Paul Auster - Invisible

For what? They would have acquitted me in the end, and I couldn’t afford to lose all the time it would have taken to defend myself. The kid deserved to die. The kid died. That’s all there is to it.

No remorse, then.

No remorse. None whatsoever. I don’t even blame you for turning against me and going to the police. You did what you thought was right. Mistakenly, of course, but that’s your problem, not mine. I saved your life, Adam. Remember that. If the gun had been loaded, you’d still be thanking me for what I did. The fact that it wasn’t loaded doesn’t really change anything, does it? As long as we thought it was loaded, it was loaded.

Walker is willing to concede the point, but there is still the question of the park, the question of how and when the boy died, and he has no doubt that Born’s version of events is untrue-for the simple reason that it could not have happened so quickly. A single stab wound to the stomach can lead to death, but inevitably it is a slow and protracted death, which means that Williams must have been alive when Born reached the park, and therefore the additional wounds that ended up killing the boy were inflicted by Born himself. Nothing else makes sense. Why would another person go to the trouble of stabbing a dead teenager more than a dozen times? If Williams was still breathing when Born left the park, it might be possible to build an argument for a second attacker-far-fetched but possible-but only if the object was to steal the boy’s money, and the police told Walker back in the spring that no robbery had taken place. The kid’s wallet was found in his pocket, and sixteen untouched dollars were inside the wallet, which eliminates theft as a motive for the crime. Why would I go on stabbing someone after he was dead? Because he wasn’t dead, and you kept on plunging your knife into him until you made sure he was, and then, even after you finished the job, you continued stabbing him because you were engulfed by rage, because you were out of your mind and enjoyed what you were doing.

I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Walker says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some coins to pay for his beer. I have to go.

Suit yourself, Born replies. I was hoping we could bury the hatchet and become friends again. It even occurred to me that you might enjoy meeting the daughter of my future wife. Cécile is a delightful, intelligent girl of eighteen-a literature student, an excellent pianist, just the kind of person who would interest you.

No thanks, Walker says, standing up from the table. I don’t need you to play matchmaker for me. You already did that once, remember?

Well, if you ever change your mind, give me a call. I’d be happy to introduce her to you.

At that point, just as Walker is turning to go, Born reaches into the breast pocket of his cream-colored blazer and withdraws a business card with his address and telephone number on it. Here, he says, handing the card to Walker. All my coordinates. Just in case.

For a brief moment, Walker is tempted to tear up the card and throw the pieces onto the ground-the same way he tore up the check in New York last spring-but then he decides against it, not wanting to disgrace himself with such a cheap and petty insult. He slips the card into his pocket and says good-bye. Born nods but says nothing. As Walker leaves, the sun shoots across the sky and explodes into a hundred thousand splinters of molten light. The Eiffel Tower falls down. Every building in Paris bursts into flame. End of Act I. Curtain.

He has put himself in an untenable position. As long as he was ignorant of Born’s whereabouts, he could live with the uncertainty of a potential encounter, all the while deluding himself into believing that luck would be with him and the dreaded moment would never come, or come late, so late that his time in Paris would not be destroyed by fears of another encounter, other encounters. Now that it has happened, and happened early, much earlier than he would have thought possible, he finds it unbearable to have Born’s address in his pocket and not be able to go to the police to demand that he be arrested. Nothing would make him happier than to see the murderer of Cedric Williams brought to justice. Even if they let him off, he would have to suffer through the expense and humiliation of a trial, and even if the case never went to court, he would have to endure the unpleasantness of being grilled by the police, the rigors of a drawn-out investigation. But short of abducting Born and hauling him back to New York, what can Walker do? He ponders the situation for the rest of the day and deep into the night, and then an idea occurs to him, a diabolical idea, an idea so cruel and underhanded that he is stunned by the mere fact that he is capable of imagining such a thing. It won’t put Born in prison, alas, but it will make his life extremely uncomfortable, and if Walker can pull off his plan successfully, it will deprive Hélène Juin’s future husband of the one object he covets most in the world. Walker is both thrilled and disgusted with himself. He has never been a vengeful person, has never actively sought to hurt anyone, but Born is in a different category, Born is a killer, Born deserves to be punished, and for the first time in his life Walker is out for blood.

The plan calls for a practiced liar, a social acrobat skilled in the fine art of duplicity, and since Walker is neither one of those things, he knows that he is the worst man for the job he has given himself. Right from the start, he will be forced to act against his own nature, again and again he will slip and fall as he struggles to gain a secure footing on the battleground he has mapped out in his mind, and yet in spite of his misgivings, he marches off to the Café Conti the next morning to drop another jeton into the pay telephone and put his scheme into operation. He is dumbfounded by his boldness, his resolve. When Born answers on the third ring, the surprise in the man’s voice is palpable.

Adam Walker, he says, doing his best to mask his astonishment. The last person on earth I was expecting to hear from.

Forgive the intrusion, Walker says. I just wanted you to know that I’ve done some serious thinking since we talked yesterday.

Interesting. And where have your thoughts led you?

I’ve decided I want to bury the hatchet.

Doubly interesting. Yesterday, you accuse me of murder, and today you’re willing to forgive and forget. Why the sudden turnaround?

Because you convinced me you were telling the truth.

Am I to take this as a sincere apology-or are you angling for some new favor from me? You wouldn’t be thinking of trying to resurrect your dead magazine, for example?

Of course not. That’s all in the past.

It was a hurtful thing you did, Walker. Tearing up the check into little pieces and sending it back to me without a word. I was deeply insulted.

If I offended you in any way, I’m truly sorry. I was more or less in shock after what happened. I didn’t know what I was doing.

And you know what you’re doing now?

I think so.

You think so. And tell me young man, what exactly do you want?

Nothing. I called because you asked me to call. In case I changed my mind.

You want to get together, then. Is that it? You’re telling me you’d like to resume our friendship.

That was the idea. You mentioned meeting your fiancée and her daughter. I thought that would be a nice way to begin.

Nice . Such an insipid word. You Americans have a real gift for banalities, don’t you?

No doubt. We’re also good at apologizing when we feel we’re in the wrong. If you don’t want to see me, just say so. I’ll understand.

Forgive me, Walker. I was being nasty again. I’m afraid it comes with the territory.