Paul Auster - Invisible

Why? I said, still reeling from the impact of Born’s astounding recitation about my family. I’ll tell you why, but first I’d like to know how you managed to dig up so much about us in such a short time.

Is there a problem? Were there any inaccuracies in what I said?

No. It’s just that I’m a little stunned, that’s all. You can’t be a cop or an FBI agent, but a visiting professor at the School of International Affairs could certainly be involved with an intelligence organization of some kind. Is that what you are? A spy for the CIA?

Born cracked up laughing when I said that, treating my question as if he’d just heard the funniest joke of the century. The CIA! he roared. The CIA! Why on earth would a Frenchman work for the CIA? Forgive me for laughing, but the idea is so hilarious, I’m afraid I can’t stop myself.

Well, how did you do it, then?

I’m a thorough man, Mr. Walker, a man who doesn’t act until he knows everything he needs to know, and since I’m about to invest twenty-five thousand dollars in a person who qualifies as little more than a stranger to me, I felt I should learn as much about him as I could. You’d be amazed how effective an instrument the telephone can be.

Margot stood up then and began clearing plates from the table in preparation for the next course. I made a move to help her, but Born gestured for me to sit back down in my chair.

Let’s return to my question, shall we? he said.

What question? I asked, no longer able to keep track of the conversation.

About why no drugs. Even the lovely Margot has a joint now and then, and to be perfectly frank with you, I have a certain fondness for weed myself. But not you. I’m curious to know why.

Because drugs scare me. Two of my friends from high school are already dead from heroin overdoses. My freshman roommate went off the rails from taking too much speed and had to drop out of college. Again and again, I’ve watched people climb the walls from bad LSD trips-screaming, shaking, ready to kill themselves. I don’t want any part of it. Let the whole world get stoned on drugs for all I care, but I’m not interested.

And yet you drink.

Yes, I said, lifting my glass and taking another sip of wine. With immense pleasure, too, I might add. Especially with stuff as good as this to keep me company.

We moved on to the salad after that, followed by a plate of French cheeses and then a dessert baked by Margot that afternoon (apple tart? raspberry tart?), and for the next thirty minutes or so the drama that had flared up during the first part of the meal steadily diminished. Born was being nice to me again, and although he continued to drink glass after glass of wine, I was beginning to feel confident that we would get to the end of the dinner without another outburst or insult from my capricious, half-crocked host. Then he opened a bottle of brandy, lit up one of his Cuban cigars, and started talking about politics.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as gruesome as it could have been. He was deep in his cups by the time he poured the cognac, and after an ounce or two of those burning, amber spirits, he was too far gone to engage in a coherent conversation. Yes, he called me a coward again for refusing to go to Vietnam, but mostly he talked to himself, lapsing into a long, meandering monologue on any number of disparate subjects as I sat there listening in silence and Margot washed pots and pans in the kitchen. Impossible to recapture more than a fraction of what he said, but the key points are still with me, particularly his memories of fighting in Algeria, where he spent two years with the French army interrogating filthy Arab terrorists and losing whatever faith he’d once had in the idea of justice. Bombastic pronouncements, wild generalizations, bitter declarations about the corruption of all governments-past, present, and future; left, right, and center-and how our so-called civilization was no more than a thin screen masking a never-ending assault of barbarism and cruelty. Human beings were animals, he said, and soft-minded aesthetes like myself were no better than children, diverting ourselves with hairsplitting philosophies of art and literature to avoid confronting the essential truth of the world. Power was the only constant, and the law of life was kill or be killed, either dominate or fall victim to the savagery of monsters. He talked about Stalin and the millions of lives lost during the collectivization movement in the thirties. He talked about the Nazis and the war, and then he advanced the startling theory that Hitler’s admiration of the United States had inspired him to use American history as a model for his conquest of Europe. Look at the parallels, Born said, and it’s not as far-fetched as you’d think: extermination of the Indians is turned into the extermination of the Jews; westward expansion to exploit natural resources is turned into eastward expansion for the same purpose; enslavement of the blacks for low-cost labor is turned into subjugation of the Slavs to produce a similar result. Long live America, Adam, he said, pouring another shot of cognac into both our glasses. Long live the darkness inside us.

As I listened to him rant on like this, I felt a growing pity for him. Horrible as his view of the world was, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for a man who had descended into such pessimism, who so willfully shunned the possibility of finding any compassion, grace, or beauty in his fellow human beings. Born was just thirty-six, but already he was a burnt-out soul, a shattered wreck of a person, and at his core I imagined that he must have suffered terribly, living in constant pain, lacerated by the jabbing knives of despair, disgust, and self-contempt.

Margot reentered the dining room, and when she saw the state Born was in-bloodshot eyes, slurred speech, body listing to the left as if he was about to fall off his chair-she put her hand on his back and gently told him in French that the evening was over and that he should toddle off to bed. Surprisingly, he didn’t protest. Nodding his head and muttering the word merde several times in a flat, barely audible voice, he allowed Margot to help him to his feet, and a moment later she was guiding him out of the room toward the hall that led to the back of the apartment. Did he say good night to me? I can’t remember. For several minutes, I remained in my chair, expecting Margot to return in order to show me out, but when she didn’t come back after what seemed to be an inordinate length of time, I stood up and headed for the front door. That was when I saw her-emerging from a bedroom at the end of the hall. I waited as she walked toward me, and the first thing she did when we were standing next to each other was put her hand on my forearm and apologize for Rudolf’s behavior.

Is he always like that when he drinks? I asked.

No, almost never, she said. But he’s very upset right now and has many things on his mind.

Well, at least it wasn’t dull.

You comported yourself with great discretion.

So did you. And thank you for the dinner. I’ll never forget the navarin .

Margot gave me one of her small, fleeting smiles and said: If you want me to cook for you again, let me know. I’ll be happy to give you another meal while Rudolf is in Paris.

Sounds good, I said, knowing I would never find the courage to call her but at the same time feeling touched by the invitation.

Again, another flicker of a smile, and then two perfunctory kisses, one on each cheek. Good night, Adam, she said. You will be in my thoughts.

I didn’t know if I was in her thoughts or not, but now that Born was out of the country, she had entered mine, and for the next two days I could barely stop thinking about her. From the first night at the party, when Margot had trained her eyes on me and studied my face with such intensity, to the disturbing conversation Born had provoked at the dinner about the degree of my attraction to her, a sexual current had been running between us, and even if she was ten years older than I was, that didn’t prevent me from imagining myself in bed with her, from wanting to go to bed with her. Was the offer to give me another dinner a veiled proposition, or was it simply a matter of generosity, a desire to help out a young student who subsisted on the wretched fare of cheap diners and warmed-over cans of precooked spaghetti? I was too timid to find out. I wanted to call her, but every time I reached for the phone, I understood that it was impossible. Margot lived with Born, and even though he had insisted that marriage wasn’t in their future, she was already claimed, and I didn’t feel I had the right to go after her.