wait for him? Obey his desire? Does she have any independence at all? No. Sometimes she wants to rebel against him, but she always suppresses this urge.) For a long time, her sole ambition was to be loved by Samir, but her desires have evolved (a fact not unconnected with Samuel's harsh words): now she wants a child. She has been living like a recluse in this beautiful apartment for nearly a year now; she wants for nothing, of course, but her status as a kept mistress—which had suited her perfectly well at the beginning, in the first flush of romantic rapture—that status (which she can sense will be gradually downgraded and marginalized) is no longer something she can bear. She can no longer be at the mercy of Samir's desires and availability, in the shadows; she wants more than that. But there is something else: the fear of aging. The fear of aging and of being supplanted when he grows tired of her—that insidious threat that Samuel evoked, out of jealousy perhaps, in order to make her suffer, and yet that does not make it any less true. She knows it is true because she is aware of Samir's lust for young women. When they are out in the street together, he doesn't attempt to conceal his roving eyes; she even saw him give his card to a salesgirl barely out of her teens while she was trying on underwear that he had chosen for her. She knows it is true because she heard him tell a story about one of his clients, who said: “I'm leaving my wife now, because she's still young enough to be able to find someone else.” He had laughed, but for her it was tragic. It is tragic to realize that, after a certain date, your ticket simply expires. No matter how fiercely women struggle against the passing of time, no matter how hard they try to appear younger and more desirable, it is a battle that, in a man's man's man's world, is lost before it begins. Nina might hope that this relationship lasts two, maybe three years, but what happens afterward? The truth—which she does not want to hear—is that Samir will ultimately leave her. He is too in thrall to the excitements of change, of new love, of easy sex. In all things, he is a consumer, a pleasure-seeker. He has always loved the company of beautiful women—the most beautiful women, those whom other men do not dare even approach. She is sure of all this, and she thinks that a child would save her—it's a form of insurance, isn't it, and hardly an original one. He should have anticipated this situation; it was entirely predictable. Sooner or later, the question of maternity always rears its head. And Nina planned it all. One evening, she is particularly delicious in bed—playing the imaginative, racy mistress: exactly what he loves best—then, after they have made love, she makes the announcement: she wants a child. She does not say that she is seeking some sort of legitimacy; no, that will come later—naturally, she thinks—once the child is born. Samir had dreaded this moment: he thought perhaps she'd gotten over her desire for children, hoped so anyway—she hadn't mentioned it for so long. But now here it is again. He reminds her that it's
impossible
. They are together: he loves her, they love each other; and they are free, no attachments; so why create a problem? A child would only complicate things.
A problem?
She insists: “You promised me before I left France.” Maybe he did promise, but the words came out in a burst of trust and love. She has to be realistic:

he is married

he already has two children

he cannot run the risk of destroying everything he's built

he doesn't want to lose her

but she has to be reasonable about this, she has to calm down

She listens, and his words echo inside her. The fear rises, stimulating her resentment, and with a coldness that chills him, she says: “Give me a child or never come back.” The demand is excessive, simplistic, childish; it betrays the fragility of her position. Nevertheless, she is issuing him a threat and he knows she is capable of following through on it. Panic seizes him. Insidious blackmail. And what if she had his child against his will? She has sworn to him that she's taking the pill, but she could be lying. “I don't understand you anymore.” “You don't understand me? I'm in a foreign country, without friends, without any form of contact apart from you, living alone in an apartment—because you always advised me not to work. I just want something else, that's all! I want some other connection to you than this apartment.” “I love you. That should be enough.” “If you love me, you should give me the child I want so much.” And so he turns to her and says with a detachment that petrifies her: “You're ruining everything, and I don't understand you anymore. You have everything a woman could possibly want.” Then, without even glancing at her, he picks up his jacket and leaves.

