Paul Auster - Invisible

– You can’t be serious, I said.

– Why not? he answered. I’m all alone here. You have no one in Paris, and if you came to Quillia and lived with me, I would make you the happiest woman in the world. We’re perfect for each other, Cécile.

– You’re too old for me, old friend.

– You’ve already been married to a man older than I am.

– That’s just it. Stéphane is dead, isn’t he? I have no desire to become a widow again.

– Ah, but I’m not Stéphane, am I? I’m strong. I’m in perfect health. I have years and years ahead of me.

– Please, Rudolf. It’s out of the question.

– You’re forgetting how much we adored each other.

– I liked you. I always liked you, but I never adored you.

– Years ago, I wanted to marry your mother. But that was only an excuse. I wanted to live with her so I could be near you.

– That’s ridiculous. I was a child back then-an awkward, undeveloped child. You weren’t interested in me.

– It was all working so well. It was about to happen, it would have happened, the three of us wanted it to happen, and then that American boy came to Paris and ruined everything.

– It wasn’t because of him. You know that. My mother didn’t believe his story, and neither did I.

– You were right not to believe him. He was a liar, a twisted, angry boy who turned against me and tried to wreck my life. Yes, I’ve made terrible mistakes over the years, but killing that kid in New York wasn’t one of them. I never put a hand on him. Your boyfriend made it all up.

– My boyfriend? That’s a good one. Adam Walker had better things to do than fall for someone like me.

– And to think… I was the one who introduced him to you. I thought I was doing you a favor. What a miserable joke.

– You did do me a favor. And then I turned around and insulted him. I called him a crazy person. I said his tongue should be torn out of his mouth.

– You never told me that. Good work, Cécile. I’m proud of you for showing such spirit. The boy got what he deserved.

– Deserved? What does that mean?

– I’m alluding to his hasty departure from France. You know why he left, don’t you?

– He left because of me. Because I spat in his face.

– No, no, nothing as simple as that.

– What are you talking about?

– He was deported. The police caught him with three kilos of drugs-marijuana, hashish, cocaine, I can’t remember the substance now. They were tipped off by the manager of that putrid hotel he lived in. The cops searched his room, and that was the end of Adam Walker. He had two choices: stand trial in France or leave the country.

– Adam with drugs? It isn’t possible. He was against drugs, he hated them.

– Not according to the police.

– And how do you know that?

– The examining magistrate was a friend of mine. He told me about the case.

– How convenient. And why would he bother to talk to you about a thing like that?

– Because he knew I was acquainted with Walker.

– You were involved in it, weren’t you?

– Of course not. Don’t be silly.

– You were. Admit it, Rudolf. You were the one who got Adam kicked out of the country.

– You’re wrong, my darling. I can’t say that I was sorry to see him go, but I wasn’t responsible.

– It’s so far in the past. Why tell lies about it now?

– I swear on your mother’s grave, Cécile. I had nothing to do with it.

I didn’t know what to think. Perhaps he was telling the truth, perhaps he wasn’t, but the moment he started talking about my mother’s grave, I realized that I didn’t want to be in the room with him anymore. I was too upset, too close to tears, too distracted to go on talking. First his insane proposal of marriage, and then the ghastly news about Adam, and suddenly I couldn’t sit at that table a second longer. I stood up from my chair, told him I wasn’t feeling well, and quickly retreated to my room.

Half an hour later, R.B. knocked and asked if he could come in. I hesitated for a few moments, wondering if I had the strength to confront him again. Before I could decide, there was another knock, louder and more insistent than the first one, and then he opened the door himself.

– I’m sorry, he said, as his large, half-naked body lumbered toward a chair in the far corner of the room. I didn’t mean to unnerve you. I’m afraid I took the wrong approach.

– Approach? Approach to what?

As R.B. lowered himself into the chair, I sat down on a small wooden bench just below the window. We were no more than three feet apart. I wished he hadn’t walked in on me so soon after my abrupt exit from the dining room, but he looked sufficiently contrite for me to think that further conversation might be possible.

– Approach to what? I repeated.

– To certain… how shall I put it?… to certain future… to certain possible domestic arrangements in the future.

– I’m sorry to disappoint you, Rudolf, but I’m not interested in marriage. Not with you or anyone else.

– Yes, I know. That’s your position today, but tomorrow you might have a different view of the matter.

– I doubt it.

– It was a mistake not to share my thoughts with you. I’ve been living with this idea ever since I received your letter last month, and after turning it around in my mind for so long, it felt real to me, as if all I had to do was say the word and it would happen. I’ve probably been alone too much these past six years. I sometimes confuse my thoughts about the world with the world itself. I’m sorry if I offended you.

– I wasn’t offended. Surprised would be the appropriate word, I think.

– Given your position-the position you hold now, in any case-I would like to suggest an experiment. An experiment in the form of a business proposal. Do you remember the book I told you about in one of my letters?

– You mentioned that you were taking notes for a memoir you wanted to write.

– Exactly. I’m nearly ready to begin, and I want you to help me with it. I want us to write the book together.

– You’re forgetting that I already have a job in Paris. A job that means quite a lot to me.

– Whatever salary they give you at the CNRS, I’ll double it.

– It isn’t a question of money.

– I’m not asking you to quit your job. All you have to do is apply for a leave of absence. The book should take us about a year to write, and if you don’t want to stay with me here after we’re finished, go back to Paris. In the meantime, you’ll be earning twice what you earn now-with free room and board, by the way-and in the process you might discover that you want to marry me. An experiment in the form of a business proposal. Do you see what I’m talking about?

– Yes, I see. But why would I be interested in working on someone else’s book? I have my own work to do.

– Once you know what the book is about, you’ll be interested.

– It’s a book about your life.

– Yes, but do you know anything about my life, Cécile?

– You’re a retired professor of government and international affairs.

– Among other things, yes. But I didn’t only teach government, I worked for it as well.

– The French government?

– Of course. I’m French, aren’t I?

– And what kind of work did you do?

– Secret work.

– Secret work… Are you talking about espionage?

– Skullduggery in all its many forms, my dear.

– Well, well. I had no idea.

– It goes all the way back to Algeria for me. I started young, and I went on working for them straight through to the end of the Cold War.

– In other words, you have some gripping stories to tell.

– More than gripping. Stories to curdle your blood.