One Generation After (12 page)

“I like you,” she continued, releasing my hand. “I like you because you’re young and poor; because you’re Jewish and unafraid. And also because I don’t understand you.”

She drew back slightly as if to see me better. “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m drunk.”

“Wrong. I’m not thinking anything.”

“Don’t interrupt. Please. You’re not thinking of anything but you think I’m drunk. One does not exclude the other. Well, it’s true. I did drink. Not much. Just a little: with three well-paying customers. I suggested they invite my friends to share the fun; but they didn’t go for the idea. You’ll manage by yourself, like a big girl, they said. We drank. We did other things. They were pleased and told me so. They left. I kept one bottle. I didn’t touch it, I swear, that is, not really. I don’t enjoy drinking, not alone, not like that. My head spins when I drink alone. It’s spinning now. Feel it: it’s spinning, can you tell?”

She began turning her head with such frenzy that I became dizzy. I said: “Yes, indeed, it is spinning.”

“You see? I know what I’m saying. I may seem incoherent, but I know what I want to say. If you don’t understand, it’s because you’re Jewish: you’re a good listener, but you don’t understand.”

Her hand moved to her mouth as if to apologize for her blunder. “Did I offend you? No? Good. Still, I do apologize. You must forgive me. You do understand, I know that. I take it all back: you’re a Jew, therefore you understand. It’s I who don’t understand you. See, when I saw you, sitting on your bench, sitting on the night—yes, don’t look at me like that, on the night: I say, one can sit on it and lie down on it, one can even dwell in it—when I noticed you there, I immediately knew that you were someone who understands, someone I cannot understand. You like hearing me say that, don’t you? You’re young and the young love to be told that. Well, I’m going to make you happy and solemnly declare: I do not understand you. There now, are you glad? Besides, it makes me glad too. I would so like never to understand. It rarely happens. Most of the time I understand only too well and too fast. What do you expect? That’s what I’m
paid for. Men, I know them, I can see through their schemes and pretenses. Immediately. I think to myself: ‘Go ahead, old boy, do your little act, I know before you and better than you what you’re after.’ Ha, they think they possess me when they take my body and fill me with their disgust; in fact, I’m infallible; I see through them and I spit on them.”

Barbara was telling me her life, and I thought of mine, and of all human existence, which one single gesture, one single event can distort, uplift or debase forever. One word said or said poorly, or not said at all, a train missed, a hand taken or rejected, and life is no longer what it might have been. Freedom? A farce. The future is but the product of the past, which remains beyond our reach; we may no longer touch it, for it becomes a divinity created by us and against us. What is done is done, we cannot retrace our steps, we cannot choose ourselves again. Thus a yes or a no, every yes and every no, commits man beyond the present. That is the misunderstanding, the fundamental injustice of human condition: we accept and refuse situations which will emerge only later, when it is already too late.

Barbara kept quiet a long time. I should have said something.

She misinterpreted my silence: “You’re not exactly talkative. Did you at least listen?”

“Jews are good listeners,” I reminded her.

“I also like to listen.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Nothing? No reaction? No comment? I have just told you the idiotic story I call my life, and you have nothing to say?”

“Nothing.”

“All right. As you wish. But I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What sort of favor?”

“Forget what I told you. Immediately. I too want to forget. Promise?”

“Of course. I promise.”

She tried to kiss me; I gently pushed her away. “It’s frightfully hot,” I said.

She took her handkerchief and wiped my face. “Why don’t you talk to me? Are you afraid I won’t understand? Is that it? But that is precisely what I wish! Tell me anything, so long as I don’t understand! Just once in this rotten life I would like not to understand!”

A dense sadness was oppressing me. Barbara brought her face close to mine and I did not pull back. Her lips were on my cheek. I let her. She still smelled of whiskey. I thought: The first woman with whom I speak of love is a streetwalker, a drunken streetwalker who likes Jews because she doesn’t understand them. I didn’t understand myself.

“You’re sad. I know when a man is sad. Come, make love. It’s still the best remedy against feeling lonely, believe me, I know. Do you have any idea why sadness was given to man? So that women like me wouldn’t die of hunger.”

I saw myself with the eyes of my childhood and thought: You will not get away, not this time.

“Well? Are you coming? You won’t have to speak or listen. You’ll be free.”

I got up abruptly. “No, thank you, I don’t feel like it.”

It was false and true at the same time. I wanted her and was afraid that she might be aware of it.

“You really don’t want to? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

A grayish light was slowly tearing the sky. The city was
fighting its last battle against a flight of ravens—or were they vultures?—pushing it beyond the horizon. Soon it would be day.

I looked at the woman and held out my hand. “I must leave,” I said, hiding my agitation. “Take care.”

She hesitated but took my hand and held it tightly. “Goodbye, my little Jew. Where are you going now? Back to your woman, your girl friend?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Your parents?”

“Perhaps.”

A few seconds went by. I added: “They’re dead.”

A smile flickered across her face. “Well, I certainly don’t understand you. Thank you for that.”

We each went our separate ways; my head was lowered, she held hers high. I had walked only a few steps when I heard her call a last message: “I forgot something important: I can never have a child! Can you hear me? Never! Never! That is as important as the rest of my story!”

“Your story? What story?”

I shrugged my shoulders and went on my way through the morning mist. A drunken whore, that’s what she was, Barbara. Barbara? Was that even her name? Probably not. Marie, Suzanne, Elizabeth, Blanche, Emma, Marcelle. But not Barbara. She took that name so she could tell herself: “It’s not me walking the streets; it’s Barbara.” Who then had I spoken to?

