by Karine Tuil
* * *
You’re a good son and, I hope, A GOOD MUSLIM.
* * *
Why did he think about that phrase as he entered the club where the party was being held? Why now? It was his birthday they were celebrating, not a Jewish festival. They weren’t going to play klezmer music or carry him in on a chair, then throw him in the air and shout, “Mazel tov!” It was not even something he had to think about: Judaism is just a minor detail in my life. So why was it all he could think about right now? Why did he suddenly feel hot? He was sweating—his shirt was damp. (And it was not just any old shirt: it was a shirt that cost more than $300, made of the finest and most loose-woven fabric, now so soaked with perspiration that it was sticking to his skin, and an image of his father filled his mind, haunted him: his father coming home from work, his cheap shirt stained with yellow halos in the armpits, stinking up every room he entered with the acrid stench of sweat—an odor he associated inextricably with poverty.) He was sweating like a pig! It was anxiety. Because, deep down, he knew—he had always known, from the very first day—that Judaism was not just a minor detail in his life: it was his life. Everyone looked at him and saw a Jew. His partners were Jews, his wife was a Jew, his children would be Jews. Most of his friends were Jews. His parents-in-law were not only Jews but practicing Jews, Orthodox Jews. They stopped work at dusk every Friday until nightfall on Saturday. They consulted rabbis the way some people consult fortune-tellers, to find out what decision to take, what attitude to adopt. They obeyed at least 400 of the 613 commandments. They often went to Israel, to Jerusalem, to pray before the Wailing Wall, to pray and write down their wishes on a piece of paper that they slipped into one of the wall’s burning cracks. The only time he went to Jerusalem with his father-in-law (one year after he met Ruth: they were not yet married, or even engaged) was his first family trip. It was also an ordeal: he lost a liter of water, waiting in line at customs in Israel, literally liquefied by the fear of being unmasked in front of Ruth and her father. On that occasion by the Wailing Wall, he managed to pilfer the little piece of paper that Berg had slipped into a crack and, after waiting until he was alone, read these words: “Oh Lord, my God, King of the Universe, I ask of you:
“Wish number 1: To protect my family and ensure them good health.
“Wish number 2: To help me keep what I have acquired.
“Wish number 3: That my daughter breaks up with Sam TAHAR.”
Berg had three wishes—three wishes that he could be fairly certain would be granted if he had faith (that was what he believed); he had only a tiny piece of paper and a few minutes to write those wishes; he had to be brief, concise. And yet somehow he felt it necessary to ask God that his daughter should break up with “Sam Tahar.” He didn’t write: Lord, cure my mother (who, at the time, had metastatic liver cancer), or Lord, give my little sister a healthy baby (she was three months pregnant, and one of her blood tests had required an amniocentesis) . . . No, kneeling before the wall of stones baked white-hot by the sun, amid one of the most dazzling landscapes in the world, one of those places that are so stunningly beautiful that it is impossible to witness them without being moved to tears, without being assailed by questions of existence, all he could think to wish for was the disappearance of his daughter’s boyfriend from her life. What did he even know about that man? Nothing, or very little anyway. Don’t imagine that Rahm Berg agreed to give his daughter’s hand in marriage without proof. Tahar claimed he didn’t have his parents’ religious marriage certificate: “They must have lost it, and the consistory archives were destroyed in a fire.” He had no family. How could he be believed? Berg didn’t like this: either you were a Jew or you weren’t. Why should he take this man’s word? It was worthless. His first name was in his favor, admittedly: Sam was the diminutive of Samuel, wasn’t it? As for “Sami,” as most of his friends called him, it meant: “His name is God.” So, yeah, there was nothing wrong with his first name. But his surname was a little suspect, wasn’t it? Tahar . . . Rahm Berg hired a student specialized in genealogy to investigate, and these were his