by Paul Auster
I have a bad feeling, she said. I don’t know why, but something tells me this is the end, that this is the last time I’ll ever see you.
Don’t say that, I answered. I live just a few blocks from here. You can come to my apartment anytime you want.
I’ll try, Adam. I’ll do my best, but don’t expect too much from me. I’m not as strong as you think I am.
I don’t understand.
Rudolf. Once he comes back, I think he’s going to throw me out.
If he does, you can move in with me.
And live with two college boys in a dirty apartment? I’m too old for that.
My roommate isn’t so bad. And the place is fairly clean, all things considered.
I hate this country. I hate everything about it except you, and you aren’t enough to keep me here. If Rudolf doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll pack up my things and go home to Paris.
You talk as if you want it to happen, as if you’re already planning to break it off yourself.
I don’t know. Maybe I am.
And what about me? Haven’t these days meant anything to you?
Of course they have. I’ve loved being with you, but we’ve run out of time now, and the moment you walk out of here, you’ll understand that you don’t need me anymore.
That’s not true.
Yes, it is. You just don’t know it yet.
What are you talking about?
Poor Adam. I’m not the answer. Not for you—probably not for anyone.
It was a dismal end to what had been such a momentous time for me, and I left the apartment feeling shattered, perplexed, and perhaps a little angry as well. For days afterward, I kept going over that final conversation, and the more I analyzed it, the less sense it made to me. On the one hand, Margot had teared up at the moment of my departure, confessing that she was afraid she would never see me again. That would suggest she wanted our fling to go on, but when I proposed that we begin meeting at my apartment, she had become hesitant, all but telling me it wouldn’t be possible. Why not? For no reason—except that she wasn’t as strong as I thought she was. I had no idea what that meant. Then she had started talking about Born, which quickly devolved into a muddle of contradictions and conflicting desires. She was worried that he was going to kick her out, but a second later that seemed to be exactly what she wanted. Even more, perhaps she was going to take the initiative and leave him herself. Nothing added up. She wanted me and didn’t want me. She wanted Born and didn’t want Born. Each word that came out of her mouth subverted what she had said a moment earlier, and in the end there was no way to know what she felt. Perhaps she didn’t know herself. That struck me as the most plausible explanation—Margot in distress, Margot pulled apart by equal and opposite forces—but after spending those five nights with her, I couldn’t help feeling hurt and abandoned. I tried to keep my spirits up—hoping she would call, hoping she would change her mind and come rushing back to me—but deep down I knew it was finished, that her fear of never seeing me again was in fact a prophecy, and that she was gone from my life for good.
Meanwhile, Born was back in New York, but a full week had gone by and I still hadn’t heard from him. The longer his silence went on, the more I realized how much I was dreading his call. Had Margot told him what she and I had been up to during his absence? Were the two of them still together, or was she already back in France? After three or four days, I found myself hoping that he had forgotten about me and that I would never have to see him again. There would be no magazine, of course, but I hardly cared about that now. I had betrayed him by sleeping with his girlfriend, and even if he had more or less encouraged me to do it, I wasn’t proud of what I had done—especially after Margot had told me that I didn’t need her anymore, which meant, I now understood, that she didn’t need me anymore. I had created a mess for myself, and coward that I probably was, I would have preferred to hide under my bed than have to face either one of them.
But Born hadn’t forgotten me. Just when I was beginning to think the story was over, he called early one evening and asked me to drop by his apartment for a chat. That was the word he used—chat—and I was amazed by how chipper he sounded on the phone, positively bursting with energy and good cheer.
Sorry for the delay, he said. A thousand pardons, Walker, but I’ve been busy, busy, juggling this and that, a thousand things, for which I beg a thousand pardons, but time is a-wasting, and the moment has come to sit down and talk business. I owe you a check for the first issue, and after we’ve had our little chat, I’ll take you out for dinner somewhere. It’s been a while, and I believe we have some catching up to do.
I didn’t want to go, but I went. Not without trepidation, not without a flutter of panic twitching in my stomach, but in the end I felt I had no choice. By some miracle, the magazine appeared to be alive, and if he wanted to talk to me about it, if he was in fact ready to start writing checks to support the cause, I didn’t see how I could turn down his invitation. I believe we have some catching up to do. Like it or not, I was about to find out if Born knew what had been going on behind his back—and, if he did know, exactly what he had done about it.
He was dressed in white again: the full suit, the shirt open at the collar, but clean and unrumpled this time, the perfect hidalgo. Freshly shaven, his hair combed, looking nattier and more pulled together than I had ever seen him. A warm smile when he opened the door, a firm shake of the hand as I entered the apartment, a friendly pat on the shoulder as he led me toward the liquor cabinet and asked me what I wanted to drink, but no Margot, no sign of her anywhere, and while that didn’t necessarily mean anything, I was beginning to suspect the worst. We sat down near the French windows overlooking the park, I on the sofa, he in a large chair opposite, facing each other across the coffee table, Born grinning with contentment, so pleased with himself, so terribly happy as he told me that his trip to Paris had been a resounding success and the knotty problem that had been bedeviling his colleagues was now untangled at last. Then, after a few desultory questions about my studies and the books I had been reading lately, he leaned back in his chair and said, apropos of nothing: I want to thank you, Walker. You’ve done me an important service.