In the following months I was careful to avoid that neighborhood. Then, one night, I felt a desire to see Barbara again. From a bench in the small square near Les Halles, I watched the
street, waiting for her to appear. She was gone; night, or perhaps her own never-to-be-told story, had recaptured her.

Another girl had taken her place. She came over to me and asked: “You are looking for somebody?”

“Yes,” I said. “Somebody.”

“But who?”

I waited before repeating: “Somebody.” I added: “A prophet.”

“My poor, poor boy. You just go right on looking; but I bet he’s up there. And he’s busy. Busy making love!”

Somewhere, far away: noisy streets, crowded with people strolling and laughing, with window-shoppers and policemen. And much ado. About nothing. Aimless shouting and calling. And quarreling. Just for the fun of it.

And I was going to get some rest here, the stranger thought, more amused than bitter.

He was sitting on the terrace of a sidewalk café, shielded from the sun, idly watching the passing cars and the pedestrians dodging them: Even so, I was right to come, nothing here concerns me.

Three days earlier he was still at home. In his house, with a woman both gentle and melancholy. And colleagues, some friendly, some envious. Smiles, flatteries and half-truths. Always the same questions, the same answers. The same burdens and the same alibis. Suddenly he felt like leaving it all. Without a word. Leave. For a few days. Or a few years. And breathe. And remain silent; remain silent at last. He jumped into a taxi. To the airport. The first plane out. Anywhere. Don’t look at me that way. Please. Yes, I’ll pay. Cash. Anywhere, I said. Hurry.

I was right to come, he thought. Here too I am a stranger. But it’s not the same.

2

The hours flew by. He wasn’t aware of time. Before, it had filled him with anguish. Time-conscious? More than that: time-obsessed. Not any more. He was living outside time. No clock, no obligations. No need to pretend being busy, entertained, interested, moved. He would get up and go to sleep whenever he chose. No one would ask: Where were you? Or: Whom did you see? Or: Why are you late? No one would try to make him forget or remember. He would be alone at dusk and still alone at dawn. Not like a prisoner in his cell; like a fugitive in the forest.

His home? He would forget it. His work? To hell with his work. And the woman? So as not to think about her, he began studying the faces around him. A pair of young lovers, isolated from the outside world. What seemed like a gang of thieves plotting. A baffled-looking man sporting a mustache. A woman. Why is she so worried? Let’s stop, and look again. Still young, in her twenties, perhaps older. Black hair, fiery eyes, sensual, obstinate lips. Probably waiting for someone, her husband, her lover perhaps. She seems impatient, preoccupied: yes, worried. She has consulted her wristwatch at least ten times. She starts to get up, only to sit down again. The stranger tries to catch her eye. In vain. He smiles at her; she does not respond. He leans toward her and asks her the time; she pretends not to hear.

I don’t feel rebuffed. It’s her privilege after all. She owes me nothing. Anyway, she distracts me from my thoughts. Isn’t that enough?

3

Now she was staring at him. Openly. Without false modesty. She smiled, and now she spoke: “You are not from around here, are you?”

“No. But you are.”

“Wrong.”

“Are you expecting someone? Someone special?”

“Of course. You.”

“Sorry I kept you waiting.”

She laughed in a strange way: her face was not smiling, neither were her eyes. Only her voice was gay.

“Please forgive my lack of manners,” he said. “I didn’t introduce myself properly.”

“Don’t bother. I detest names.”

“Any reason?”

“Names are irrelevant, irrational and deceptively personal. And harmful at that. Don’t they trouble you?”

“Sorry.” He smiled, blushing. “It’s too hot for philosophical discussions. Later perhaps? Over dinner?”

There was amusement in her eyes. “Philosophy and food don’t go together in this town. Thanks, anyway. And now I must leave. I have an appointment. Not with you.”

“But with some other nameless person like me?”

“Possibly. No, he’s not like you. You have a face; he has only a mask.”

They both got up.

“May I go with you?”

“I think it would be best if you didn’t.”

“He is jealous, is that it?”

She hesitated a moment, then went on: “After all, why not? Do come.”

She handed him a small suitcase he found rather heavy.

4

They walked awhile without speaking. They had left the main streets and were following a deserted side street. At the end of it loomed a dark, dismal building.

“What’s that down there?” asked the stranger.

“Government offices. Stay away from them.” And after a pause: “Our own people avoid them when possible.”

“Why?”

“Those inside are executioners or victims: police investigators or political prisoners. Would you want to be either?”

They took three more steps.

The young woman stopped. “We must part now. Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Excelsior.”

“Room?”

“483.”

“I’ll remember it … just in case.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Perhaps.”

He was about to insist.

She cut him short. “Go home,” she said, a note of impatience in her voice.

“All right. I’ll be expecting you—just in case.”

He gave her back her suitcase.

5

He returned to his hotel, went down for a sandwich, circled the main square a few times and went to bed.

A deafening explosion awakened him shortly after midnight. He ran to the window but could see nothing. A moment later there was a burst of gunfire. A machine gun crackled briefly and stopped. Then silence again, heavier than before.

Well, thought the stranger, I’ll go back to sleep. Let them shoot each other. It’s no concern of mine. Tomorrow I’ll find out what happened. There’s no hurry. This country is not mine, this incident has nothing to do with me. I know neither those doing the shooting nor those being shot at. I just happen to be here. I might easily have been elsewhere.

With the woman I left back home, for instance. Who would invariably be asking the same senseless questions: “What are you thinking about? Where are you? Why do you shut me out?”

To which he would be answering: “I’m not thinking about anything, really.”

And it would have gone on:

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s the trouble with us: even when you believed in me, you didn’t believe me.”