The Age of Reinvention

by Karine Tuil

  * * *

  He wasn’t expecting this—Samuel’s offensive presence, his possessive control-freakery, his sickening exhibitionism, Look at us, we’re together, rubbing it in—and for a man like Samir, used to being the center of attention, it is unbearable. It’s unbearable to think that she chose to stay with this loser: a man who can’t dress, who talks too loud, a man with dirty fingernails, callused hands, a man who doesn’t even wear cologne. So he makes conversation, and Nina starts talking, ordering a glass of wine with a hand signal. She doesn’t say she works as a model for Carrefour, but simply that she works “in fashion.” No, they still don’t have children, but yes, of course they want them. Samir tells them about his life in the U.S., embellishing as he goes along, his success/career/money. It gets to Samuel: his money, the money he wears on every inch of his body. The priceless watch, the leather shoes, the hand-tailored suit, even the corruptive way he hails the waiter with the back of his hand, the way he keeps making more and more demands: to move somewhere else (“It’s too noisy here”), to try a different wine (“I don’t like this one”), to get a clean glass (“Look closely—you see that stain?”). “You’re never satisfied, are you?” Samuel jokes. “I can be—I’m just demanding.” Samir tastes the wine the waiter hands him: “This one is perfect—thank you.” Nina takes a sip of her own wine.

  “Tell us about your life in New York . . .”

  “It’s exciting. Exhausting.”

  Samuel stares at him and says: “Paul Morand said: New York shatters your nerves. No European can live there more than a few months.”

  “He wasn’t wrong!”

  They lift their glasses and toast their reunion.

  “So?” Samir says, looking at Samuel. “Did you ever become a writer? I googled you, but I didn’t find anything.”

  He has good technique, of course. Aggressive questioning is his area of expertise. Samuel replies that he “got into business.” Business? Yeah, right. Social work, more like—solving local problems does not make him a successful businessman. He knows this, and tries to stay vague, but Samir won’t let go.

  “You gave up writing?”

  “No, I still write.”

  “But you haven’t been published?”

  “No.”

  “And yet there are so many books published each year. It’s incredible. You’d think everyone in France had become a writer, that it’s . . .”

  “Easy? No, it’s not easy. Not for me, anyway.”

  Nina interjects: “He still writes, but he doesn’t send his books to publishers anymore.”

  “Well, that would certainly reduce your chances of getting published!”

  “I googled you too, you know. There’s nothing under the name Samir Tahar . . .”

  Samir laughs: “It was a mistake. They misspelled my name once, and after that it was reproduced everywhere. Everyone calls me Sam . . .”

  “Or Samuel.”

  “Yeah, sometimes.”

  Tension crackles between the two of them. You can feel it.

  Finally Samuel asks: “So you converted to Judaism?”

  “No, no, that was just a misunderstanding because my wife is Jewish.”

  “You could have. I don’t see a problem with you converting . . .”

  “My wife is Jewish—that’s all.”

  “I read a big interview with you in the Times, you know.”

  Nina sighs. Samir looks at her, embarrassed. What is he up to? Is he trying to unnerve me?

  “I need to explain that . . .”

  “There’s nothing to explain. You used bits and pieces of my life to concoct your own biography! You pillaged my private history and used it to create your own! It’s completely insane. How could you do such a thing?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Ask your permission? You don’t know what it’s like with journalists—they want to know everything. I told them what they wanted to hear. Is this why you wanted to see me?”

  “Ha, that’s very Jewish—answering a question with another question.”

  “What do you want me to say? That I did it deliberately? Well, I didn’t. I just didn’t feel like talking about my life.”

  “And twenty years later, the first thing that comes to mind is my life?”

  “Well, it did have an effect on me, I guess . . .”

  Nina finally intervenes: “That’s enough, now. This is getting ridiculous. Samir already told you he didn’t mean to hurt you. You just have to take his word for it.”

  The next moment, Samuel gets to his feet, claiming he has an urgent call to make, and vanishes. Time to put his plan into action. So now they’re alone. They don’t speak. They look at one another. Language has lost its power. Samir can’t take his eyes off her face, her body. He wants to say: I want you I love you it’s so hard to look at you without being able to touch you I have to touch you let me caress you I want to make love to you come with me now. Instead of which, he says: “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Kind of strange after all these years, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t call it strange. I’d say it was powerful, overwhelming.”