findings: “Arab family name sometimes belonging to Sephardic Jews. Corresponds to the Arabic word (but also the Hebrew word, which is identical) Tahir, he who is pure, upstanding, virtuous, honest.” “That’s me!” said Sam. Tahar the Pure—Berman had to laugh at that. It was a prophet’s name, biblically inspired. And it was true that he looked honest, with his beautiful North African Jewish face, his black and shining hair, which he often wore slicked back like a Camorra godfather, his olive skin, his slightly hooked nose, and his piercing soot-black eyes, heavy-lidded and long-lashed—a dark and handsome man, nothing at all like the Bergs, who were Ashkenazi Jews, pale-skinned, blond, or redheaded, having to wear SPF 60 sunscreen protection every day, and a baseball cap, and sunglasses. That Arab! The idea that he was Sephardic bothered them, he knew; perhaps it even disgusted them. Come on, let’s be honest—he’s not like Us. (He’s less virtuous than Us, less civilized, less upright, less astute than Us.) All they saw when they looked at him was an Arab Jew—and for the Bergs, for the snobbiest branch of the family, who aspired to pure aristocratic status, this was horrifying. While it was true that he was refined, educated, cultivated, he was also too exuberant, too solar, too tanned. Where they whispered, he brayed; where they frowned, he laughed; where they were deep, he was shallow. He wasn’t like them. And that foreign-sounding surname, “Tahar,” offended their ears. “Tahar” was a downgrade, a stain. And, in fact, one of the first things Ruth’s father ever told him was: “My grandchildren will be Bergs.” He had said it somewhat abruptly, to make it clear how matters stood right from the start, to assert his authority. His roof, his rules. Tahar had frozen. How could he justify such a humiliation, such a rout? What class reflex made him believe he could get away with this, without provoking anger, a backlash? “It’s all right, take it easy . . . Come over here.” His gestures were paternal; he looked as if he were about to take Tahar in his arms. He had something to tell him, something he had never told anyone before. Rahm Berg knew the power of emotion. He knew how to make people bend to his will. He didn’t say: I don’t want my descendants to have a North African surname. He didn’t say: It would be more advantageous, given my reputation and status and political and economic influence, for my lineage to have the same name as me. He didn’t say: It’s a useful, socially powerful, door-opening name that could advance your career by ten to fifteen years. He didn’t talk about himself at all. On the contrary, he was self-effacing. Looking sincere (and he probably was), he said, in a voice strangled not by tears but by a sort of suppressed rage, that almost all of his family had been exterminated during the war: “The name of Berg is becoming extinct. The Nazis exterminated my name. And my daughter is the last Berg, for I have no sons.” That day, Tahar felt profoundly moved. So that was why he agreed to let his children be named Berg and to renounce forever the name of his own father. But still, whenever he read his children’s names on their schoolbooks—LUCAS BERG, 5, and LISA BERG, 3—he felt his heart contract. Even physically, he had passed on nothing to them: with their pale skin and chestnut hair, both children resembled their mother.
* * *
His father-in-law had also tested his knowledge of Judaism—but he could have no complaints there: Tahar knew the essentials. He’d been well educated by Samuel, and simply from spending so much time with his partners, he was able to give the approximate Shabbat hours. He was a very clever parrot. He also knew how to ask the right questions. They gave him the honor of leading the Passover Seder. True, he didn’t speak Hebrew, so his reading was phonetic, and with a strong French accent, which made everyone laugh. But one evening, when the whole family was gathered together and Ruth’s mother coldly asked Samir to laugh less loudly, Ruth whispered, half joking and half serious: “Don’t be mad, Sami. To them, you’re an Arab.” He glared at her. He would have liked to tell her, there and then, in front of her entire family: That’s what I am. An Arab—a real Arab. The son of Abdelka
der Tahar, who was the son of Mohammed Tahar, blacksmith, and Fatima Ouali, seamstress. So go fuck yourselves!
