Jeremy,
Your letter really surprised me. To think that after years of indifference, I’ve come to the fore-front of your thoughts again. You made a good argument: you wanted to break off our relationship to keep me from knowing the torments of a prisoner’s wife. Such a noble soul, Jeremy! But you know what? I sincerely believe your intelligence must’ve gone soft after too much time behind bars. Did you think I’d be fooled? Do you really think I’m that stupid?
You need me? I needed you, Jeremy. I realized I was in love when I thought I was just an accomplice. I loved your way of looking at life, seeing it as a challenge that time throws before the appetites of man. I loved your idea that by casting off all moral judgment, it was possible to live every minute with such intensity that you’d forget all the ones that came before, already so wonderful. I was the one you opened up to about the burdens of friendship, loyalty, and codes of social and moral propriety. I loved being the one who helped you live your rebellious life. But I was lying to myself. I was in love. Classic, boring love.
But you—you already knew that. It’s what earned me that pitiful letter in which you manipulate so well the artifices of romantic sensibility. Ready to betray yourself in service to your cause.
That, I think, is what hurt me the most. Knowing that because I loved you, I deserved no more than the rest: the saccharine drivel of artificial love, an elixir meant to drug me and make me useful to you.
So there you go, Jeremy. I don’t love you anymore. I find you pathetic, behind bars, trying to weave words into a poorly aimed rope to throw across the wall.
And it’s because I don’t love you anymore that I’ll help you.
When I was in love, I was satisfied knowing you were locked away with only your fondest memories to distract you. Memories that, without any vanity on my part, put me at the center of the fantasies of a man in the throes of sexual misery.
But today, I can imagine your release from prison calmly without thinking of the disdain you rewarded me with or of the person who would take my place in your arms.
Once you’re free, you can do whatever you want. Maybe I’ll even agree to sleep with you again. Or maybe I won’t want to anymore. But it’ll be my decision and not a response to your desires.
Right now, ironically, I can help you get what you want.
My position gives me access to certain valuable pieces of information. Victoria and Pierre are going to testify against you during your next parole hearing. I know what they’re going to say. I’ve gotten a little closer to Victoria since Thomas’s bar mitzvah. I gave her a hand with the preparations, and we reconciled. She confides in me and even goes so far as to want to share “girl stuff.” I’ll put up with it until I have the strength to decide comfort and laziness don’t justify everything. Long enough to believe that happiness can exist in another form for me somewhere else.
Betraying them by confiding in you certain information that might serve your purpose would be a good way to get things going. Especially since I have no qualms about it. I left the last remnants of my integrity somewhere between the sheets of your bed.
I’m going to think about your request for a visit. I’ll decide whether to help you or not based on my own requirements and expectations.
—Clotilde
In this outpouring of emotion, which seemed like something acted out by two strangers, only three pieces of information concerned Jeremy directly. Victoria hadn’t started over. She didn’t want to. Not yet. He didn’t know if the comfort he took from that news was honorable, but it certainly was real.
The fact that Clotilde had become his accomplice, ready to destroy Victoria and the kids, represented a problem he’d have to deal with as soon as he had fully regained his ability to think.
But for the moment, he was stuck on an image, a few words that had sucked the life out of all the others. Thomas had had his bar mitzvah. He had turned thirteen years old, and according to religious law, he had become an adult. Even if Jeremy had never practiced his religion, he still considered the ceremony an essential rite of passage, a unique moment in the life of a young man. His own had meant so much to him. He remembered feeling like he was entering the adult world on that day.
Jeremy imagined Thomas twisting the straps of his tefillin around his arm. He visualized the proud look on his mother’s face and the envious, anxious look of Thomas’s brother, who would be counting the days between now and his turn on stage. Jeremy saw everything clearly, even if, in the hallucinatory scenes, Thomas still had the face of a seven-year-old boy. A single element was missing, enough to ruin the appeal of the image. He had deprived his loved ones of total happiness. He hadn’t been there to share with Victoria the happiness of feeling a decisive step in their lives together go by. Those moments had been stolen, replaced by a great loss. Then he thought of how Simon was approaching his thirteenth birthday. He, too, was getting ready for his bar mitzvah. And Jeremy, his father, wouldn’t be there. More than anything, the moments he missed were what excluded him from reality.
Jeremy wanted to give in to his pain, to cry there in his cell. He wanted to throw himself against the walls until he lost consciousness. He searched for more images, other emotions capable of loosening his throat so his tears could escape. But he was paralyzed, unable to express his pain. His life was slowly fading, and he didn’t have the energy left to give voice to his despair.
The man he’d eaten breakfast with was his cellmate, Vladimir Bernikoff. He was Russian. When Vladimir came back, he gave Jeremy an update. The gym was the only place where they could eliminate Stako’s brother, Jeff. And the best day to do it was Wednesday. On that day, Jeff would only be accompanied by one of his men; the others would be busy selling the merchandise they managed to smuggle inside. Jeremy was happy he didn’t have to choose between a confrontation with this enemy and a difficult conversation with his roommate. He didn’t understand how the other Jeremy could’ve made such a decision. Whatever happened tomorrow, he’d have to deal with it.
