The Age of Reinvention (40 page)

“Every detail, every word, every act will be used against you,” Dan Stein explains, in a professorial tone, “so try to remember anything you might have done or said so we can anticipate the prosecution's arguments.”

“I ate a kebab in Steinway Street once. Does that make me guilty of terrorism?”

“You can't imagine the things they'll find out and use against you. They are going to dig up your past, search your apartment, interrogate everyone you've had contact with, even the women you've tried to seduce. They are going to try to find anything that might compromise you. By any means necessary. Have they mistreated you?”

“You mean: Have they tortured me into making confessions? Well, that depends. Is bullying and psychological pressure considered torture? What about harassment, insults, blackmail, threats, intimidation? Are those things torture? Can being slapped in the face and placed in the most uncomfortable and humiliating situations—and I insist upon the term ‘humiliating'—can those things be construed as torture? No, they didn't hang me upside down from the ceiling and beat me half to death, if that's what you're asking. I'm sure they wanted to, but I must have told them a dozen times that I was a criminal lawyer, that I knew my rights, and that I was ready to do anything to prove my innocence. I imagine they probably didn't want me to file a complaint to the International Court of Human Rights.”

“All right. Try to stay calm at the hearing.”

Early in the morning, Samir is taken in an armored van, cuffed at the hands and feet. He feels like a predator, a wild beast being transferred from one zoo to another, warily surveyed by men with guns because they know him capable of inflicting a mortal wound. Some of the guards are very young, and when he asks one of them (the oldest) to loosen his cuffs because the metal is digging into his skin, he is told simply: “No. You are considered a dangerous individual.” After a drive of about an hour, he is ordered to leave the vehicle, keeping his head down. Does he want a scarf to hide his face? “No, I'm not ashamed,” he says. “I haven't done anything wrong.” A crowd of photographers is waiting for him, cameras and telephoto lenses aimed at him, stealing his image so they can sell it to the tabloids. Journalists prowl, holding their microphones like weapons, pointed at his mouth. He says nothing, moves forward, eyes down, faithfully following his lawyers' advice: don't talk to the press, keep a low profile.
Even if someone asks you a question or insults you, just keep your mouth shut
.

He enters the courtroom, frightened/distraught/exhausted. A thousand eyes track him as he sits in the dock. His foot taps nervously, in time with the throb of his anxiety. He is drowning in fear. How to stay calm, how not to tremble when all around him is disintegrating? He feels as if a fragmentation bomb keeps exploding inside him, sending shards of pain all over his body. He is a walking wound. Mouth ulcers burn his tongue and his gums; psoriatic plaques have appeared on his forearms, making him itch furiously; his lower lip is covered with blisters; shoots of bile inflame his esophagus—and no one, in prison, has done anything to relieve these symptoms.

His lawyers—Stein and one of his partners (Pierre Lévy having decided not to plead because, although he is a member of the New York bar, he has not worked in the U.S. for years)—sit beside him. Wearing dark suits, they greet him with a friendly squeeze of the shoulders. “The only thing I don't have is leprosy,” he whispers to Stein, showing him his mouth and the reddish patches on his arms. The words are whispered in his lawyer's ear, barely audible, but Stein motions for him to stop talking. The judge has entered the room through a back door, like an actor taking the stage. The buzz of conversation fades to silence. The judge is a very thin man, in his fifties, with gray, almost purplish hair. Renowned for his professionalism, he has a reputation for being rigid and conservative. He sits on the thronelike chair in the front of the courtroom and, in a very quiet voice, summarizes the facts of the case and pronounces the charges. Listening to this, Samir feels as though he must be talking about someone else. He remembers having taken part, years before, in a meeting with law students, and the speech given by the famous law professor who had brought them together in praise of Sami Tahar: a speech that highlighted his rhetorical powers, his diplomacy and courage, reminding his listeners, who laughed appreciatively, that this was no mean feat for a Frenchman who had had to overcome the complexities of both the English language and the American penal system. Not so long ago, hundreds of future lawyers had applauded him as he ended an improvised, unprepared one-hour speech, hailing him as a “great lawyer,” but now, sitting in front of the judge, he feels like an impostor. The prosecution lawyer stands up—a woman with diaphanous skin, pure features, dressed in a blue cotton suit. Simple, classic. The kind of woman Samir might have fallen in love with, the kind he would undoubtedly have desired.