* * *
His father was another wound. A deep and throbbing wound, one that cut to the bone. Abdelkader Tahar was thirty years old when he met the woman who would become his wife—Nawel Yahyaoui, from Oulad el Houra, in the center of the Kef Governorate in Tunisia. His father, Mohammed Tahar, arranged the meeting. He liked her: virtuous/upstanding/pure; two long braids encircling a soft-featured face; skin the color of sand and downy like an apricot . . . he had never seen anything like her. She was the one for him, he sensed it, knew it, and—without asking her opinion (why bother?)—he married her. Together, they migrated to France in the early sixties: they’d heard there was work there. Ten years employed at the saltworks in Varangéville, working like crazy . . . it wore him out. And then some luck. A friend who worked as a chauffeur for a businessman was off for a month, and Abdelkader replaced him. It was a dream: a door opened, he entered. Day and night he had to schlep around the spoiled kids of a Saudi family, from Place Vendôme to the most notorious quarter in Paris, where they would find girls and drugs; Abdelkader waited for them, loaded the car for them, and the tips they left him were huge. It didn’t last, though: they went back to Dubai, and Abdelkader got a job working for a rich and powerful boss.13 Nawel Tahar worked in a school cafeteria—the children loved that. In 1967, Samir was born: a little dark-haired baby with shining eyes like black diamonds—and what a personality! “He used to kick me like he was trying to get out.” But, although no one could pinpoint why, Nawel was unable to become pregnant again. Three years later, Abdelkader’s employer moved to London and asked his chauffeur to follow him. They stayed there for five years. They moved to a little two-room apartment on the third floor of a pebble-dashed house in Edgware Road, London’s Arab quarter. How they loved those noisy streets, crowded with a colorful array of people: lost tourists, maps in hand; kebab vendors, their hot wares served in newspaper pages; seamstresses in traditional dress who sold embroidered headscarves for next to nothing; restaurant owners from Lebanon, Syria, Iran, Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, all offering hookahs along with their hot food; stall owners selling low-priced food imported from the East: huge cans of tuna in oil, crushed olives, candied lemons, sesame seeds/paste/bars, halal meat, halvah imported from Syria, couscous, jars of saffron threads, multicolored spices whose pungent fragrance filled the air, saturating the clothes and skin of everyone around, exotic fruit juices, dates as fat as a child’s hand (the most expensive kind, sweet and tender, purchased only for special occasions), dried apricots and pitted prunes (bought by the customers in bulk and used to stuff meat), pistachios, almonds (fresh or salted), and even black rocks from the Atlas Mountains that, when burned, protected you from the evil eye and lifted your spirits. Nawel never tired of going out to buy these products, which reminded her of her childhood, or simply to chat with other customers—immigrants like her, homesick and impervious to nonsegregation. They learned English in a few months, thanks to evening classes provided for free by activists from a left-wing charity. Their integration was a success. But when the boss returned to France, Abdelkader decided to follow him again. He felt he owed him everything. I need you, Abdelkader—it was the first time anyone had valued him or been grateful to him, and it moved him to tears. They went to live in Grigny in a social housing project that was still relatively clean and safe (it wouldn’t last), but, at sixty-four years old, just as Abdelkader was preparing to retire, he was stopped by the police on his way out of the Strasbourg–Saint-Denis Métro station. They asked to see his ID papers. But you didn’t say please . . . Oh, we didn’t say please! He wants us to say please! Yes, I don’t see why you shouldn’t call me sir or say please, I haven’t done anything/I haven’t stolen anything/I haven’t killed anyone . . . So you say. Show us your papers! Say please . . . etc. He was taken into custody . . . questioned . . . etc.
“Death by natural causes” was the verdict of the judicial police’s report. Attached to it were photographs of his smashed skull. “Before us, XYZ Public Prosecutor of the French Republic at the High Court of ABC, is remanded the person who, upon questioning, provided us with the following personal information:
“Mr. TAHAR Abdelkader
“Born: January 15, 1915
“In: Oulad el Houra (Tunisia)
“Father: Mohammed Tahar
“Mother: Fatima Ouali
“Occupation: manual worker
“Marital status: M
“Children: 1
“We informed him of the charge against him, namely that:
“On April 4, 1979, in Paris, he did deliberately insult a judicial police officer during an identity check.
“And, upon his request, we recorded his statement:
“I contest the charge. I wasn’t carrying my papers, the policeman was rude to me he didn’t say please etc. so I replied to him but I never insulted him I swear and that’s all.”
And what followed . . . Abdelkader Tahar yelled, he banged his head against the wall, and went crazy (they say)—case closed.
