Paul Auster - Invisible

He calls Margot the next morning, hoping to distract himself from this muddle of uncertainties by spending some time with her-depending on her mood, of course, and depending on whether she is free.

That’s funny, Margot says. I was just about to pick up the phone and call your hotel.

I’m glad, Walker replies. That means we were thinking about each other at the same moment. Mental telepathy is the best indication of a strong bond between people.

You say the strangest things…

Do you want to tell me why you were going to call, or should I tell you why I called?

You first.

Very simple. I’m dying to see you.

I would love to get together, but I can’t. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.

Is something wrong?

No, not at all. I’m going away for a week and I wanted to let you know.

Away?

Yes, to London.

London?

Why do you keep repeating what I say?

I’m sorry. But someone else is in London, too.

Along with about ten million other people. Are you thinking of anyone in particular?

I thought maybe you knew.

What are you talking about?

Born. He went to London three days ago.

And why should I care about that?

You’re not going to see him, are you?

Don’t be ridiculous.

Because if you are going to see him, I don’t think I could take it.

What’s gotten into you? Of course I’m not going to see him.

Then why are you going?

Don’t do this, Adam. You have no right to ask that question.

I thought I did.

I don’t have to account for myself to anyone-least of all to you.

Sorry. I’m acting like an idiot, aren’t I? The question is withdrawn.

If you must know, I’m going to see my sister. She’s married to an Englishman and lives in Hampstead. Her little boy is turning three, and I’m invited to the birthday party. Also-just to complete the picture-my mother is traveling with me.

Can I see you before you go?

We’re leaving for the airport in an hour.

Too bad. I’m going to miss you. Really, really miss you.

It’s only eight days. Get a grip on yourself, little man. I’ll be back before you know it.

After this dispiriting talk with Margot, he returns to his room at the hotel and mopes around for a few hours, unable to summon the energy to begin working at his desk, unable to concentrate on the book he is trying to read (Georges Perec’s Les Choses: Une Histoire des années soixante ), and before long he is thinking about Cécile again, remembering that today is her first day of school and that not far from where he is sitting she is in a classroom at the Lycée Fénelon, listening to one of her teachers expound on Molière’s prosody as she fiddles with her bag of newly sharpened pencils. He will avoid her for the time being, he says to himself, and when his own classes begin in eight days (the exact day of Margot’s return), he will have a legitimate excuse for seeing her less often, and as the time they spend together diminishes, perhaps her infatuation with him will diminish as well.

For the next three days, he steadfastly adheres to this regimen of silence. He sees no one, talks to no one, and bit by bit he begins to feel somewhat stronger in his loneliness, as if the stringencies he has forced upon himself have ennobled him in some way, reacquainting him with the person he once imagined himself to be. He writes two short poems that might actually have something to them ( never nothing but the dream of nothing / never anything but the dream of all ), spends an entire afternoon setting down his thoughts about the resurrection scene in Dreyer’s film, and composes a long, lushly rhapsodic letter to Gwyn about the vagaries of the Paris sky as seen through the windows of his room: To live here is to become a connoisseur of clouds, a meteorologist of whims . Then, early on the fourth day, just after he has woken up, as he is taking his first sips of the bitter instant coffee he prepares each morning with water boiled on the electric hot plate beside his bed, there is a knock on the door.

Still blurred, still dopey from the warmth of the bed, the tousled, undressed Walker slips into a pair of pants and heads for the door, tiptoeing gingerly on his bare feet, not wanting to pick up any splinters from the crumbling planks. Again he assumes it is Maurice, and again his assumption is wrong, but thinking that it must be Maurice, he doesn’t bother to ask who is there.

Cécile is standing in front of him. She is tense, she is biting her lower lip, and she is trembling, as if small electric currents were passing through her body, as if she were about to rise up into the air and levitate.

Walker says: Aren’t you supposed to be in school?

Don’t worry about school, she answers, stepping across the threshold before he can invite her in. This is more important than school.

All right, it’s more important than school. In what way?

You haven’t called me since the night of the dinner. What’s happened to you?

Nothing. I’ve been busy, that’s all. And I figured you were busy, too. You just started your classes this week, and you must be drowning in homework. I wanted to give you a few days to settle in.

That’s not it. That’s not it at all. My mother talked to you, that’s what happened. My stupid mother talked to you and scared you off. Well, just for your information, my mother doesn’t know anything about me. I can take care of myself just fine, thank you.

Slow down, Cécile, Walker says, raising his right arm and thrusting it toward her with an open palm-the pose of a cop directing traffic. I woke up about three minutes ago, he continues, and I’m still trying to shake the cobwebs out of my head. Coffee. That’s what I was doing. I was drinking coffee. You wouldn’t want some, would you?

I don’t like coffee. You know that.

Tea?

No thank you.

All right. No coffee, no tea. But please sit down. You’re making me nervous.

He gestures to the chair behind the desk, then approaches the desk to pull out the chair for her, and as Cécile walks toward it, he retrieves his bowl of coffee and carries it over to the bed. He sits down on the sagging, U-shaped mattress at the same instant she sits down on the creaking chair. For some reason, he finds the effect comical. He takes a sip of the no longer hot coffee and smiles at her, hoping their simultaneous touchdown was as funny to her as it was to him, but nothing is funny to Cécile just now, and she does not smile back.

Your mother, he says. Yes, she talked to me. It happened when you left the room after playing the piano, and the conversation lasted for all of fifteen or twenty seconds. She talked and I listened, but she didn’t scare me off.

No?

Of course not.

Are you sure?

Positively.

Then why have you disappeared?

I haven’t disappeared. I was planning to call you on Saturday or Sunday.

For real?

Yes, for real. Stop it now. No more questions, all right? No more doubts. I’m your friend, and I want to stay your friend.

It’s just-

Enough. I want to stay your friend, Cécile, but I can’t do that unless you begin to trust me.

Trust you? What are you talking about? Of course I trust you.

Not really. We’ve spent a lot of time together lately, and in that time we’ve talked about all sorts of things-books and philosophers, art and music, films, politics, even shoes and hats-but you’ve never once opened up to me about yourself. You don’t have to hide. I know what trouble is. I know what happens to families when things go wrong. The other day, when I told you about what happened to my brother, Andy, I thought that might get you talking, but you never said a word. I know about your father’s accident, Cécile, I know about the hell you and your mother have been living in, I know about the divorce, I know about your mother’s marriage plans. Why don’t you ever mention these things to me? That’s what friends are for. To share each other’s pains, to help each other out.