She goes in for the kill.

He is guilty of having financed terrorist activities.

He is guilty of having supported a radical Islamist who intended to commit an attack against American interests.

She speaks for a long time, but Samir tunes out. What is the point of listening to every detail of his own execution? They can organize his death without him. For the first time, he gives up. He thinks about his children. He thinks about Nina. Will he ever see them again? Here he is, he thinks, in the dock of a courtroom, the accused, in a place where he once reigned as a defense lawyer.

When her speech is over, she sits down, taking care not to bare her legs. Samir hardly listens as his lawyers present his defense. The judge clears his throat. His gaze sweeps the courtroom. Samir trembles—he
really
trembles: he can see his fingers quivering—and this suddenly fills him with revulsion. He is filled with revulsion at being treated like a war criminal, a pariah, a terrorist, and he starts to yell: “I'm innocent!”

Stein grabs him by the arm and tells him to shut up. The judge gives him a hard stare and, in a scathing voice, orders him to remain silent or he will be held in contempt of court. Samir says nothing, but he doesn't look away. The judge stands up and retires for a few moments in an adjacent room before passing judgment. It lasts forever. Then he returns. Samir closes his eyes and, when he opens them, he sees the judge's impassive face, his angry, contemptuous gaze aimed at the accused.

I order the continued detention of Mr. Samuel Tahar.

The next day, a photograph of Samir in handcuffs appears in the French newspapers: right in the middle of the page, the picture shows his distress all too clearly, in spite of the slightly blurred image. Samir looks away, his hands behind his back, flanked by two huge, aggressive-looking armed men. To the sides, you can see a crowd gathered behind metal barriers; they look like they are yelling something. One of them, a woman with a lined face, holds up a sign saying
“THE ENEMY IS AMONG US.”
Samir's face is lined, his back hunched. He's a hunted man, a broken man, seeming to rush toward the entrance of the courtroom in order to escape the crowd's rage; he is no longer that arrogant golden boy, that affected and condescending womanizer; Samuel can no longer see in him the student he once knew, the mocking charmer with the machine-gun delivery, open shirt revealing a bronzed chest, boastful and uncomplicated—an incarnation of virility. In the picture, he looks shrunken, a man weighed down by some vast invisible force, perhaps even sick. There are purplish circles around his eyes, which have obviously seen things he would rather forget but cannot.
It's over
. There is no way he can bounce back from this. After this, how could he ever again enjoy the same position he held before his arrest? After this, how could he ever again become the respected, influential, powerful, important man he was before? After this, how could he even dream of experiencing again the simple joys of family life, the pleasure of playing tennis with a friend, of reading a book, a newspaper, of going to see a movie: all those insignificant acts that make up daily existence and that he will never again be able to accomplish without feeling a great weariness, without sensing that he will never be happy again? After this, something has broken forever, something has fallen to pieces inside him. Physically, he is still there, but in reality he is elsewhere—in that prison of the mind that he will never again leave without his chemical straitjacket.

Samuel is sitting at the bar of the Hotel Bristol when he discovers the news, on one of those velvet sofas, away from the madding crowd, that he is now able to reserve for his meetings. He likes to come here every day—to the place where Nina and he met Samir, at his request; this opulent, luxurious place, the lighting subdued to accentuate the feeling of intimacy. Sometimes he books a room here for a night or two. He always arrives early, to order a beer and enjoy seeing from a distance his own empty table, reserved just for him, several other diners turned away because he is such a valued customer. The critical backlash had only increased his book's commercial success. There is a certain pleasure in finding himself in the place of the person who once dominated him, in now being the one who gives the orders, and Samuel, dressed in an elegant suit, savoring his newfound power, feels at ease in the role that Samir once (over)played, back in his glory days—that of the loyal and very important customer.

