The Age of Reinvention (17 page)

“During lunch, he told me how happy he was to have appointed such a highly qualified lawyer to his firm, and I began to feel scared. I wondered what would happen if I admitted that I'd been hired on a misunderstanding; that I was actually Muslim, not Jewish, as he believed—and, perhaps, as he wanted. But I needed that job, so I persuaded myself I would tell him the truth later, after a few months of experience, or I would leave his firm one day without ever having had to confess. You can imagine what happened next: I never managed to tell him. And I have stayed with that firm for my entire career. Working with a man like that—a man as experienced and cultivated as that—was everything a young lawyer like me could hope for. Not only was Pierre a good lawyer, he was also a generous man, an attentive friend, the kind of guy who comes to pick you up from the airport in the middle of the night just for the pleasure of seeing you again, without even having to ask him, the kind of guy who would never leave you the check in a restaurant—he never even lets you see it—who will transfer you money immediately if you show even the slightest need of it, without demanding to know what you need it for or why you can't cover the sum yourself, without ever suggesting to you that you owe him, the kind of guy who will stand surety for you if you ask him and, most importantly, if he likes you, because that's just how he is: a kindhearted, sincere person. If he likes you, he'll give you everything he has—and if he doesn't have it, he'll arrange for you to get it. You think I'm joking? What I'm trying to say is that there aren't many guys like him in the world. I couldn't take the risk of damaging a friendship like that. I felt worse and worse about it, and I decided I would tell him everything when I set up on my own. In the meantime, I thought about legally changing my first name. I made inquiries. I started thinking about it, and that was when Samuel came to mind. I never expected to see Baron again. ‘Samuel?' It was a good choice. Everyone would call me ‘Sam.' I would have preferred a more elegant name, like Edouard or Paul or Adrien, but I figured that would sound ridiculous: a French first name next to my Arab-sounding surname. It would attract attention, people would ask questions—and that was the last thing I wanted. Sam was good; it was neutral. In fact, most people call me Sami. A few months later, I officially changed my name to Samuel Tahar. Lévy wanted to create a branch of the firm in New York, so he asked me to go there for three years, on behalf of the firm. I passed the bar exam and moved there permanently. When I say it like that, it sounds very simple, but it was actually one of the most difficult periods of my life. I was on my own, I wasn't earning much money yet, I didn't feel I belonged anywhere, I didn't know anyone, and even the people and places that fascinated me—all those groups where the most influential New York intellectuals gather, not only lawyers but journalists and writers—I didn't dare approach them for fear of being rejected. You can imagine how I felt on my graduation day, all alone. I hadn't told my mother about it, of course, because I didn't want her to turn up: I had drawn a line under my past. So while all the other students were accompanied by their parents, I received my diploma in the most absolute solitude. I had to give some reason for this, so that's when I thought about using Samuel's personal history—his parents' death. When I heard my name announced that day and walked, alone, toward the stage, I had to fight hard not to collapse. That day, I realized the true consequences of my lie: the knowledge that I would never share my life with anyone. In sadness and in happiness, in sickness and in health, I would always be alone.