  She smiles and he feels the desire, once again, to touch her face with his fingers, to stroke her legs. That dress with the low neckline—she wore it to tempt him, didn’t she? But he does nothing. Again, he manages to control himself. Keeps his feelings bottled up. A tight lid on the bottle.

  “Samuel hasn’t changed. He’s still kind of neurotic . . .”

  “I think he’s nervous, seeing you again.”

  “I’m nervous too. Seeing you.”

  To conceal her embarrassment, Nina takes another sip of wine.

  “How did you decide to move there? You changed your life so completely . . .”

  “You should know! I was running away, wasn’t I?”

  She looks at him, feeling uneasy.

  “If you hadn’t left me, I’d probably still be here, in Paris.”

  She laughs: “When I see what you’ve become, I’d say it was the right decision . . .”

  A grin/grimace deforms Samir’s face. Suddenly he cracks.

  “What the hell would you know? What are you even talking about? You have no idea! I almost went crazy!”

  He pronounces these words with such fury that she recoils.

  “I can talk about it now with a little detachment, but believe me, at the time, it was the end of the world. Looking back now, I’d say it was the worst ordeal I’ve ever been through. It took me years to get over it. A simple breakup . . . incredible, isn’t it? But nothing bothers you.”

  She doesn’t reply. She looks away, sees Samuel in the distance. He is pretending to make a phone call, overacting a little in his desire to be noticed: he puts his hand through his hair, blinks furiously.

  “How is he now?”

  He is taking her back to the suicide, to Samuel’s fragile mentality. He is making her face her choices, her mistakes. She replies simply, “He’s fine,” when the truth is he has never been so unfine, so bitter, so desperate, when the truth is he wakes up every morning telling himself he’s a failure and goes to bed every night yelling that he can’t take it anymore. Oh, yes, he’s fine, absolutely fine, he’ll probably collapse one day under the weight of all his self-reproach, he hates what he’s become, this spineless man with no ambitions, this mediocre husband, oh, yes, he’s fine, he wakes up with back pain and falls asleep with stomach pain, he’s fine, he never gave her a child, what does he have to offer her, he’s fine, he’s been seeing a psychiatrist for two years, but he’s fine, he feels old, like he’s aging too fast, he’s fragile and somewhat ashamed of acknowledging the fact, because what difference does it make really, whether he’s healthy or not, and none of this matters to her anymore, now she’s face-to-face with Samir, who won’t stop staring at her, does it deliberately, making her blush/her heart beat faster. He senses her unease, but won’t let go: “You’re as beautiful as ever.” And he sees it—they both see it—the way she crosse
s and uncrosses her legs, holds her hands in fists against her stomach. And this is the moment Samir chooses to tell her: “I missed you so much.” Nervously, she grabs her glass. Looks away. He keeps talking, his voice hypnotic: “I never got over you.” She doesn’t reply. Still staring at her, he goes on: “No other woman ever made me feel the way I felt with you. I want you to know that: I’ve never felt that close to anyone else.” And for a long moment they are motionless, only their eyes speaking.

  * * *

  By the time Samuel returns, the check has been paid. Samir suggests they dine with him. He took the liberty of booking a table for three in the hotel restaurant. On me, he insists. “I have to go,” Samuel replies. “I need to deal with a problem at work.” Then, turning toward Nina, he says: “But you can stay, darling. I’ll join you later.” This is better than Samir could have dared to dream. He had thought Samuel wouldn’t let her out of his sight for a second, like a father afraid of losing his child. “Do stay, Nina—it would make me very happy.” Nina feels abandoned. Samuel is exposing her, offering her as bait; it disgusts her. In that moment, she tears up the plans they made together and replies that she is going home: “I’m tired, sorry. Another time, perhaps.” Samuel looks at her. He is angry, she can feel it. By acting in this way, by withdrawing from the game before it even starts, she is also evading the challenge he set her, the test of her resistance. She says no, and that’s final. He has no doubt that this rejection will only serve to kindle Samir’s desire. The next morning, he will call her: I want to see you again. I can’t stop thinking about you. I couldn’t sleep last night. I miss you, Nina—I miss you so much.

