Paul Auster - Invisible

Curiously, my first impulse was to turn around and walk out without saying hello to him. There is much to be explored in this hesitation, I believe, for it seems to suggest that I already understood that I would do well to keep my distance from Born, that allowing myself to get involved with him could possibly lead to trouble. How did I know this? I had spent little more than an hour in his company, but even in that short time I had sensed there was something off about him, something vaguely repellent. That wasn’t to deny his other qualities-his charm, his intelligence, his humor-but underneath it all he had emanated a darkness and a cynicism that had thrown me off balance, had left me feeling that he wasn’t a man who could be trusted. Would I have formed a different impression of him if I hadn’t despised his politics? Impossible to say. My father and I disagreed on nearly every political issue of the moment, but that didn’t prevent me from thinking he was fundamentally a good person-or at least not a bad person. But Born wasn’t good. He was witty and eccentric and unpredictable, but to contend that war is the purest expression of the human soul automatically excludes you from the realm of goodness. And if he had spoken those words in jest, as a way of challenging yet another anti-militaristic student to fight back and denounce his position, then he was simply perverse.

Mr. Walker, he said, looking up from his magazine and gesturing for me to join him at his table. Just the man I’ve been looking for.

I could have invented an excuse and told him I was late for another appointment, but I didn’t. That was the other half of the complex equation that represented my dealings with Born. Wary as I might have been, I was also fascinated by this peculiar, unreadable person, and the fact that he seemed genuinely glad to have stumbled into me stoked the fires of my vanity-that invisible cauldron of self-regard and ambition that simmers and burns in each one of us. Whatever reservations I had about him, whatever doubts I harbored about his dubious character, I couldn’t stop myself from wanting him to like me, to think that I was something more than a plodding, run-of-the-mill American undergraduate, to see the promise I hoped I had in me but which I doubted nine out of every ten minutes of my waking life.

Once I had slid into the booth, Born looked at me across the table, disgorged a large puff of smoke from his cigar, and smiled. You made a favorable impression on Margot the other night, he said.

I was impressed by her too, I answered.

You might have noticed that she doesn’t say much.

Her English isn’t terribly good. It’s hard to express yourself in a language that gives you trouble.

Her French is perfectly fluent, but she doesn’t say much in French either.

Well, words aren’t everything.

A strange comment from a man who fancies himself a writer.

I’m talking about Margot-

Yes, Margot. Exactly. Which brings me to my point. A woman prone to long silences, but she talked a blue streak on our way home from the party Saturday night.

Interesting, I said, not certain where the conversation was going. And what loosened her tongue?

You, my boy. She’s taken a real liking to you, but you should also know that she’s extremely worried.

Worried? Why on earth should she be worried? She doesn’t even know me.

Perhaps not, but she’s gotten it into her head that your future is at risk.

Everyone’s future is at risk. Especially American males in their late teens and early twenties, as you well know. But as long as I don’t flunk out of school, the draft can’t touch me until after I graduate. I wouldn’t want to bet on it, but it’s possible the war will be over by then.

Don’t bet on it, Mr. Walker. This little skirmish is going to drag on for years.

I lit up a Chesterfield and nodded. For once I agree with you, I said.

Anyway, Margot wasn’t talking about Vietnam. Yes, you might land in jail-or come home in a box two or three years from now-but she wasn’t thinking about the war. She believes you’re too good for this world, and because of that, the world will eventually crush you.

I don’t follow her reasoning.

She thinks you need help. Margot might not possess the quickest brain in the Western world, but she meets a boy who says he’s a poet, and the first word that comes to her is starvation .

That’s absurd. She has no idea what she’s talking about.

Forgive me for contradicting you, but when I asked you at the party what your plans were, you said you didn’t have any. Other than your nebulous ambition to write poetry, of course. How much do poets earn, Mr. Walker?

Most of the time nothing. If you get lucky, every now and then someone might throw you a few pennies.

Sounds like starvation to me.

I never said I planned to make my living as a writer. I’ll have to find a job.

Such as?

It’s difficult to say. I could work for a publishing house or a magazine. I could translate books. I could write articles and reviews. One of those things, or else several of them in combination. It’s too early to know, and until I’m out in the world, there’s no point in losing any sleep over it, is there?

Like it or not, you’re in the world now, and the sooner you learn how to fend for yourself, the better off you’ll be.

Why this sudden concern? We’ve only just met, and why should you care about what happens to me?

Because Margot asked me to help you, and since she rarely asks me for anything, I feel honor-bound to obey her wishes.

Tell her thank you, but there’s no need for you to put yourself out. I can get by on my own.

Stubborn, aren’t you? Born said, resting his nearly spent cigar on the rim of the ashtray and then leaning forward until his face was just a few inches from mine. If I offered you a job, are you telling me you’d turn it down?

It depends on what the job is.

That remains to be seen. I have several ideas, but I haven’t made a decision yet. Maybe you can help me.

I’m not sure I understand.

My father died ten months ago, and it appears I’ve inherited a considerable amount of money. Not enough to buy a château or an airline company, but enough to make a small difference in the world. I could engage you to write my biography, of course, but I think it’s a little too soon for that. I’m still only thirty-six, and I find it unseemly to talk about a man’s life before he gets to fifty. What, then? I’ve considered starting a publishing house, but I’m not sure I have the stomach for all the long-range planning that would entail. A magazine, on the other hand, strikes me as much more fun. A monthly, or perhaps a quarterly, but something fresh and daring, a publication that would stir people up and cause controversy with every issue. What do you think of that, Mr. Walker? Would working on a magazine be of any interest to you?

Of course it would. The only question is: why me? You’re going back to France in a couple of months, so I assume you’re talking about a French magazine. My French isn’t bad, but it isn’t good enough for what you’d need. And besides, I go to college here in New York. I can’t just pick up and move.

Who said anything about moving? Who said anything about a French magazine? If I had a good American staff to run things here, I could pop over every once in a while to check up on them, but essentially I’d stay out of it. I have no interest in directing a magazine myself. I have my own work, my own career, and I wouldn’t have the time for it. My sole responsibility would be to put up the money-and then hope to turn a profit.

You’re a political scientist, and I’m a literature student. If you’re thinking of starting a political magazine, then count me out. We’re on opposite sides of the fence, and if I tried to work for you, it would turn into a fiasco. But if you’re talking about a literary magazine, then yes, I’d be very interested.