Still With Me

In this outpouring of emotion, which seemed like something acted out by two strangers, only three pieces of information concerned Jeremy directly. Victoria hadn’t started over. She didn’t want to. Not yet. He didn’t know if the comfort he took from that news was honorable, but it certainly was real.

The fact that Clotilde had become his accomplice, ready to destroy Victoria and the kids, represented a problem he’d have to deal with as soon as he had fully regained his ability to think.

But for the moment, he was stuck on an image, a few words that had sucked the life out of all the others. Thomas had had his bar mitzvah. He had turned thirteen years old, and according to religious law, he had become an adult. Even if Jeremy had never practiced his religion, he still considered the ceremony an essential rite of passage, a unique moment in the life of a young man. His own had meant so much to him. He remembered feeling like he was entering the adult world on that day.

Jeremy imagined Thomas twisting the straps of his tefillin around his arm. He visualized the proud look on his mother’s face and the envious, anxious look of Thomas’s brother, who would be counting the days between now and his turn on stage. Jeremy saw everything clearly, even if, in the hallucinatory scenes, Thomas still had the face of a seven-year-old boy. A single element was missing, enough to ruin the appeal of the image. He had deprived his loved ones of total happiness. He hadn’t been there to share with Victoria the happiness of feeling a decisive step in their lives together go by. Those moments had been stolen, replaced by a great loss. Then he thought of how Simon was approaching his thirteenth birthday. He, too, was getting ready for his bar mitzvah. And Jeremy, his father, wouldn’t be there. More than anything, the moments he missed were what excluded him from reality.

Jeremy wanted to give in to his pain, to cry there in his cell. He wanted to throw himself against the walls until he lost consciousness. He searched for more images, other emotions capable of loosening his throat so his tears could escape. But he was paralyzed, unable to express his pain. His life was slowly fading, and he didn’t have the energy left to give voice to his despair.

The man he’d eaten breakfast with was his cellmate, Vladimir Bernikoff. He was Russian. When Vladimir came back, he gave Jeremy an update. The gym was the only place where they could eliminate Stako’s brother, Jeff. And the best day to do it was Wednesday. On that day, Jeff would only be accompanied by one of his men; the others would be busy selling the merchandise they managed to smuggle inside. Jeremy was happy he didn’t have to choose between a confrontation with this enemy and a difficult conversation with his roommate. He didn’t understand how the other Jeremy could’ve made such a decision. Whatever happened tomorrow, he’d have to deal with it.

The guard with the moustache came back to his cell at four o’clock. “Parley,” he announced with a wink.

Jeremy thanked him with a tilt of the head. Vladimir shot Jeremy a questioning look, surprised by this visit he’d heard nothing about.

After the guard closed the door behind Jeremy, he said, “It wasn’t easy, I can tell you that. But you’re in luck. I found him pretty quick. But when I explained the request, he wasn’t very happy. He didn’t understand what you wanted. I appealed to his Christian charity…I mean, his religious charity, or whatever, and I told him it was urgent and I couldn’t explain. He gave in. He remembered you well enough.”

Jeremy felt feverish with excitement and anxiety. This rendezvous was his last hope.

Another guard took charge of him as he was guided down long corridors shining with steel and shimmering with boredom. They brought him to a room filled with inmates standing in line single file. Some of them greeted him with a slight nod, others peered into his eyes as if measuring him up, and others avoided his gaze entirely.

He was called quickly.

They pointed him to a booth. He sat and waited ten or twenty seconds, eyes on a glass panel where the reflections were too weak for him to make out what he looked like. He thought he could see dark circles under his eyes. He was studying this vague image when a bearded face appeared in front of him. Two dark, lively eyes watched him with a mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and polished professionalism. This was definitely the man he’d tried to reason with outside the synagogue.

Because Jeremy hadn’t reacted, the gabbai greeted him. “Hello…I’m Abraham Chrikovitch. You…called me…”

“And I thank you for coming so quickly.”

“It’s fine. I was a little surprised.”

“You remember me?” Jeremy asked.

“I have a very—how would you say—particular memory of our encounter. You seemed so…unhappy. So distraught. I’m the one who called the police, and when I found out you admitted to having

drugs at your house, I felt…guilty. I thought maybe you came to talk, to confide in us and find a solution for getting out of a bad situation. It bothered me terribly. But you were so disturbed. I couldn’t let you get near the rabbi. In these turbulent times, we have to take certain precautions. And when I said as much at your trial, I don’t think that did you any service.”

“I’m going to ease your conscience,” said Jeremy. “I didn’t come for that. I gave myself up willingly. I went to see the rabbi for another reason. And it’s the same reason I called you here today.”

The gabbai smiled, relieved that there would be no argument about that infamous night, before growing serious again. “But if you’re here of your own will, why did you plead not guilty at your trial? I don’t understand.”

“Maybe you can help me answer that question. I warn you, my story will probably sound strange. I’m asking you to abandon all reason, to listen to me and respond only with your instincts and religious understanding.”

“My reason is the fruit of my religious understanding. I’m listening.” Frowning, the gabbai leaned closer to the window, gently rubbing his hands together before placing them over his mouth and concentrating on the lips of this strange man.

Jeremy told his story with precision. For him, it had taken place over the last few days, and every detail still had the sharp edge of recent events. Emotions still vibrated at the surface of his skin. Confusion undermined many of his words, and at times he couldn’t build a clear narrative. But Abraham Chrikovitch’s attention motivated him to go on. Occasionally the man’s eyes wandered into the distance, as if to pin down a specific point in his thought process, before they settled back on Jeremy’s face.

When he finished, Jeremy relaxed, sighed, and returned Abraham Chrikovitch’s gaze. The gabbai remained motionless, as if he hadn’t realized Jeremy was done talking. Then he sat up, pursed his lips, and seemed to grope for words.

“Why did you call me?” he said finally.

Jeremy had hoped for an opinion, not a question. “You’re the only religious person I know.”

“I mean, why seek out a religious person?”

“Because I think human logic can’t answer my questions.”

“You’re comparing logic to faith?”