The Age of Reinvention by Karine Tuil

married.”
    Pierre stands up and angles the blinds to let in less sunlight. Now it enters the office in thin shafts that fragment into bursts of iridescence.
    â€œActually, I meant to say . . . thank you for the birthday present,” Samir says.
    â€œYou liked it? Your wife suggested we put the money toward a list she’d given to Ralph Lauren. Are you sure your wife knows you, Sami? I’ve never seen you wearing Ralph Lauren! Your children, maybe, but you . . . ? Doesn’t she know you have the same tailor as the President of the United States? Jesus, Sami—twenty thousand dollars on a suit!”
    â€œThirty-five thousand.”
    â€œFor one suit!”
    â€œYes, but what a suit! Hand-tailored in the most supple fabric I’ve ever touched. You know the joke, don’t you? The only thing Democrats share with Republicans is their tailor.”
    â€œI can still see you now, in your little gray pin-striped suit, the day of your job interview . . .”
    And it starts again, this psychotic reliving of the morning when he became someone else . And so the expiatory process begins again too: Why did he lie? Precisely because of that adjective that he hated so vehemently: “little.” He lived in a little apartment, with his little mother, who dreamed he would marry a “nice little woman,” he had little money, he wore a little suit . . . but his dreams were BIG.
    â€œYou’ve come a long way, that’s for sure. But the apotheosis was your birthday party. I’ve never been to anything like that in my life, and as you know, I’m not the sort of man who’s ever been short of invitations. Your wife really impressed us. Where did she get all those ideas?”
    â€œShe hired the biggest events firm in America.”
    â€œThere were wild animals there, for God’s sake! Did she steal them from the zoo in New York?”
    â€œThe elephant was an old movie star, and it was on its last legs. I thought it was a bit pathetic, to be honest!”
    â€œAnd I turned up carrying a book! Still, I bet you can’t imagine what I had to do to find it . . .”
    â€œI know—it’s a rare edition. I loved it. Did you bribe someone at Christie’s?”
    â€œI seduced the head of the precious books department. What I don’t understand is how a man who loves political books as much as you do has never run for office himself.”
    â€œIn the U.S.? I think that would be tricky . . .”
    â€œSurely you’d have more chance there, as a Jew, than you would in France.”
    And there it is: the stab of the knife blade into the crack in his identity. Each time this happens, he has the impression they are talking about another person.
    â€œYeah, you’re right. I should give it some thought . . .”
    â€œYour father-in-law would certainly have the means to help you.”
    â€œBerg? Nah, he’s got more than enough on his plate with his own affairs . . .”
    They laugh. A moment later, there is a knock at the door. “Come in.” A man appears—a fairly short man in his early thirties, running slightly to fat, and, as Samir notices immediately, a North African. He has dusky skin and thick, curly, jet-black hair that covers his skull like a helmet. His face is round and adolescent-looking. He is wearing a conventional gray suit, a white shirt, and a burgundy tie that is knotted so tightly it looks as if he’s being throttled. “Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.” “That’s all right, Sofiane—come in, I’d like to introduce you to Sami, our American partner.” The man walks up with a friendly smile and offers Samir a firm handshake. “Sami, this is Sofiane Boubekri, our newest employee. He’s been with us for three months now.” “Pleased to meet you.” (We