The guard with the moustache came back to his cell at four o’clock. “Parley,” he announced with a wink.
Jeremy thanked him with a tilt of the head. Vladimir shot Jeremy a questioning look, surprised by this visit he’d heard nothing about.
After the guard closed the door behind Jeremy, he said, “It wasn’t easy, I can tell you that. But you’re in luck. I found him pretty quick. But when I explained the request, he wasn’t very happy. He didn’t understand what you wanted. I appealed to his Christian charity…I mean, his religious charity, or whatever, and I told him it was urgent and I couldn’t explain. He gave in. He remembered you well enough.”
Jeremy felt feverish with excitement and anxiety. This rendezvous was his last hope.
Another guard took charge of him as he was guided down long corridors shining with steel and shimmering with boredom. They brought him to a room filled with inmates standing in line single file. Some of them greeted him with a slight nod, others peered into his eyes as if measuring him up, and others avoided his gaze entirely.
He was called quickly.
They pointed him to a booth. He sat and waited ten or twenty seconds, eyes on a glass panel where the reflections were too weak for him to make out what he looked like. He thought he could see dark circles under his eyes. He was studying this vague image when a bearded face appeared in front of him. Two dark, lively eyes watched him with a mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and polished professionalism. This was definitely the man he’d tried to reason with outside the synagogue.
Because Jeremy hadn’t reacted, the gabbai greeted him. “Hello…I’m Abraham Chrikovitch. You…called me…”
“And I thank you for coming so quickly.”
“It’s fine. I was a little surprised.”
“You remember me?” Jeremy asked.
“I have a very—how would you say—particular memory of our encounter. You seemed so…unhappy. So distraught. I’m the one who called the police, and when I found out you admitted to having
drugs at your house, I felt…guilty. I thought maybe you came to talk, to confide in us and find a solution for getting out of a bad situation. It bothered me terribly. But you were so disturbed. I couldn’t let you get near the rabbi. In these turbulent times, we have to take certain precautions. And when I said as much at your trial, I don’t think that did you any service.”
“I’m going to ease your conscience,” said Jeremy. “I didn’t come for that. I gave myself up willingly. I went to see the rabbi for another reason. And it’s the same reason I called you here today.”
The gabbai smiled, relieved that there would be no argument about that infamous night, before growing serious again. “But if you’re here of your own will, why did you plead not guilty at your trial? I don’t understand.”
“Maybe you can help me answer that question. I warn you, my story will probably sound strange. I’m asking you to abandon all reason, to listen to me and respond only with your instincts and religious understanding.”
“My reason is the fruit of my religious understanding. I’m listening.” Frowning, the gabbai leaned closer to the window, gently rubbing his hands together before placing them over his mouth and concentrating on the lips of this strange man.
Jeremy told his story with precision. For him, it had taken place over the last few days, and every detail still had the sharp edge of recent events. Emotions still vibrated at the surface of his skin. Confusion undermined many of his words, and at times he couldn’t build a clear narrative. But Abraham Chrikovitch’s attention motivated him to go on. Occasionally the man’s eyes wandered into the distance, as if to pin down a specific point in his thought process, before they settled back on Jeremy’s face.
When he finished, Jeremy relaxed, sighed, and returned Abraham Chrikovitch’s gaze. The gabbai remained motionless, as if he hadn’t realized Jeremy was done talking. Then he sat up, pursed his lips, and seemed to grope for words.
“Why did you call me?” he said finally.
Jeremy had hoped for an opinion, not a question. “You’re the only religious person I know.”
“I mean, why seek out a religious person?”
“Because I think human logic can’t answer my questions.”
“You’re comparing logic to faith?”
“Well, no—”
The gabbai interrupted. “I can’t help you. I’m not a mystic. I’m a man of the Law. I try to base my life on the solid foundation that is the Torah. I’m not some visionary Kabbalist overflowing with his wealth of knowledge and thinking he holds keys beyond those given to us by the Law.” He searched for more words and then shrugged his shoulders to express his helplessness. “I’m very troubled by your story.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’m not doubting your story. In this world, a lot of things are possible. I’ve heard many stories that could be taken for delusions, and I’m convinced that some of them are true. But I’m not the man you require.” He paused for a moment, passing his hand over his beard slowly, as if to retrieve more words from his mouth. “Why do you think the answer is a religious one? You were never overly concerned with your Judaism, correct?”
“It’s a feeling I have. Every time it happens, my story seems to have religious elements: the man who prays, the Psalms…”
“Is that enough? They could just be dreams or some kind of trance.”
“No. These things really happened to me. I’ve seen this man. I heard him. He was saying Kaddish. And then, there’s this battle between the man who’s destroying my life and the one who wakes up sometimes and sees the damage. It’s a battle between different sets of values.”
“But what are your values? You tried to end your life, and that shows you lack the essential value—respect for the life God gave you.”
“It was a grave error, I know. The actions of a desperate child.”
