The Age of Reinvention

by Karine Tuil

  17

  It is Ruth who will break the news to Rahm Berg. The official announcement comes in his private office with a vertiginous view of Manhattan—a huge room with diplomas and photographs on the walls, the pictures showing the Berg family or Rahm Berg with famous people from all over the world: presidents, actors, everyone who’s anyone. Berg’s power, influence, and prestige can be read on the walls of his office and in the wide, sunny expanse of New York seen through his window. On the desk, in his sight line, is a large photograph of Ruth and her children taken at sea, on the family yacht. She looks smiling and relaxed in this picture, hair blowing in the wind, her nose slightly sunburned, wearing a linen blouse. There is no picture of Tahar in the room, a fact that has always bothered Ruth, who attempted many times to make her father display a real family portrait, with everyone present: “I’m not a widow or a divorcée.” His only response had been a cold, unsmiling look. On this point, he was not willing to negotiate.

  * * *

  Ruth enters slowly, perched on sharp metal heels like steel rods that scratch the Hungarian herringbone parquet flooring. In spite of the tranquilizers she took before coming, crossing the threshold of his office makes her chest swirl with dread and anxiety. She walks like a zombie, her expression blank with fatigue, her eyes already wet with tears. She has never quite been sure what most impressed her about her father: his presence, his charisma, that corrupting eloquence which leaves no one indifferent, or—on the contrary—that shyness, real or faked, with which he blanks people sometimes in private, as if he is terrified of intimacy, as if it makes him feel like a prosecution witness summoned to the bench to explain himself, to account for his crimes. They are face-to-face, both tense. Rahm Berg realizes that something serious must have happened—but what? That morning, his daughter called him and in a sepulchral voice told him that she had to talk to him “right away. No, not by phone. This is very serious. I’m on my way.” Her father has just returned from a long business trip in India, so he’s completely in the dark. As soon as she enters his office, he assails her with questions: Is she sick? Is one of the children sick? “No, no . . .” He sighs with relief. Nothing else can really hurt him, he thinks, but when Ruth begins to speak, when he understands what she has come to tell him, he understands the intensity of this moral earthquake and the devastating effect it could have on their lives. His reputation could be ruined, and that idea alone is enough to put him in a rage. He is on his feet, facing the window, which reflects his shadow. “Not only will I do nothing to help that piece of shit, but there is no way I will ever forgive him or give you my absolution! Do you realize that you married a guy close to the Islamist movements? The father of your children is suspected of terrorism! What kind of a nightmare have you got us mixed up in, Ruthie?” Ruth lowers her eyes and waits for his pardon. Because what else, other than her father’s assent, could have brought her here today to tell him that her husband has been “wrongly” imprisoned? She could have left it to the police to inform him, refused to explain anything, but no—she knows what she owes him and she knows what, without him, she would no longer be able to do. She knows what, without him, she would certainly lose: The power of the Berg name. His influence. Everything about him that is so fascinating and repulsive. Everything that seduced Samir. There is something tyrannical about this man who was raised in the poorest part of Brooklyn’s Jewish quarter by an asthmatic mother and a spineless father, who grew up with a sort of split personality: friendly/gentle/charming, but also arrogant/contemptuous/loathsome. A man who could send you flowers and cancel your date six times. Could call you a pathetic loser and, at the same time, name you CEO of one of his numerous companies. He was disturbed but lovable, perverted but sweet, and Ruth had learned how to come to terms with this overbearing person. She knows she is taking a risk by talking to him, but she leaves out nothing.

  “He lied about his identity, and maybe he betrayed me . . . but he’s a good father and a good husband. And he’s innocent!”

  Rahm Berg turns to face his daughter and laughs loudly. This is what he does when he’s angry or upset.

  Ruth almost shouts: “He’s not guilty of anything! He was manipulated! His lawyer even thinks that you were the real target!”

  “Me? Well, maybe . . . but that doesn’t alter the fact that you married a Muslim! My daughter married an Arab! My father must be turning in his grave!”

  “He hasn’t done anything!”

  “How can you say that? Your husband is implicated in a case of international terrorism! And suddenly he admits to you that he’s a Muslim, that he’s been lying to you all these years. What was he trying to hide, do you think? Because for that, he could hardly have found a safer hiding place than our family! Who could suspect the son-in-law of Rahm Berg?”

  “Are you suggesting he married me just to have a cover?”