  * * *

  On the way home, Samuel walks quickly through the long corridors of the RER suburban train station, Nina struggling to keep up. He talks loudly and she starts to cry. That’s it—cry! Cry for what you’ve lost! But he’s wrong: she is crying for them, for what she is losing, here, now. Her mascara runs in charcoal lines over her pale skin. She tastes her own tears. You’re crying for him, aren’t you? It affected you, seeing him again, didn’t it? Admit it. You’re trembling! It did something to you—you can’t deny that. It was obvious you wanted to stay with him. She doesn’t reply. Is this really her, this limp and lifeless thing? Look at the state you’re in! They board the first train, and sit on separate seats. The carriage is almost empty. Nina watches her reflection in the train’s window. She doesn’t recognize herself. This is what he’s done to me, she thinks. This is the result of her sacrifice. Is it the fear of aging that tortures her so? No, it’s the disappointment. All these years, she was waiting for someone, for something, but no one ever came to rescue her and nothing ever happened. A girl like her could have lived a thousand lives. She makes a mental list of her gifts and talents—those she was born with and those she acquired through education, hard work, perseverance, charm—and she comes to this conclusion: I blew my chance.

  * * *

  They do not exchange a single word during the trip, and even afterward, in the street, they walk without talking, without touching. Samuel is ten feet ahead of her and suddenly she feels afraid that he’s going to leave her behind. She’s wearing a dress and stiletto heels. She yells at him to wait but he only speeds up. So she takes off her heels and walks barefoot on the filthy ground. She might cut herself, but what does it matter? She runs behind him like a little dog, crying/yapping, and he feels strong and powerful, striding in front of her, and even when they get home and go to bed, he shows her who’s boss by rejecting her, scorning her warmth and love, refusing to listen to her words. He’s tired, weary. Leave me in peace! You don’t get it, do you? It was so easy! All you had to do was talk to him, seduce him—no one was asking you to marry him! No one was asking you to do it with him! He doesn’t use the word “I.” No one was asking you to sell yourself! You just had to manipulate him—women know how to do that, don’t they? Especially you . . .

  4

  All that Samir remembers of his meeting with Nina is her refusal to stay and dine with him—that unbearable public humiliation. He had been waiting for that moment, but it had given him nothing but the confirmation of his fears: that she was no more free now than she had been twenty years ago. Why had she called him? What had been the point? What game do women play when they dominate men? He is struggling to breathe, as if still in the grip of his old pain, and he’s angry with himself for having insisted on seeing her again, for having believed even for a moment that he could try to start things up with her again without suffering as he had before. He remembers this vividly now: how atrociously he had suffered. And he sees himself again now in the college restroom, bent double over the toilet bowl, spitting up greenish bile. My whole body is infected, he had thought then—infected by this love. He sees himself again in his tiny bedroom with all those girls he would seduce, wherever and whenever he could, purely for the pleasure of the conquest, hoping he might forget her for a few minutes in this way. And finally he sees himself again in his mother’s apartment with the young Muslim woman, a student at the university, whom his mother had asked him to meet. “Do this for me,” she had pleaded, “and Insha’Allah, you might like her.” He sees himself again, looking at this girl, trying vainly to find her charming. He tried so hard in his quest to forget Nina: talked to the girl for a long time, invited her—on his mother’s insistence—to a restaurant, but only once. Once was enough. There had been no spark at all.

