The Zahir

I didn't know what to say. I tried to talk about something else and asked about the people in the living room.

"They're people who are afraid of ending up like your generation, a generation that dreamed it could revolutionize the world, but ended up giving in to 'reality.' We pretend to be strong because we're weak. There are still only a few of us, very few, but I think that's only a passing phase; people can't go on deceiving themselves forever. Now what's your answer to my question?"

"Mikhail, you know how much I want to free myself from my personal history. If you had asked me a while ago, I would have found it much more comfortable, more convenient even, to travel with you, since you know the country, the customs, and the possible dangers. Now, though, I feel that I should roll up Ariadne's thread into a ball and escape from the labyrinth I got myself into, and that I should do this alone. My life has changed; I feel as if I were ten or even twenty years younger, and that in itself is enough for me to want to set off in search of adventure."

"When will you leave?"

"As soon as I get my visa. In two or three days' time."

"May the Lady go with you. The voice is saying that it is the right moment. If you change your mind, let me know."

I walked past the group of people lying on the floor, ready to go to sleep. On the way home, it occurred to me that life was a much more joyful thing than I had thought it would be at my age: it's always possible to go back to being young and crazy again. I was so focused on the present moment that I was surprised when I saw that people didn't recoil from me as I passed, didn't fearfully lower their eyes. No one even noticed me, but I liked the idea. This city was once again the city about which Henry IV had said, when he was accused of betraying his Protestant religion by marrying a Catholic, "Paris is well worth a mass."

It was worth much more than that. I could see again the religious massacres, the bloodlettings, the kings, the queens, the museums, the castles, the tortured artists, the drunken writers, the philosophers who took their own lives, the soldiers who plotted to conquer the world, the traitors who, with a gesture, brought down a whole dynasty, the stories that had once been forgotten and were now remembered and retold.

For the first time in ages, I arrived home and did not immediately go over to the computer to find out if anyone had e-mailed me, if there was some pressing matter requiring urgent action: nothing was that urgent. I didn't go into the bedroom to see if Marie was asleep either, because I knew she would only be pretending to sleep.

I didn't turn on the TV to watch the late-night news, because the news was exactly the same news I used to listen to as a child: one country was threatening another country; someone had betrayed someone else; the economy was going badly; some grand passion had come to an end; Israel and Palestine had failed, after fifty long years, to reach an agreement; another bomb had exploded; a hurricane had left thousands of people homeless.

I remembered that the major networks that morning, having no terrorist attacks to report, had all chosen as their main item a rebellion in Haiti. What did I care about Haiti? What difference would that make to my life or to that of my wife, to the price of bread in Paris, to Mikhail's tribe? How could I have spent five minutes of my precious life listening to someone talking about the rebels and the president, watching the usual scenes of street protests being repeated over and over, and being reported as if it were a great event in the history of humanity--a rebellion in Haiti! And I had swallowed it whole! I had watched until the end! Stupid people really should be issued their own special identity cards because they are the ones who feed the collective stupidity.

I opened the window and let in the icy night air. I took off my clothes and told myself that I could withstand the cold. I stood there, not thinking anything, just aware of my feet on the floor, my eyes fixed on the Eiffel Tower, my ears hearing barking dogs, police sirens, and conversations I couldn't quite understand.

I was not I, I was nothing--and that seemed to me quite marvelous.

You seem strange."

"What do you mean 'strange'?"

"You seem sad."

"I'm not sad. I'm happy."

"You see? Even your tone of voice is false: you're sad about me, but you don't dare say anything."

"Why should I be sad?"

"Because I came home late last night and I was drunk. You haven't even asked me where I went."

"I'm not interested."

"Why aren't you interested? I told you I was going out with Mikhail, didn't I?"

"Didn't you go out with him, then?"

"Yes, I did."

"So what's there to ask?"

"Don't you think that when your boyfriend, whom you claim you love, comes home late, you should at least try to find out what happened?"

"All right, then, what happened?"

"Nothing. I went out with Mikhail and some of his friends."

"Fine."

"Do you believe me?"