“As for what happened after that, it was a simple exercise in mimicry. I began to hang around with a new group of friends—mostly bourgeois Jews who welcomed me like a brother. I had a good instinct, a sort of talent for socializing. And I think I made them laugh. For five years, I had read every political biography that had been published, every major interview. I used all this—and my imagination—to tell stories. Everyone would invite me to their dinner parties: I knew how to be scathing when the situation merited it; I could be cruel too, and they loved that. My transgressive tastes, the freedom with which I spoke my mind—that was a source of fascination in those corseted circles. I knew all the codes: I'd assimilated them, just by watching other people and learning. I was like a chameleon—I adapted to whatever background you set me against. I could even get into people's heads when I talked to them: I would mimic their tics, adopt their systems of thought. When I began getting invited to a higher social sphere, I took classes with a maître d' who I'd met during a business trip in Paris. I thought:
Why not? No one knows me. I want to learn
. So he taught me how to hold my silverware, how to sit at a table—all those social proprieties I had never properly learned before. On my thirtieth birthday, I spent a week in Burgundy studying oenology, after which I was capable of distinguishing between wines and evaluating which was better. Later still, I learned about music. I had felt humiliated one evening when, having been invited to the opera by a few colleagues, I'd spent the whole night with my mouth shut—I wasn't even capable of bluffing my way through, because I knew absolutely nothing about classical music. It was not the kind of thing you learned about in the ghetto. The day after this debacle, I went to a record store. It was perfect—they had Bach, Chopin, Mozart, Dvorak—and I told the sales assistant not to leave out anyone important. On my way out, I bought a season ticket for the New York Opera, and that was a revelation. I never managed to enjoy the theater in the same way, though—I would always get bored. I gave up after falling asleep while watching a play by a Polish author in the original language, with subtitles. I would just confess to everyone: ‘You know, I've never really liked the theater.' So, you see, I was a self-made man. Through sheer force of will and hard work, I invented myself. It may have been built on a lie, but the success I built is still all my own.
I
made those life choices,
I
made those career plans,
I
made those decisions! I never wanted to suffer again, in any way. Which explains why I was never able to really connect with many people. Complicity, friendship—sooner or later, it always involves revealing things, confiding secrets, and that was something I could not allow myself. I always keep people at a distance. You know something strange? I almost called you
vous
when you phoned me! Easy familiarity is something that immediately places people at the bottom of the social ladder. But in the U.S., there is no
tu
and
vous
, so you have to create distance in a different way: a cold look, a strong handshake, a scowl instead of a smile . . . these things create a balance of power, a tension—and I liked that. The only people I ever trusted enough to confide in were my partners at the firm. But even with them, I never dared tell the truth. Do you understand what I'm saying, Nina? I'm trapped.”

There is a question she's dying to ask him. But she hesitates, out of fear she will hurt him, before finally phrasing it: “Didn't people ever think you were an Arab? I mean, I look at you and I can tell right away that you're North African . . .”

“Of course they did, yeah. I had to justify myself. But I didn't have that problem with Jews because they just saw me as a French Sephardic Jew. My skin is dark, I've got a hooked nose—I fit the type, basically. But yeah, non-Jews thought I was an Arab all the time.”

“Did that cause you problems?”

“Not until September eleventh, not really. In the U.S., there's the whole melting-pot thing where people don't really look at each other that way. But after the Twin Towers attack, yeah. It was terrible . . . Even that day, while I was still traumatized—I had several friends who worked in the World Trade Center, at Cantor Fitzgerald—anyway, I was walking the streets of New York, in shock . . . I felt like screaming but I couldn't even speak. And yet I really wanted to call my mother to let her know I was okay—I'd told her I was living in New York, although that's pretty much all I'd told her about my life. All the lines were busy that day—it was hard for people to contact their loved ones, which only added to the anxiety. It was so terrible. You can't imagine, really. I'm trembling now, just remembering it. But anyhow, I was lucky: I got through to my mother right away. And I was so emotional, hearing her voice, that without even realizing it, I started speaking to her in Arabic . . . I probably only spoke for a few seconds before I looked up and saw the looks of hatred on the faces of people around me. Suddenly I had become an enemy, a pariah. After that, I went through a very tough time: I was constantly stopped by police, especially in airports, and asked if I was a Muslim, if I was an Arab. And, each time, I would lie, and I would hate myself for it: I'd say I wasn't an Arab Muslim, and sometimes I would even go further, like on one trip to Israel, by saying,
No, I'm a Jew
. Everywhere I went, I heard awful things: that the Muslims could never be assimilated, that sooner or later they would all become dangerous Islamists. That they could only live in dictatorships because they needed to be dominated. That they all looked the same. That they should be sent away, cleansed from American society. That they should never be trusted. I heard some incredibly violent and racist things. And what was worst was that, quite often, I found myself nodding in agreement! One day, when we were dealing with a case involving a Turkish doctor, my partner said something about how you could never trust an Arab, and I smiled. I smiled! Was I ashamed? Of course I was. But what else could I do? I was like one of those guys who pretend to be homophobic to cover up the fact that they're actually gay! But at the same time, my opinions were not too different from all those people expressing their anger and their fear. I felt sickened by what had happened. What common destiny could I possibly share with the bastards who had done that? Their version of Islam was nothing like mine. But I also heard terrible things from the other side. Once or twice, for instance, I found myself near a group of Arab Muslims who didn't know I could understand what they were saying, and they all seemed to believe that the September eleventh attacks were incited by Israeli secret services with the aim of justifying an American attack, that the Jews knew about it beforehand, that none of the victims in the Twin Towers had been Jewish . . . there were conspiracy theories everywhere! And, hearing that kind of disgusting anti-Semitism, I wanted to smash their lying faces . . . but I didn't, of course. I listened impassively as they spewed forth their hatred, revealing the horrors of their obscene imaginations as if they were just passing the time of day . . . So, yeah, let's say that I never really felt like I belonged to either side. I was alone.”