  * * *

  In his hotel room, Samir tries to calm down. He undresses, takes a shower, drinks a glass of wine, and decides to turn up to his meeting. He wears a black suit, a white shirt with tiny iridescent buttons, and a pair of new shoes. With his slicked-back hair and the gold chain that his mother gave him for his thirteenth birthday—which he always keeps around his neck like a talisman—he looks like a dandyish pimp, wearing too much cologne. Samir is convinced that women love this look, this heady perfume. The flashy machismo is instantly erotic—check it out, babe—promising power and debauchery, brutality and tenderness. He even leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone to reveal his bronzed chest sprinkled with brown hair. He is showing off, parading himself. He did not come to Paris just to see Nina or his mother. He didn’t come here to meet Pierre Lévy either. No, he’s in Paris for a special evening that has a peculiar fascination for him. About once a year—or every other year if he has no excuse to make the trip—he takes part in a very private evening organized by the famous shoemaker Berluti. Ever since he married Ruth, when a friend of the family nominated him, he has been a member of the Swann Club—named after Marcel Proust’s character, Charles Swann. Thirty or forty privileged clients like him—men who systematically buy the twenty unique models of shoes produced by the brand each year—meet in an extraordinary venue: in Venice, for example, on a specially converted gondola, or in Paris, in one of the city’s most luxurious hotels. In the taxi on the way to the hotel where tonight’s gathering will take place, Samir buttons his shirt to the top and adjusts his bow tie. When he gets out of the vehicle, a beggar calls out to him. Samir makes a hand movement that says: No cash on me, in a rush, sorry. He walks to the hotel. The others are already there: men of all ages, dressed in tailored suits or tuxedos, all wearing Berluti shoes. The very best models, naturally. Huge silver candelabra sit atop a large table, the flames flickering in the cool night air, with a bouquet of white roses in the center. At each place there is a can of shoe polish and a perfectly folded gray linen cloth. Bottles of Dom Pérignon stand in ice buckets positioned at regular intervals on the table. And then, at last, the moon appears, round and full, in the dark sky above: It’s time! Champagne corks pop and fly. The evening’s hostess announces that the ceremony can now begin. Excitement ripples through the assembled guests. They clink their crystal glasses, take brief sips of champagne, then put their glasses down and remove their shoes. Placing the shoes on the table in front of them, they pick up the cans of polish in various colors, then they pick up their squares of Venetian linen—a material s
o soft and fine that Samir can’t help caressing it between his fingers before, with slow, careful, precise movements, he uses it to massage the leather. At last comes the moment they are all awaiting: glazing the shoes with Dom Pérignon. “This is the true act of impertinence,” the hostess says, and they laugh complicitly. The burnished leather shines like a blade. “The champagne sets the polish,” a guest explains to Samir, who shines his shoes for a long time, as if for him it were a pleasure to be prolonged, while another guest reminds the gathering that this tradition was begun by Russian czars and high military officers. When the ritual is over, they exchange a few words and their business cards, compare their shoes, and promise to see one another—Next year! It is almost one a.m. when Samir leaves the hotel with the feeling of, once again, having experienced something exceptional. He rushes through the dark night in search of a taxi. He is meeting two old friends from the ghetto in a nightclub near the Champs-Élysées: guys who have made a killing in the textile industry and are now awash in money. They don’t know that he lives in New York. He told them he works in finance in London. They meet at a black Plexiglas table placed next to the dance floor, with a champagne bucket to attract blond/brunette/redheaded sluts. Naked girls1 coil themselves around luminescent handrails that light up their slim bodies, their muscles toned by making the same mechanical movements every night—the same pelvic thrusts and rolls, the same contortions designed to excite the customers. It’s management policy: the customers must be hot, they must be thirsty, they must consume. Strobes sweep the vast room in rhythm with the electronic music that pounds ever louder. It’s exhilarating. Samir feels good here, a stranger surrounded by other strangers, nameless and anonymous, just a face in the crowd. He can seduce a girl here and tell her his name is Samir. He can kiss her/caress her/pour her champagne/offer her coke and take her to the toilets to fuck her. Which is, in fact, just what he does, one hour later, with a girl whose name he doesn’t remember (let’s call her X):2 the act lasts no longer than a few minutes and costs him €300 (three €100 bills slipped into her H&M bra as he leaves the cubicle), but afterward he feels good—relaxed, at peace—and he can return to his hotel and call his wife in the taxi on the way back. It’s eight p.m. in New York and the children are getting ready for bed. I miss you . . . Have you eaten dinner? Did you do all your homework? How are you, sweetie? Yes, Daddy loves you—big kiss, mwah!