Samuel sits down and instantly a waiter comes to ask him what he'd like to order. He always takes alcohol. He doesn't drink as much as before—he knows how to control his thirst now—but he can never resist a good wine, and he always insists on tasting it first, with almost pathological stringency. This evening, he is waiting for a Swiss journalist who will interview him for a major literary magazine. He motions to a waitress that he'd like her to bring him his newspapers—two dailies that he always flicks through, starting with the back page and working his way to the front (a habit accrued from reading, right to left, the Hebrew texts his father gave him)—and suddenly, on the second or third page, he recognizes Samir. His initial reaction is to place his hand on his forehead, as if trying to wake from a nightmare, repeating to himself:
It's not possible, it's not possible
. And yet it really is him—Samir Tahar—with the headline above the photograph reading:
Downfall of a French-American lawyer
, and, below this, the words:
He is suspected of involvement in a terrorist operation
.

For a long time, Samuel studies the photograph, studies the look in Samir's eyes, then he speed-reads the article. He wants to know, as quickly as possible. He reads between the lines, puts the newspaper down on the table. In shock. The violent shock of suddenly entering turbulent air. Immediately he thinks of Nina, of what must have happened to her in these tragic circumstances. Has she stayed by Samir's side? Does she have an official place in his life now? Or is she completely independent? He has no idea if she is still in a relationship with Samir, and after reading the article, this soon becomes his sole obsession: to speak to Nina—he hasn't heard her voice in such a long time, in deference to her determination not to see him again, and he feels emotional as he types the letters of her first name into his phone's contact list. He trembles as he waits for the ringing—which always sounds strange when you are calling overseas, as if affected by the distance—but not for long, because a robotic voice informs him that this line is no longer in service. Nina must have changed her number, he thinks: he did the same thing, in fact, weary of all the calls he was receiving from people he knew when he was a social worker, asking him for help, money, a signed copy of his book. He hangs up and grabs the newspaper again, rereads the article, certain that it must have something to do with a settling of scores—some sort of business deal, maybe an illegal one, that had gone wrong. He does not believe for a moment that Samir was involved in terrorism. If that were the case, he would never have invited Nina to New York when he could have simply paid her regular visits in Paris, where he was so much freer in his movements—Paris, where he had no attachments and could easily lead a double life without anyone being suspicious. A man with a mission as dangerous as that of a terrorist secret agent would never have brought a former lover to live in his home city, to make her part of his life, knowing that if the scandal came out he would risk his own destitution and forced contrition. He asked Nina to be with him in New York because he felt untouchable, invulnerable, beyond reproach. A life without smoke or fire; a life like a calm sea, with nothing more compromising than a naked woman in a luxury apartment. But what was the connection with Islamist terrorism? What did that have to do with Samir, a moderate Muslim, someone who had always seemed slightly ashamed of his North African origins, just like all those Jews who Frenchify their names to unburden themselves of an oppressive identity? Not for a moment could he imagine Samir transformed into an Islamic leader, a wannabe martyr aiming to destroy a world whose values (even the most corrupt) he so obviously shared. He drank, he loved women, and he loved America! How could it have come to this? It saddened Samuel, but at the same time, he found it hard not to feel serene. He imagined Nina's reaction: Did she realize she had made the wrong choice? Did she regret it? He often wondered if she'd heard about the publication and success of his book. He hadn't dared send a copy to Samir's office. He did think about it, but decided he had too much to lose.

Samuel rereads the article, and then the full-page profile that runs alongside it—an accusatory profile for which numerous people were interviewed.
Strange that the journalist didn't think of asking me
, he thinks. Because everyone else was quoted—former friends, colleagues, neighbors, all describing, in considerable detail (and sometimes in incongruous detail, perhaps purely imagined or invented), the man they had known: “a brilliant opportunist who would do anything to succeed”; “a Muslim who always had a problem with his identity”; “a pathological womanizer”; “a brilliant, calculating student who could spend an hour chatting with his professors after a class in order to win from them what no one else was able to win: their trust and esteem.” The article's punch line was a remark from a law professor at the University of Montpellier, who claimed to have known Samir well and who paraphrased Maurice Barrès in order to sum up his former student: “Young, infinitely sensitive, humiliated, he was ripe for ambition.”