married.â
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.
âActually, I meant to say . . . thank you for the birthday present,â Samir says.
âYou liked it? Your wife suggested we put the money toward a list sheâd given to Ralph Lauren. Are you sure your wife knows you, Sami? Iâve never seen you wearing Ralph Lauren! Your children, maybe, but you . . . ? Doesnât she know you have the same tailor as the President of the United States? Jesus, Samiâtwenty thousand dollars on a suit!â
âThirty-five thousand.â
âFor one suit!â
âYes, but what a suit! Hand-tailored in the most supple fabric Iâve ever touched. You know the joke, donât you? The only thing Democrats share with Republicans is their tailor.â
âI can still see you now, in your little gray pin-striped suit, the day of your job interview . . .â
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: âlittle.â He lived in a little apartment, with his little mother, who dreamed he would marry a ânice little woman,â he had little money, he wore a little suit . . . but his dreams were BIG.
âYouâve come a long way, thatâs for sure. But the apotheosis was your birthday party. Iâve never been to anything like that in my life, and as you know, Iâm not the sort of man whoâs ever been short of invitations. Your wife really impressed us. Where did she get all those ideas?â
âShe hired the biggest events firm in America.â
âThere were wild animals there, for Godâs sake! Did she steal them from the zoo in New York?â
âThe elephant was an old movie star, and it was on its last legs. I thought it was a bit pathetic, to be honest!â
âAnd I turned up carrying a book! Still, I bet you canât imagine what I had to do to find it . . .â
âI knowâitâs a rare edition. I loved it. Did you bribe someone at Christieâs?â
âI seduced the head of the precious books department. What I donât understand is how a man who loves political books as much as you do has never run for office himself.â
âIn the U.S.? I think that would be tricky . . .â
âSurely youâd have more chance there, as a Jew, than you would in France.â
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.
âYeah, youâre right. I should give it some thought . . .â
âYour father-in-law would certainly have the means to help you.â
âBerg? Nah, heâs got more than enough on his plate with his own affairs . . .â
They laugh. A moment later, there is a knock at the door. âCome in.â A man appearsâa 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 heâs being throttled. âOh, Iâm sorryâI didnât realize you were in a meeting.â âThatâs all right, Sofianeâcome in, Iâd like to introduce you to Sami, our American partner.â The man walks up with a friendly smile and offers Samir a firm handshake. âSami, this is Sofiane Boubekri, our newest employee. Heâs been with us for three months now.â âPleased to meet you.â (We
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