“Okay, very well then. But I’d still prefer you find specialized scholars for this avenue of thought. I know some. I can put you in touch, if you want.”
Jeremy felt the situation slipping away from him. The man he’d called, at first interested, now seemed like he wanted to escape.
“I don’t have time,” Jeremy cried. “I don’t know what I’ll become tomorrow, or when I’ll get my current awareness back. So how can we meet again? Please do something. Help me. Please.”
Abraham Chrikovitch seemed annoyed. Jeremy’s plea upset him. What more could he do? He knew too well the value of words for those trying to maintain a precarious balance of reason.
“Listen, this is what I can recommend. I’m going to ask a few questions to clear some things up. Then when I leave, I’ll call a religious scholar who specializes in this sort of thing. Then I’ll call you.”
“But what if you can’t reach me?”
“Yes. It’s possible I won’t be able to find you.”
“If that happens, I’ll be stuck. I’ll lose myself in this other skin without ever hearing from you again,” Jeremy lamented.
“That’s true. But no matter what, and I don’t want to upset you, but I think nothing I can say will change the situation in a few hours. Furthermore, you have to consider the possibility that he won’t want to reply. Or at any rate, not right away. But it’s the only offer I can give you.”
The firmness of the gabbai’s statement clashed with the softness of his face. Jeremy fell silent for a moment.
“I don’t know when I’ll regain this level of awareness again. If I don’t have a reply by tonight, how will you be able to find me next time I…wake up?”
Abraham Chrikovitch let his eyes drift into infinite space beyond the wall. He started stroking his beard again, and after a few seconds, he answered. “Here’s my proposition. The day you come back to your current state of awareness, contact me. I’ll be ready. I’ll ask two or three likely rabbis to answer my questions and give me their opinions.”
“Okay. But don’t forget that time is against me. I’m begging you, try to get as much information as possible before tonight.”
“I’ll do everything I can. For now, so I can faithfully reconstruct for my colleagues the story of your…adventure…I want you to tell me about this man and his prayers. What does he look like? What prayers does he recite? You said something about the Kaddish.”
“He’s an old man. He must be between seventy and eighty years old. His face is gaunt, with a thin white beard. His eyes bulge. They’re sad, lifeless. Like his face, actually. His mouth is the only thing that moves. His voice is horrible. Like he’s grieving. I heard him recite the Kaddish, one of the few prayers I can recognize. My father recited it every year on the anniversary of my sister’s death.”
“When does this man appear?”
“At night, as soon as I start to fall asleep.”
“Has he spoken to you?”
“Yes, the first time. He said a prayer and then leaned over me. He said, ‘It doesn’t have to be.’ Then he repeated several times, ‘Life,’ with a lot of sorrow.”
Abraham Chrikovitch was captivated by Jeremy’s words. “Did he say anything else?”
“No. I went to sleep.”
“You said something, too, about this strange feeling that comes over you when you read certain psalms.”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, it seems to be one of the only constants in my life. A link between me and the other. I know because my wife told me that my other personality was attracted by a little book of psalms in a window on Rosiers Street. Attracted in a way that was so unusual, my wife bought the book and gave it to me on one of my lucid birthdays. When I opened it, I felt uncomfortable. Reading a few words made me weak again. I was upset, terrified, without knowing why.”
“What psalms were they? Do you remember?”
“Yes, I read Psalm ninety. When I woke up again, six years later, I found the book again but with a few pages torn out. The pages that I’d read, but also Psalms thirty and seventy-seven. Maybe there were others. All I know is, it reveals a common torment shared by
me and this other person I am most of the time.”
Abraham Chrikovitch sat in silence for a moment. “Thirty, seventy-seven, ninety,” he repeated softly.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
The gabbai didn’t reply. “What has your relationship with God been like so far? When did you stop practicing your religion?”
“I never really practiced. At home, my parents never placed much importance on that aspect of our identity. My father had lost a lot of his family in the camps. He wanted me to become a little Frenchman, freed from the weight of the past. It was his father who changed the family name, trading Wiezman for the more discreet Delègue. But still, we made an effort to celebrate the two or three biggest holidays every year. I believed in God, in my own way. I talked to him sometimes. I talked to him on the day I tried to commit suicide. A lot. It was sort of an intimate conversation that was also violent. Today, however, I realize I saw him more like a man with supernatural powers, who I expected things from. Like a magician.”
“You say you spoke to him during your suicide. Did you realize the religious importance of your act?”
“Not really. Suicide was like a revolt against the genie who refused to fulfill my last wish, the most important one of all.”
“You tried to commit suicide to punish God?”
“In some way. I think dressing my act up as an act of rebellion gave me the courage I needed to go through with it. I’m still confused about the whole thing in my mind.”
Abraham Chrikovitch lowered his head and placed both his hands on his forehead as though he were avoiding Jeremy’s eyes. His lips were moving, barely. Jeremy wondered if the gabbai was thinking out loud or praying. He stayed quiet, hoping for a verdict. But Abraham Chrikovitch stood suddenly. Looking worn, he waved his hand in the air to indicate that the conversation was over.
Still With Me Page 12
