Paul Auster: Invisible

He gradually willed himself out of his funk, and by the time we sat down to eat twenty minutes later, the storm seemed to have passed. Or so I thought when he complimented Margot on her superb cooking and praised the wine she had bought for the meal, but it proved to be no more than a temporary lull, and as the evening progressed, further squalls and gales came swooping down on us to spoil the festivities. I don’t know if the gin and Burgundy affected Born’s mood, but there was no question that he packed away a good deal of alcohol-at least twice the amount that Margot and I downed together-or if he was simply out of sorts because of the bad news he had received earlier in the day. Perhaps it was both in combination, or perhaps it was something else, but there was scarcely a moment during that dinner when I didn’t feel that the house was about to catch on fire.

It began when Born raised his glass to toast the birth of our magazine. It was a gracious little speech, I thought, but when I jumped in and started mentioning some of the writers I was planning to solicit work from for the first issue, Born cut me off in mid-sentence and told me never to discuss business while eating, that it was bad for the digestion and I should learn to start acting like an adult. It was a rude and unpleasant thing to say, but I hid my injured pride by pretending to agree with him and then took another bite of Margot’s stew. A moment later, Born put down his fork and said to me: You like it, Mr. Walker, don’t you?

Like what? I asked.

The navarin . You seem to be eating it with relish.

It’s probably the best meal I’ve had all year.

In other words, you’re attracted to Margot’s food.

Very much. I find it delicious.

And what about Margot herself? Are you attracted to her as well?

She’s sitting right across the table from me. It seems wrong to talk about her as if she weren’t here.

I’m sure she doesn’t mind. Do you, Margot?

No, Margot said. Not in the least.

You see, Mr. Walker? Not in the least.

All right, then, I answered. In my opinion, Margot is a highly attractive woman.

You’re avoiding the question, Born said. I didn’t ask if you found her attractive, I want to know if you are attracted to her .

She’s your wife, Professor Born. You can’t expect me to answer that. Not here, not now.

Ah, but Margot isn’t my wife. She’s my special friend, as it were, but we aren’t married, and we have no plans to marry in the future.

You live together. As far as I’m concerned, that’s as good as being married.

Come, come. Don’t be such a prude. Forget that I have any connection to Margot, all right? We’re talking in the abstract here, a hypothetical case.

Fine. Hypothetically speaking, I would hypothetically be attracted to Margot, yes.

Good, Born said, rubbing his hands together and smiling. Now we’re getting somewhere. But attracted to what degree? Enough to want to kiss her? Enough to want to hold her naked body in your arms? Enough to want to sleep with her?

I can’t answer those questions.

You’re not telling me you’re a virgin, are you?

No. I just don’t want to answer your questions, that’s all.

Am I to understand that if Margot threw herself at you and asked you to fuck her, you wouldn’t be interested? Is that what you’re saying? Poor Margot. You have no idea how much you’ve hurt her feelings.

What are you talking about?

Why don’t you ask her?

Suddenly, Margot reached across the table and took hold of my hand. Don’t be upset, she said. Rudolf is only trying to have some fun. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.

Born’s notion of fun had nothing to do with mine, alas, and at that stage of my life I was ill-equipped to play the sort of game he was trying to drag me into. No, I wasn’t a virgin. I had slept with a number of girls by then, had fallen in and out of love several times, had suffered through a badly broken heart just two years earlier and, like most young men around the world, thought about sex almost constantly. The truth was that I would have been delighted to sleep with Margot, but I refused to allow Born to goad me into admitting it. This wasn’t a hypothetical case. He actually seemed to be propositioning me on her behalf, and whatever sexual code they lived by, whatever romps and twisted dalliances they indulged in with other people, I found the whole business ugly, off-kilter, sick. Perhaps I should have spoken up and told him what I thought, but I was afraid-not of Born exactly, but of causing a rift that might lead him to change his mind about our project. I desperately wanted the magazine to work, and as long as he was willing to back it, I was prepared to put up with any amount of inconvenience and discomfort. So I did what I could to hold my ground and not lose my temper, to absorb blow upon blow without falling from my horse, to resist him and appease him at the same time.

I’m disappointed, Born said. Until now, I took you for an adventurer, a renegade, a man who enjoys thumbing his nose at convention, but at bottom you’re just another stuffed shirt, another bourgeois simpleton. How sad. You strut around with your Provençal poets and your lofty ideals, with your draft-dodger cowardice and that ridiculous necktie of yours, and you think you’re something exceptional, but what I see is a pampered middle-class boy living off Daddy’s money, a poseur.

Rudolf, Margot said. That’s enough. Leave him alone.

I realize I’m being a bit harsh, Born said to her. But young Adam and I are partners now, and I need to know what he’s made of. Can he stand up to an honest insult, or does he crumble to pieces when he’s under attack?

You’ve had a lot to drink, I said, and from all I can gather you’ve had a rough day. Maybe it’s time for me to be going. We can pick up the conversation when you’re back from France.

Nonsense, Born replied, pounding the table with his fist. We’re still working on the stew. Then there’s the salad, and after the salad the cheese, and after the cheese dessert. Margot has already been hurt enough for one night, and the least we can do is sit here and finish her remarkable dinner. In the meantime, maybe you can tell us something about Westfield, New Jersey.

Westfield? I said, surprised to discover that Born knew where I had grown up. How did you find out about Westfield?

It wasn’t difficult, he said. As it happens, I’ve learned quite a bit about you in the past few days. Your father, for example, Joseph Walker, age fifty-four, better known as Bud, owns and operates the Shop-Rite supermarket on the main street in town. Your mother, Marjorie, a.k.a. Marge, is forty-six and has given birth to three children: your sister, Gwyn, in November nineteen forty-five; you in March nineteen forty-seven; and your brother, Andrew, in July nineteen fifty. A tragic story. Little Andy drowned when he was seven, and it pains me to think how unbearable that loss must have been for all of you. I had a sister who died of cancer at roughly the same age, and I know what terrible things a death like that does to a family. Your father has coped with his sorrow by working fourteen hours a day, six days a week, while your mother has turned inward, battling the scourge of depression with heavy doses of prescription pharmaceuticals and twice-weekly sessions with a psychotherapist. The miracle, to my mind, is how well you and your sister have done for yourselves in the face of such calamity. Gwyn is a beautiful and talented girl in her last year at Vassar, planning to begin graduate work in English literature right here at Columbia this fall. And you, my young intellectual friend, my budding wordsmith and translator of obscure medieval poets, turn out to have been an outstanding baseball player in high school, co-captain of the varsity team, no less. Mens sana in corpore sano . More to the point, my sources tell me that you’re a person of deep moral integrity, a pillar of moderation and sound judgment who, unlike the majority of his classmates, does not dabble in drugs. Alcohol yes, but no drugs whatsoever-not even an occasional puff of marijuana. Why is that, Mr. Walker? With all the propaganda abroad these days about the liberating powers of hallucinogens and narcotics, why haven’t you succumbed to the temptation of seeking new and stimulating experiences?