For a while, it's fine, but after two or three days, Samir can't take it anymore. It's physical: he wants to see her, he misses her. Her absence does not weaken his desire, but feeds the flames. Alone at work, he is incapable of concentrating on his cases; his replies to his clients are evasive; he doesn't call people back; he cancels all his meetings. The lack of her is like a hole inside him, widening into a chasm that terrifies him. He feels as if he is standing on the edge of a precipice. Without her, he has vertigo; he might fall. Fear makes his body tremble. He had no idea he could miss her this much. The idea haunts him because it hints at a new feeling that, until now, he had managed to keep at a distance: dependence. He thinks about her incessantly, and the suffering quickly becomes unbearable. He wants to resist—he doesn't want to surrender to her, to lose this battle of wills—but he has to admit: he is impressed by her strength of mind. She hasn't called, hasn't shown the slightest remorse or concern. And yet, as he reminds himself,
Without me, she's nothing; she is dependent on me for the roof above her head, the food on her table. Here she is in New York, utterly isolated, with no money of her own: she must be afraid of losing me—I could dump her, never call her again. Yes, she's nothing without me
. In his mind, he belittles her—it's a way of saving face—but the truth is that he is the little one, the one who feels helpless and lost without her. He has not felt like this since the day she chose Samuel over him and he came to the conclusion that he should never see her again. He doesn't want to admit that he's nothing without her: this is something new for Samir, who has never wanted to be attached to anyone or to fall in love again. But the fact remains:
You love her. You love her and it hurts
. He had not envisaged this: he threw himself into love as if he were diving from a boat into the ocean. Now, far from her, he finds himself sinking, dragged down to the depths by the lead weights of those he loves most in the world: his wife and children. His material comfort, his family life: he abhors them now. And so he persuades himself that he can take the risk of conceiving this child. Ruth need never find out. And in the long term, maybe he'll divorce her. He feels strong enough now to face up to the wrath of the Bergs, to overthrow their hated, phony authority. He makes the decision at nine p.m., and is about to go to the apartment to break the good news to Nina when his wife calls: “Aren't you coming home? It's Shabbat. Don't forget to buy cheesecake for my father.”
It's Shabbat
. These Jewish rituals that make him feel like a stranger in a strange land; these interminable meals where everything revolves around
them
; this cumbersome Jewishness that he has never quite gotten used to . . . how he would love to give it all up. Give it up for good! Deep down, he has never felt Jewish in a religious sense. What he loves—really loves—is the feeling of solidarity that exists between Jews, the connection that would make a French Jew happy to meet an Argentine Jew. That is something he has never known. He felt alienated when he lived in an attic room in the sixteenth arrondissement, surrounded by middleclass kids with huge allowances. And he felt just as alienated when he returned to Sevran to live with his mother and brother. What dreadful memories! Yes, he can say for certain that he has never felt at home anywhere. He's still in his office, practically alone, as most of his colleagues and partners have left—on Fridays, they sometimes leave work early in the afternoon. Only Berman is at his desk. A pale light filters through the blinds. He wants to call Nina, but forces himself not to. He writes her a text: “I love you. I want to have a child with you.” But he deletes it immediately, unsent. Picking up his belongings, he leaves the office and runs to a bakery in the next street, where he buys ten slices of cheesecake for his father-in-law, thinking:
I hope he chokes on it
. Leaving the store, he feels an irrepressible desire to see Nina, to kiss her, to hold her. He needs to talk to her, touch her, but he reasons with himself: He'll wake her up tomorrow morning. He'll get to her apartment early and tell her that he wants to live with her. He can't keep this information to himself—it's too hot, too big. He needs to share it. He doesn't dare call Pierre—he doesn't want to give him the news by phone—so Berman will be the first to hear his secret. He heads back to the office and finds Berman about to leave. “Don't go yet—I need to talk to you!” “Can't it wait till Monday?” “No, it can't wait!” Berman is staggered by what Samir tells him.
I'm in love, and I have to tell someone . . . do you understand? What I'm going through is so intense. This woman I loved came back into my life at a moment when I least expected it, at a moment when I felt dead. And she has made me feel alive again. Nothing happens anymore with my wife. I feel like I've been transformed—I don't even recognize myself! Her name is Nina Roche
. Berman listens and says nothing, offers no judgment. What could he say, after all, this fine father, this scrupulous husband, this devoted son who has never crossed a line in his life; this model citizen who votes at every election, pays his taxes, always uses the crosswalk; this man who hates risk? Samir is a better, stronger man than he is, and he knows it. He became asthmatic after the birth of his fourth child; he feels like he's suffocating under the weight of his family, of his overprotected, security-mad building created according to the iniquitous laws of transmission; he has acted like his father and he is unhappy like him; he envies Samir his disregard of convention, his self-assurance; he's simply not like that, not capable of such things, and he admits the fact himself: he could never imagine changing the course of his life. Samir continues: “I have to tell you something, because my decision affects the firm: it's likely that a few clients, under pressure from my father-in-law, will decide to change their lawyer.” Hearing this, Berman tries in vain to interrupt him. “Listen to me!” Samir shouts. Then, in a softer voice: “I'm going to leave my wife. I'm going to tell her tomorrow.” “What? You can't do that!” “Why not?” “Why not? Because it's just not Jewish.” It is a simple moral judgment, tied to the weight of history, tradition, education. In truth, Berman is shocked. Having a brief affair or a one-night stand, experienced as guilt and ended with relief (and with the certainty that he will NEVER do it again) . . . maybe he can imagine that. But this double life, this meticulous organization with a woman set up in a plush apartment, provided with everything she could possibly want, this betrayal . . . no. Samir becomes angry when he hears this. “And what would be Jewish, in your opinion? You think there's a moral position that is the sole privilege of Jews? A corollary to election?” He pronounces these words with savage sarcasm. “If there was a Jewish morality, we'd know about it!” Berman is horrified. Paralyzed by these words, he looks at Samir and feels that something is wrong, something that can never be put right: his partner is a stranger. In a cold voice, he concludes: “You've gone crazy . . . I don't recognize you anymore, Sam . . .” But Samir won't stop. “You want me to tell you the truth? You scare the shit out of me with your sickening moralism, your probity, your obsession with doing the right thing. It's unrealistic to think a person can live without betraying anyone. It's unrealistic to think a person can stay pure. Purity is not a concept that should be applied to human beings. A stone can be pure. So can that ritual bath you take once a year on the eve of Yom Kippur to purify yourself of all the dirty tricks you have to pull in order to win cases! You come out of the bath and you're holy, but believe me you become soiled again the moment you touch anything in this world.” “But, as a Jew, it's my duty to—” “Oh, give it a rest! Jews are no more moral than anyone else, they're just more moralistic.” Berman freezes: “You speak as though you're not part of the community.” Samir gives him a contemptuous look: “Have I ever been part of it?” Their friendship seems to have been wrecked in the space of a few seconds. This man is an ashamed Jew, Berman thinks. He is a traitor to the Jewish cause, indifferent to his people's sufferings. He is one of those Jews who regurgitate assimilationist speeches of the worst kind—an immoral, unscrupulous Jew with no love for his own kind. Suddenly, he feels disgusted by Tahar. But he doesn't say any of this to him. All he says, in a monotone voice, is: “I don't think we have anything else to say to each other.”