The Zahir

I thought of changing tack and asking them what kind of funeral they would like--death was as big a taboo as money--but the atmosphere was so buoyant and everyone was so full of talk that I decided to say nothing.

"You're all talking about money, but you don't know what money is," said the banker. "Why do people think that a bit of colored paper, a plastic card, or a coin made out of fifth-rate metal has any value? Worse still, did you know that your money, your millions of dollars, are nothing but electronic impulses?"

Of course we did.

"Once, wealth was what these ladies are wearing," he went on. "Ornaments made from rare materials that were easy to transport, count, and share out. Pearls, nuggets of gold, precious stones. We all carried our wealth in a visible place. Such things were, in turn, exchanged for cattle or grain, because no one walks down the street carrying cattle or sacks of grain. The funny thing is that we still behave like some primitive tribe--we wear our ornaments to show how rich we are, even though we often have more ornaments than money."

"It's the tribal code," I said. "In my day, young people wore their hair long, whereas nowadays they all go in for body piercing. It helps them identify like-minded people, even though it can't buy anything."

"Can our electronic impulses buy one extra hour of life? No. Can they buy back those loved ones who have departed? No. Can they buy love?"

"They can certainly buy love," said the director of the car-manufacturing firm in an amused tone of voice.

Her eyes, however, betrayed a terrible sadness. I thought of Esther and of what I had said to the journalist in the interview I had given that morning. We rich, powerful, intelligent people knew that, deep down, we had acquired all these ornaments and credit cards only in order to find love and affection and to be with someone who loved us.

"Not always," said the director of the perfumery, turning to look at me.

"No, you're right, not always. After all, my wife left me, and I'm a wealthy man. But almost always. By the way, does anyone at this table know how many cats and how many lampposts there are on the back of a ten-dollar bill?"

No one knew and no one was interested. The comment about love had completely spoiled the jolly atmosphere, and we went back to talking about literary prizes, exhibitions, the latest film, and the play that was proving to be such an unexpected success.

How was it on your table?"

"Oh, the usual."

"Well, I managed to spark an interesting discussion about money, but, alas, it ended in tragedy."

"When do you leave?"

"I have to leave here at half past seven in the morning. Since you're flying to Berlin, we could share a taxi."

"Where are you going?"

"You know where I'm going. You haven't asked me, but you know."

"Yes, I know."

"Just as you know that we're saying goodbye at this very moment."

"We could go back to the time when we first met: a man in emotional tatters over someone who had left him, and a woman madly in love with her neighbor. I could repeat what I said to you once: 'I'm going to fight to the bitter end.' Well, I fought and I lost, and now I'll just have to lick my wounds and leave."

"I fought and lost as well. I'm not trying to sew up what was rent. Like you, I want to fight to the bitter end."

"I suffer every day, did you know that? I've been suffering for months now, trying to show you how much I love you, how things are only important when you're by my side. But now, whether I suffer or not, I've decided that enough is enough. It's over. I'm tired.

After that night in Zagreb, I lowered my guard and said to myself: If the blow comes, it comes. It can lay me out on the canvas, it can knock me out cold, but one day I'll recover."

"You'll find someone else."

"Of course I will: I'm young, pretty, intelligent, desirable, but will I experience all the things I experienced with you?"

"You'll experience different emotions and, you know, although you may not believe it, I loved you while we were together."

"I'm sure you did, but that doesn't make it any the less painful. We'll leave in separate taxis tomorrow. I hate goodbyes, especially at airports or train stations."

THE RETURN TO ITHACA

We'll sleep here tonight and, tomorrow, we'll continue on horseback. My car can't cope with the sand of the steppes."