* * *
So there was no doubt about it: Samir could not say “my father” and hope for social advancement; he couldn’t say “my father” and expect respect. He couldn’t say, “I am the son of Abdelkader Tahar,” and be given a better table at a restaurant, or a bank loan, or have people bowing and scraping before him. Ruth could. She entered a room, she said, I am the daughter of Rahm Berg, and they served her, treating her like a princess, finding her charming, finding her a room, a table, a chauffeur, a taxi, finding her an opportunity, a good deal, a cushy job, a plum position, a sinecure, inviting her to lunch, wanting to see her, to see her again, telling her: it would be a pleasure, a privilege, an honor. And, at her side, he too had become a man treated like a god—particularly now, on his birthday . . .
* * *
Tahar had not suspected a thing during all those months when Ruth was organizing this surprise party. He watched her now as she welcomed their guests, makeup and hair in perfect order, her body sheathed in a $10,000 dress inlaid with pearls, and thought that he owed her everything. That night, in his thank-you speech, he made public the love and admiration he felt for her—the type of exhibition that he had long considered ridiculous and embarrassing, but whose virtues he had come to appreciate from living in the United States. The guests clapped and cheered; his wife shed tears of emotion; his children rushed up to hug and kiss him. The photographer immortalized this moment. The perfect Jewish family. Snap!
* * *
1. Nawel Tahar, née Yahyaoui, the daughter of Ismail Yahyaoui, a metalworker. Born in Tunisia, she was forced to give up school and find a job after her father died in an accident at work.
2. The star of Blake Edwards’s 1968 movie The Party, this elephant now plays cameo roles in private parties.
3. Born in Poland in 1890, Rav Shalom Levine was for forty years in charge of burying sacred texts with the dead. According to Jewish tradition, the texts must not be burned or torn. A longtime member of the Jewish Writers’ Club in Warsaw, he habitually quoted this line from the Pirkei Avot: “Who is rich? He who is satisfied with his lot in life.”
4. Despite winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1978, Isaac Bashevis Singer stated: “I consider the fact of being vegetarian to be the greatest success of my life.”
5. One of whom, Yonathan Strauss, later became a famous harpist.
6. Sofia Werther (but is that her real name?). Believed to be born in 1979. Though known for her depressive tendencies, she did manage to wangle a date with Woody Allen after one of his clarinet concerts at Carnegie Hall by pretending to be a Czech movie producer.
7. Adam Konigsberg announced to his parents, at a very young age: “I’m going to be rich when I grow up.” Today, he is the proprietor of several sex shops.
8. After studying political science, Ethan Weinstein became a Democratic senator to “piss off” his father.
9. L
ong considered a “failure” by his father, Michael Abramovich—who had dreamed of becoming an actor—committed suicide at the age of twenty-seven by throwing himself out of a window.
10. Deborah Levy. A brilliant child, raised by parents obsessed with the idea of scholarly success, she gave up her studies to pursue an American man of Indian origin. Having converted to Hinduism, she was now living in Mumbai with her eight children.
11. Palestinian poet. In December 2005, he told the Arab newspaper Al-Hayat (London): “I don’t believe in applause. I know it is insincere, deceitful, and that it can turn a poet away from poetry.”
12. Dylan Berman, born in 1965 in New York. Son of a Brooklyn tailor, he decided at a very young age that he wanted to become a lawyer. He has boasted of being one of the best-paid members of his profession in the United States.
13. Erwan Leconte, Franco-British businessman born in London in 1930, whose mother said of him: “When you have a son like Erwan, you can call your life a success.”