  “It’s possible! Those types are capable of anything if it helps them achieve their criminal aims! You married a manipulator! A liar! That’s the real tragedy! That marriage was a terrible mistake—and, believe me, it’s a mistake you’ll never be able to repair. That should be enough for you never to see him again, for you to divorce him like that!” He snaps his fingers. “On what evidence do you say he is innocent? He’s suspected of having participated in a terrorist operation—you know what that means? You think the FBI would have taken the risk of arresting him in his own home if they didn’t possess tangible, irrefutable proof? And if that were the case, if he really did—for whatever reason, out of conviction or for money, I have no idea—help terrorists, do you think you could continue to support him? Are you going to stay married to a terrorist? Why would you do that? Out of love? Blindness? A sense of justice? You’re completely crazy, Ruth! People like that spit on justice and democracy and human rights. They use the tools provided by democracies and hijack them for their own ends! To kill us!”

  “He hasn’t done anything of the kind! It’s impossible. He’s the victim of a conspiracy, that’s all, having first been the victim of discrimination . . .”

  “This pervert has got you dancing on a string! He’s not the victim of anything. I couldn’t give a shit if he’s innocent! He betrayed you. He lied to you. He pretended to be a Jew. That’s enough to make him guilty. You’re defending a monster who would kill Jews given half a chance. At point-blank range. Without batting an eyelid.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is true—you just don’t want to hear the truth. Shall I tell you what I really think? I’m sure he’s guilty. You’ve been taken in—and so have I—by a piece of shit.”

  “You’re talking about my husband . . .”

  “So? Are you claiming you know him? Let me tell you: You don’t know anything about him! That’s the whole problem! You sleep with him, he’s the father of your children, and you don’t know a thing about him.”

  “He was trapped!”

  “Trapped? The only one who’s trapped right now is you—and you’ve been trapped by a guy who deserves only one thing: to spend the rest of his life in prison! And believe me, I won’t be the one to get him out of there.”

  * * *

  She says nothing. Fleeing her father’s gaze, she goes to a corner of the room, opens the window, and smokes a cigarette. “Ruth, what you’re going through is very hard—it’s terrible. I’ve always supported your choices in life, but you know I’ve never approved of this marriage. This guy who comes from France, who claims he’s an orphan, who can’t prove his Jewishness . . . personally, I always found that bizarre. I hated the thought of giving that man my only daughter, but I did it—I agreed to it. For you. But this . . . it’s too much. Think about it! He’s a Muslim. Even if he is innocent, even if they set him free, he’ll still be a Muslim, and he’ll start acting like one too! You really think he feels Jewish and that he’ll go on with his life the way it was before, as if nothing happened? No, he’ll become vindictive, aggressive, full of rage, because he’ll feel humiliated. Is that the kind of fathe
r you want for your children? You have no choice, Ruth—guilty or innocent, you have to leave him. If you don’t do that, you will never see me again. You won’t see me, and you won’t see any other member of our family.”

  18

  It took the investigators only a few days to discover that Samir’s life was based on a false identity.

  He’s an Arab—and a Muslim.

  The lawyer who represented the families of two young American soldiers killed near Kabul is the same man whose brother has been arrested by the Americans in the mountains of Afghanistan!

  After this, his isolation is intensified; visits are limited. This discovery increases the weight of evidence against him, makes him unforgivably guilty. He lied about his identity, his life story, his origins—and to what end? “No Muslim would pretend to be a Jew unless he had reason to—a reason he considered important,” said the chief investigator. And it doesn’t stop there: They keep digging. You should see them in the law firm’s office, with their dogs, their questions, their insinuations, approximations, assertions, leafing through case files, picking people’s brains . . . We have a few theories about this guy, why don’t you tell us about him? And so it comes out. The enemies—Sami’s, his father-in-law’s—the “friends,” the jealous colleagues, the angry clients, the abandoned women, the humiliated employees, the envious neighbors . . . they all turn up for interviews, a swarm of informers, their heads full of damning anecdotes. Tongues wag—for money or for nothing at all but the pleasure of bad-mouthing the fallen star. The gossip flies, and Berman himself testifies against Samir, telling the cops everything: graphic details about women and girls, underage and underdressed, prostitutes and call girls, on the street and in his office. The FBI branch office is buried under letters denouncing Tahar’s debauched double life. “He had a mistress, for God’s sake—brought her over from France and kept her in a luxury apartment. The man was practically a bigamist! He betrayed everyone, and he expected our approval! He wanted people to say: Bravo! You, at least, are a truly free man! The reality is that Tahar is a manipulator, duplicitous to his very core.” Samir knows what it’s like here: the truth is sacred; family is sacred. Stray from those two principles and you’re a dead man. The sky falls in. Ruth reads the revelations in the press and finally understands what humiliation means. Have you seen this? Yes, she’s seen it. She is the betrayed wife, the blind wife who saw nothing, or pretended to see nothing. Everyone watches for her reaction. Will she support him or leave him? Whenever she enters a room now, silence falls. She no longer receives the best table in the restaurant. At the hairdresser’s, she must wait in line like everyone else. Her friends no longer call to invite her to parties. She’s a pariah. Dark thoughts breed and spread in her perfect little head. How can she avoid losing face in public? For a brief period, she decides to go out less often. She stays at home, hoping the tension will fade. But nothing fades. Her father refuses to talk to her. Her friends turn their backs on her. Her neighbors demand that she leave. What does she really know about this man with whom she fell in love at first sight, this French lawyer with no family, no past, this elusive man whose mysteries she has never been able to solve, whom she has never felt truly close to, even in their most intimate moments? What does she know about him, other than the stories he told her, the lies he invented in order to seduce her, manipulate her? What does it say about a man that he has two telephones, one of which his wife has never touched? A man who refuses to give any reason for being late, who sometimes disappears for a day or two without even a phone call and who justifies his behavior by invoking his liberty, his individuality, his refusal to conform to a conventional lifestyle that curbs natural human instincts and desires? What future could she have with someone who is not the man he claimed to be? What future with someone who’s been in prison? Would she ever really get to know a man like that, ever truly possess him? “A dangerous man,” her father had said. “A ticking time bomb.” What did she see in him? What did he have that the others lacked? She turned down Rudy Hoffman. She turned down Ben Lewinsky. She turned down Aaron Epstein, Nathan Mandelstam—all these Jews who had grown up in the same world as her, who had gone to the best universities, who laughed at the same jokes as her . . . and look at them now. They are all married with three or four children. They have all made a success of their personal lives. But not me, she thinks. Not me. One week later, she files for divorce and demands exclusive custody of the children.