Thank me? For what?
For showing me the light of truth. I feel greatly in your debt.
I still don’t know what you’re talking about.
Margot.
What about her?
She betrayed me.
How? I asked, trying to play dumb but feeling ridiculous, crumpling up with shame as Born continued to smile at me.
She slept with you.
She told you that?
Whatever her faults might be, Margot never lies. If I’m not mistaken, you spent five straight nights with her—right here in this apartment.
I’m sorry, I said, looking down at the floor, too embarrassed to meet Born’s gaze.
Don’t be sorry. I fairly pushed you into it, didn’t I? If I had been in your shoes, I probably would have done the same thing. It was obvious that Margot wanted to sleep with you. Why would a healthy young man turn down an opportunity like that?
If you wanted her to do it, then why do you feel betrayed?
Ah, but I didn’t want her to do it. I was only pretending.
And why would you pretend?
To test her loyalty, that’s why. And the tramp fell for the bait. Don’t worry, Walker. I’m well rid of her, and I have you to thank for getting her out the door.
Where is she now?
Paris, I presume.
Did you push her out, or did she leave because she wanted to?
That’s difficult to say. Probably a little of both. Let’s call it a separation by mutual consent.
Poor Margot . . .
A wonderful cook, a wonderful fuck, but at bottom just another mindless slut. Don’t feel sorry for her, Walker. She isn’t worth it.
Harsh words for someone who shared your life for two years.
Perhaps. As you’ve already not
iced, my mouth tends to run away from me at times. But facts are facts, and the fact is I’m not getting any younger. It’s time for me to think about marriage, and no sane man would consider marrying a girl like Margot.
Do you have someone in mind, or is that just a statement of future intentions?
I’m engaged. As of two weeks ago. Yet one more thing I accomplished on my trip to Paris. That’s why I’m in such a good mood tonight.
Congratulations. And when is the happy day?
It’s still not clear. There are complicated issues involved, and the wedding can’t take place until next spring at the earliest.
A pity to wait so long.
It can’t be helped. Technically, she’s still married to someone else, and we have to wait for the law to do its work. Not that it isn’t worth it. I’ve known this woman since I was your age, and she’s an exemplary person, the partner I’ve longed for all my life.
If you care about her so much, why have you been with Margot for the past two years?
Because I didn’t know I was in love with her until I saw her again in Paris.
Exit Margot, enter wife. Your bed won’t be empty for long, will it?
You underestimate me, young man. Much as I’d like to move in with her now, I’m going to hold off until we’re married. It’s a question of principle.
Chivalry in action.
That’s it. Chivalry in action.
Like our old friend from Périgord, the ever-gentle, peace-loving Bertran.
The mention of the poet’s name seemed to stop Born dead in his tracks. Merde! he said, thwacking his knee with the palm of his left hand, I almost forgot. I owe you money, don’t I? Sit tight while I look for my checks. I won’t be a minute.
With those words Born bounced out of his chair and began rushing toward the other end of the apartment. I stood up to stretch my legs, and by the time I reached the dining room table, which was no more than ten or twelve feet from the sofa, he had already returned. Brusquely pulling out a chair, he sat down, opened his checkbook, and started to write—using a speckled green fountain pen, I remember, with a thick nib and blue-black ink.
I’m giving you six thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars, he said. Five thousand to pay for the first issue, plus twelve fifty to cover a fourth of your annual salary. Take your time, Adam. If you can put the contents together by . . . let’s see . . . by the end of August or the beginning of September, that will be soon enough. I’ll be long gone by then, of course, but we can stay in contact through the post, and if something urgent comes up, you can call me and reverse the charges.
It was the largest check I had ever seen, and when he tore it out of the book and handed it to me, I looked down at the sum and felt dizzy with apprehension. Are you sure you want to go ahead with it? I asked. This is an awful lot of money, you know.
Of course I want to go ahead with it. We made a deal, and now it’s up to you to assemble the best first issue you possibly can.
But Margot’s out of the picture now. You’re under no obligation to her anymore.
What are you talking about?
It was Margot’s idea, remember? You gave me this job because of her.
Nonsense. It was my idea from the start. The only thing Margot ever wanted was to crawl into bed with you. She couldn’t have cared less about jobs or magazines or the precarious state of your future. If I told you she was the one who put me up to it, that was only because I didn’t want to embarrass you.
Why in the world would you do this for me?
To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. But I see something in you, Walker, something I like, and for some inexplicable reason I find myself willing to take a gamble on you. I’m betting that you’ll make a success of it. Prove me right.