3
Twenty years later, the bomb explodes, causing internal carnage and mortification. It happens just when Samuel least expects it: at forty years old, as he is mourning the man he should have been; it comes when he no longer possesses anything, when he has already deliberately trashed every chance he’s been given, every ability he had—it’s incredible how much determination someone can put into their self-destruction—and here he is now, staggering to his feet in the middle of the night (he looks like he has a limp), heading straight toward the wall, he’s going to crash into it, but no, he steadies himself, holds his course, rises to the challenge. And here he is now, frozen before Nina, watching her statuesque body lying on the mattress on the floor, stretched out on her back in a mortuary pose; he examines her closed eyes, the purplish eyelids, dark rings from sleepless nights spent watching him get shitfaced, the mass of black hair that she trims herself with little beveled nail scissors, and her opulent white breasts that he can see through the oversized T-shirt—that obsession she has with always wearing clothes a size too large . . . to hide what? She is objectively the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and every time he looks at her, overtly or surreptitiously, he feels the same shock. He should be used to it by now, after all the time they have been together. You get used to everything, they say—but not that. She is a tall brunette with black-edged eyes, fine features and a stunning, voluptuous body. She has high, rounded buttocks, wide hips, and a narrow waist, legs that are long and amazingly muscled for someone whose main form of exercise is running through the corridors of the RER train station or after her bus. A woman whose every gesture electrifies the most mundane activity. Look at her reading, look at her working. Watching as she enters a room or crosses a street is, in itself, an erotic experience, not because Nina tries to attract the male gaze or wants to be the center of attention—she is too discreet for that, too natural and unambiguous—but because she seems hampered by her perfect physique. There is nothing free about her movements; she can’t let her hair down, put on a pair of shorts and a low-cut tank top, and go out for a walk because, if she does, if she acts spontaneously, lets loose her sensuality, she will be whistled at, checked out, heckled, and hit on. And for a girl like her, so detached from the iniquitous laws of attraction, so indifferent to the artificial physics of seduction that rule social life, this is unbearable. It is clear, watching her, that she has no idea what to do with that hypersexualized body of hers, which magnetizes everyone around her, no matter what she does, filling the mind of every passing male with just one desire: to possess her. God should have provided a user manual with a body like that. Such beauty is a prison. Faced with her, no one thinks they are in the same league—and it’s true: no one is. She is not the kind of girl to fuck on the first date, or even the second. Not that she’s especially prudish—her moral compass does not always point north—but she is all too aware of the devastating effects of her impressive, alienating beauty. And the truth is that she is the one who is most impressed, most alienated by her beauty. So she ties her long, smooth, dark hair in a ponytail, and that is the best thing to do. True, she has just turned forty; she is now entering the climacteric phase; she knows that soon, in a few months or a few years—within a very short, and rapidly shortening, period of time (a time she does not fear the passing of, because age, she thinks, will calm the agitation that her presence always creates whenever she enters a room)—men will no longer turn around and stare. Samuel is watching out for that moment. With a woman like her, you live with the permanent fear of losing her. You see and you understand that a man can take her from you at any time; many men have the desire to do it, and perhaps the means too: charm, humor, wealth, whatever . . . The fact is, he can take your place. In a matter of months, weeks, hours, he can steal the place you have managed to keep through pity, intimidation, and blackmail, the place that is constantly under threat due to your repeated failures. You are sitting on an ejector seat, and you must use all your charm/cunning/negotiating skills to stay there. You walk, always, on the edge of an abyss. You never feel secure. Even in bed with her, you worry you are not up to the task. You go to bed in a state of anxiety, you sleep uneasily, and you wake up with your stomach in knots. Being married to a woman like this is like driving an armored truck containing millions of dollars in cash while running a high fever: Concentrate! There are bank robbers lurking in the shadows, everywhere, waiting to shoot you in the head so they can make off with the loot. What you have, they want—and more intensely, more powerfully than you do, because as yet they have never touched it, never possessed it; they don’t know what it is to have a woman as beautiful as that. If she were a spy, she could obtain state secrets simply by laying her head on a pillow. But she is not aware of her power. Whenever she enters a room, she slouches slightly, lowers her eyes . . . and yet it makes no difference: she still lights up every corner, hardens every prick, and this is what terrifies Samuel: losing her . . . (And he is losing her, he can feel it, so why does he suggest to her, as soon as they have switched off the television, that they do some research on Samir?) Get the laptop—let’s see what we can find on him. And now here they are, sitting next to each other, eyes fixed on the screen like two students cramming for an exam. Samuel googles the words “Samir Tahar” and reads the following question: Did you mean: Sam Tahar? Within seconds, dozens of links appear on the screen—professional contact details, interviews, references to current legal cases. No Facebook or Twitter profiles.