Nina sits up. Suddenly feeling emotional, she decides that she wants him to know about the sadness in her and Samuel's life together: the genesis of their failure, their disillusionment. “I told you that Samuel was a social worker in a troubled area. A little while ago—three or four years—he began hearing anti-Semitic remarks. It began subtly, quietly, then it became more openly threatening. One morning he arrived and saw graffiti on the wall of the charity where he works: ‘filthy Jew' and that kind of thing. He asked to be transferred to another city and they advised him not to admit that he was Jewish. Can you believe it? They told him to change his first name or to go by ‘Sam.' In the end, he chose his father's name, Jacques. He's afraid of reprisals, so he doesn't dare say anything.” “I don't like it when you're so serious,” Samir says abruptly. He doesn't want to admit it, but he is moved, and in such moments of emotion, the only language he knows is sex.
Come here—you talk too much
. And he pulls her to him and takes her. She stops talking; closes her eyes and moans softly. The truth? What truth? Sex is all he has ever known. He is brutal, fiery, sensual, but also affectionate, demonstrative, passionate. Everything about him betrays his urgency, and no sooner have they finished making love than he is telling her it is time to go. He wants to be alone now.
It's late—I'll call you a cab
. For a moment, she had imagined she would spend the night with him, maybe even three or four days; that he would take her far away from the dreary pathos of her life . . . but no, he's tired, jet-lagged, he has calls to make. She is still half naked, her body wrapped in a too-small towel, her skin afire. He says:
Get dressed
, and she gets dressed. She doesn't feel angry or annoyed; she is not aggressively demanding with him. There is an attraction between them, maybe even a complicity, but beyond that their relationship is so complex that she doesn't understand it, and she is not the kind of woman to analyze such things, to dissect his words and behavior in the hope of understanding his feelings for her. For a man like Samir, used to having to explain himself to his wife, to other women, this is perfect. He doesn't want to be possessed. Watching her walk toward the door without making any gestures of affection or displaying any signs of discontent—her face as smooth and blank as a robot's—he thinks:
You behave like a man
. He says he would like to see her again, touching her cheek, stroking her thighs through the soft fabric of her dress, and she doesn't reply. This drives him crazy.
Tell me you want to see me again—tell me!
She laughs, and leaves without a word. When he's alone again, he walks to the bed and grabs his phone: his wife has left him several messages; she wants to know how he is, to find out if he's lonely without her. Yes, she misses him. She says this twice, then adds: “I wish I was in Paris with you now. If I could, I'd take the first plane out there.” Her obsessive, unconditional love for Samir. The way she still looks at him, ten years after they first met, as if she has just fallen in love with him for the first time—and there is nothing fake or calculated about it. She is not one of those women who like to appear passionately in love when people are watching, simpering in their beloved's arms, their lips bubbling with sweet nothings and ridiculous nicknames. No, she is like that
all the time
. With him, she loses all the strength and haughtiness that characterizes her presence in society. With him, she feels vulnerable. Does she know that he cheats on her? Does she suspect? There is a kind of neurotic resistance in this love-blinded woman's refusal to see the truth, given up completely to the desires of her chosen man; this woman who rules the social world like a queen, but who in private disappears into the shadows. She knows she is important to him, though, and this ambiguous relationship—so puzzling even to their closest friends—is the only way they can function together. She questions him, practically interrogates him, and Samir offers no reassurance at all. Because the truth is that this little game excites them both: she is completely dependent on him and, deep down, she likes it.