It was a warm spring evening, a soft and beautiful evening with a cloudless sky overhead, the smell of flowers in the air, and no wind at all, not even the faintest hint of a breeze. Born was planning to take me to a Cuban restaurant on Broadway and 109th Street (the Ideal, a favorite spot of his), but as we walked westward across the Columbia campus, he proposed that we continue on past Broadway and head for Riverside Drive, where we could stop to look at the Hudson for a few moments, and then make our way downtown along the edge of the park. It was that kind of a night, he said, and since we weren’t in any rush, why not prolong the journey a bit and take advantage of the good weather? So we took our little stroll in the pleasant spring air, talking about the magazine, about the woman Born was planning to marry, about the trees and shrubs in Riverside Park, about the geological composition of the New Jersey Palisades across the river, and I remember that I felt happy, awash in a sense of well-being, and whatever misgivings I might have had about Born were beginning to melt away, or at least had been put in abeyance for now. He hadn’t blamed me for allowing myself to be seduced by Margot. He had just given me a check for an enormous amount of money. He wasn’t haranguing me with his warped political ideas. For once, he seemed to be relaxed and undefensive, and perhaps he really had fallen in love, perhaps his life was turning in a new and better direction, and for that one night, in any case, I was willing to give him every benefit of the doubt.
We crossed over to the eastern sidewalk of Riverside Drive and began walking downtown. Several streetlamps had burned out, and as we approached the corner of West 112th, we found ourselves entering a block-long stretch of murk and darkness. Night had fallen in earnest by then, and it was difficult to see anything more than a yard or two in front of us. I lit up a cigarette, and through the glow of the match burning near my mouth, I glimpsed the shadowy outline of a figure emerging from a blackened doorway. A second later, Born grabbed my arm and told me to stop. Just that one word: Stop. I let the match fall from my hand and tossed the cigarette into the gutter. The figure was coming toward us, unmistakably walking in our direction, and after a few more steps I saw that it was a black kid dressed in dark clothes. He was rather short, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen, but after another three or four steps, I finally understood why Born had grabbed my arm, finally saw what he had already seen. The kid was holding a gun in his left hand. The gun was pointed at us, and just like that, with a single tick of the clock, the entire universe had changed. The kid wasn’t a person anymore. He was that gun and nothing else, the nightmare gun that lived in every New Yorker’s imagination, the heartless, inhuman gun that was destined to find you alone one night on a darkened street and send you to an early grave. Fork it over. Empty your pockets. Shut up. A moment earlier, I had been on top of the world, and now, suddenly, I was more afraid than I had ever been in my life.
The kid stopped about two feet in front of us, pointed the gun at my chest, and said: Don’t move.
He was close enough now for me to see his face, and as far as I could tell he looked scared, not at all confident about what he was doing. How could I have known this? Perhaps it was something in his eyes, or perhaps I had detected a slight tremor in his lower lip—I can’t be sure. Fear made me blind, and whatever sense I had of him must have come to me through my pores, a subliminal osmosis, so to speak, knowledge without consciousness, but I was almost certain that he was a beginner, a novice thug out on his first or second job.
Born was standing to my left, and after a moment I heard him say: What do you want from us? There was a small quiver in his voice, but at least he had managed to speak, which was more than I was capable of doing just then.
Your money, the kid said. Your money and your watch. Both of you. Wallets first. And be quick about it. I ain’t got all night.
I reached into my pocket for my billfold, but Born unexpectedly chose to make a stand. A stupid move, I thought, an act of defiance that could wind up getting us both killed, but there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
And what if I don’t want to give you my money? he asked.
Then I’ll shoot you, mister, the kid said. I’ll shoot you and take your wallet anyway.
Born let out a long, histrionic sigh. You
’re going to regret this, little man, he said. Why don’t you just run along now and leave us alone?
Why don’t you just shut your fucking mouth and give me your wallet? the kid answered, thrusting the gun into the air a couple of times for emphasis.
As you wish, Born replied. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I was still looking at the kid, which meant that I had only a vague, peripheral view of Born, but at the last second I turned my head slightly to the left and saw him reach into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. I assumed he was going for his bill-fold, but when his hand emerged from the pocket it was bunched up into a fist, as if he was hiding something, concealing some object in his closed palm. I couldn’t begin to guess what that thing might have been. An instant later, I heard a click, and the blade of a knife jumped out of its sheath. With a hard, upward thrust, Born immediately stabbed the kid with the switchblade—straight in the stomach, a dead-center hit. The boy grunted as the steel tore through his flesh, grabbed his stomach with his right hand, and slowly sank to the ground.
Shit, man, he said. It ain’t even loaded.
The gun fell out of his hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. I could barely absorb what I was seeing. Too many things had happened in too short a time, and none of them seemed quite real anymore. Born swept up the gun and dropped it into the side pocket of his jacket. The kid was moaning now, clutching his stomach with both hands and writhing around on the pavement. It was too dark to make out much of anything, but after a few moments I thought I saw blood oozing onto the ground.
We have to get him to a hospital, I finally said. There’s a phone booth up on Broadway. You wait with him here and I’ll run to make the call.