  19

  When Samir finds out that his wife refuses to speak to him anymore, he falls to pieces. Nina? Yes, he thinks about her too—a lot. What has become of her? She was probably sent back to France because he couldn’t pay her rent anymore. As for his brother, he has heard nothing. He doesn’t even know if his mother is aware that he’s been arrested and incarcerated in Guantánamo. He has no idea what is going to happen to him. He spends most of the morning writing a long letter to his children in which he tells the true story of his origins. He is convinced he will never have any kind of a relationship with them unless he tells them the whole truth. He’ll ask Stein to hand it to them, along with another note for Ruth.

  I am the son of Nawel Yahyaoui and Abdelkader Tahar _____. I was born on _____ in _____. I lived in London for a while, then in a housing estate near Paris named _____. I studied Law in _____.

  I couldn’t find a job. There was so much discrimination _____. He thought I was a Jew _____ maybe it was cowardly of me, but _____. I regret the fact that you have never known my mother _____ one day, perhaps _____ the most terrible suffering _____ I only ever felt completely happy when I was with you _____.

  I am afraid that, by telling the truth, I will lose everything _____. I was the one who wanted to be _____. For a long time, I was a man with no identity _____. I want to see you both again _____. I love you _____. Please don’t judge me.

  Then he falls asleep. At his bedside is a copy of the Koran, a bilingual English-Arabic version. His interrogators gave it to him; he never asked for it. When the warden wakes him to say that one of his lawyers is in the visiting room, he has no idea what time it is or for how long he has slept. It is Pierre Lévy who is waiting for him. Samir sits down, shoulders hunched inward, as if trying to disappear inside himself.

  “I know what you’re going to tell me,” Pierre whispers.

  “So why did you come? I listened to you. I told Ruth everything, and this is the result: I’m alone; her father has turned her against me; she’s divorcing me; she doesn’t want me to have any kind of contact with my own children . . . I’ve lost everything . . .”

  “She would have found out anyway . . .”

  “How do you know? Maybe they would have dropped the charges before all this came out!”

  “Dropped the charges? Are you dreaming? You do know they’re allowed to keep you locked up here as long as they like. They don’t even have to bring the case to trial!”

  Hearing this, Samir grips his head tightly in his hands as if he were about to smash it against the window.

  “I’m sorry. That’s not what I wanted to say. I just want you to understand that they are mounting an investigation and that they’re not going to free you until they’ve cleared up every aspect of your past. Now they know you’re a Muslim, they’re convinced of your guilt . . .”

  “Let them investigate! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Stein and I are going to get you out of here, Sami. We have good reason to believe that you will be freed.”

  “What are you talking about? The only way I’ll ever get out of here is if they send me to Guantánamo, where I’ll spend the rest of my life in a fucking rabbit cage—and for what?”

  “Calm down. I’m telling you, it’s going to be fine. They have no proof of anything. It’s just a question of time . . .”

  “But I can’t take it anymore, Pierre! I’m innocent—all I ever did was send some money to my brother! Ruth doesn’t believe me. She doesn’t want to see me anymore . . . She won’t even tell me how the children are.
She won’t give them the letters I write to them!”