Paul Auster - Invisible

He didn’t show up for breakfast the next morning (yesterday). When I asked Nancy if he was all right, she made a small sound in the back of her throat, something akin to a muted, inward laugh, and said that Mr. Born was still in dreamland. I wondered how long he had gone on drinking after I left the dining room.

Four hours later, he emerged for lunch, apparently in good cheer, his eyes bright and focused, ready for action. For the first time since I’d been there, he had taken the trouble to put on a shirt.

– Excuse my intemperate remarks last night, he began. I didn’t mean half the things I said-less than half of them, actually, almost nothing.

– Why would you say something you didn’t mean? I asked, somewhat thrown by this odd retraction. It wasn’t like him to examine his own behavior, to back down from anything he said or did-intemperate or not.

– I was testing out certain ideas, trying to get myself into the proper frame of mind for the work ahead.

– And what work is that?

– The book. The book we’re going to make together. After our discussion yesterday morning, I’m convinced you’re right, Cécile. The true story can never be published. There are too many secrets, too many bits of dirty business to expose, too many deaths to account for. The French would arrest me if I tried to talk about them.

– Are you saying you want to give up the project?

– No, not at all. But in order to tell the truth, we’ll have to fictionalize it.

– That’s what you said yesterday.

– I know. It popped into my head while we were talking, but now that I’ve had time to think it over, I believe it’s the only solution.

– A novel, then.

– Yes, a novel. And now that I’m thinking novel, I understand that limitless possibilities have suddenly opened up to us. We can tell the truth, yes, but we’ll also have the freedom to make things up.

– Why would you want to do that?

– To make the story more interesting. We’ll be basing the action on my life, of course, but the character who plays me in the book will have to be given a different name. We can’t call him Rudolf Born, can we? He’ll have to be someone else-Mr. X, for example. Once I become Mr. X, I won’t be myself anymore, and once I’m not myself, we can add as many new details as we like.

– Such as?

– Such as… maybe Mr. X isn’t the person he appears to be. We present him as a man who leads a double life. The world knows him as a dull professor, a man who teaches government and international affairs at some dull institute or university, but in fact he’s also a special undercover agent, fighting the good fight against the Soviet Communists.

– We already know that. That’s the premise of the book.

– Yes, yes-but wait. What if his double life isn’t a double life but a triple life?

– I don’t follow.

– He seems to be working for the French, but he’s actually working for the Russians. Mr. X is a mole.

– It’s beginning to sound like a thriller-

– Thriller. Don’t you just love that word? Thriller .

– But why would Mr. X betray his country?

– Any number of reasons. After years of work in the field, he becomes disillusioned with the West and converts to the Communist cause. Or else he’s a cynic who doesn’t believe in anything, and the Russians are paying him good money, more money than the French are paying him, which means that he’s earning more than twice as much as he would if he worked for just one side.

– He doesn’t seem to be a very sympathetic character.

– He doesn’t have to be sympathetic. Just interesting and complex. Think back to May sixty-eight, Cécile. Do you remember all those terrible arguments we had?

– I’ll never forget them.

– What if Mr. X, the double agent in league with the enemy, is in perfect accord with the young Cécile Juin character? What if he’s delighted to see France erupt in anarchy, bursting with joy over the disintegration of France and the imminent fall of the government? But he has to protect his cover, and to do that he espouses views directly opposed to the ones he believes in. It adds a nice little twist, don’t you think?

– Not bad.

– I’ve thought of another scene. It might be difficult to pull off, but if we stick with the idea of turning Mr. X into a mole, it would be crucial-one of the darkest, most lacerating moments in the book. Mr. X has a French colleague, Mr. Y. They’ve been close friends for many years, they’ve lived through some harrowing adventures together, but now Mr. Y suspects that Mr. X is working for the Soviets. He confronts Mr. X and tells him that if he doesn’t quit the service immediately, he will have him arrested. These are the early sixties, remember. Capital punishment was still in force, and arrest means the guillotine for Mr. X. What can he do? He has no choice but to kill Mr. Y. Not with a bullet, of course. Not with a blow to the head or a knife in the belly, but by more subtle means that will allow him to escape detection. It’s summer. Mr. Y and his family are vacationing in the mountains somewhere in the south of France. Mr. X goes down there, sneaks onto the property in the middle of the night, and disconnects the brakes of Mr. Y’s car. The next morning, on his way into town to buy bread at the local bakery, Mr. Y loses control of the car and crashes down the side of a mountain. Mission accomplished.

– What are you saying, Rudolf?

– Nothing. I’m telling you a story, that’s all. I’m describing how Mr. X kills Mr. Y.

– You’re talking about my father, aren’t you?

– Of course not. Why would you think that?

– You’re telling me how you tried to kill my father.

– Nonsense. Your father was never in the service. You know that. He worked for the Ministry of Culture.

– So you say. Who knows what he really did?

– Stop it, Cécile. We’re just having a little fun.

– It’s not funny. It’s not the least bit funny. You’re making me sick to my stomach.

– My dear girl. Calm down. You’re acting like a simpleton.

– I’m walking out of here, Rudolf. I can’t stand to be with you for another minute.

– Right now, in the middle of lunch? Just like that?

– Yes, just like that.

– And I thought-

– I don’t care what you thought.

– All right, go if you want to. I won’t try to stop you. I’ve done nothing but shower you with kindness and affection since you came here, and now you turn on me like this. You’re a ridiculous, hysterical woman, Cécile. I’m sorry I invited you to my house.

– I’m sorry I came.

I was already standing by then, already making my way across the room, already in tears. Just before I reached the hall, I turned around for a last look at the man my mother almost married, the man who had asked me to be his wife, and there he was, sitting with his back to me, hunched over his plate, shoveling food into his mouth. Total indifference. I hadn’t even left the house, and already I had been expunged from his mind.

I went into my bedroom to gather up my things. There would be no Samuel to accompany me this time, and since I wouldn’t be able to get down the mountain with the suitcase in my hand, the bag would have to stay. I transferred some clean underwear into my purse, kicked off my sandals and put on a pair of sneakers, then checked to make sure that my passport and money were where they should have been. The thought of leaving my clothes and books behind caused a small twinge of regret, but the feeling evaporated after a couple of seconds. My plan was to walk to the town of Saint Margaret and buy a ticket for the next available flight to Barbados. It was twelve miles from the house. I could do that. As long as I was on flat ground, I could walk forever.