Great House: A Novel - By Nicole Krauss Page 0,116

others that excused me from the responsibility of my decisions, that lent them an air of the inevitable, and beneath it all I had been convinced that I would die at that desk, my inheritance and my marriage bed, so why not also my bier?

Adam took me to a restaurant on Salomon Mall where he was friends with some of the waiters. They clapped him on the back and looked at me appraisingly. He grinned and what he said made them laugh loudly. We sat down by the window. Outside, on a balcony that hung above the narrow street, a man sat on an old mattress hugging his young son and talking to him. I asked Adam what he had said to his friends. With lips half curled in a smile he looked around at the other diners to gauge their reaction, as if he had walked in with a celebrity, as absurd as that may seem. With a pang I realized that I was deceiving him, but it was too late. What could I say: No one reads my books, perhaps soon they will stop publishing me? I told them you’re writing about me, he said and flashed another grin. Then he snapped his fingers and his friends laughed and brought us plates stuffed with food, then more plates after that. They looked me over and I saw the amusement in their eyes, as if they sensed my desperation and knew something about their friend that I did not. From the back of the restaurant they watched us, enjoying their friend’s luck at having netted this older woman, a rich and famous American, or so they believed, until Adam snapped again and they came forward again with a bottle of wine. He ate ravenously, as if he had not eaten for many days, and it was a pleasure to watch him, Your Honor, to sit back with my glass of wine and enjoy his beauty and his hunger. When the meal was finished (he devoured almost all of it), his friends put the check in front of me, and I saw that they had chosen for us the most expensive bottle of wine. While I fumbled with my money, trying to count out the right bills, Adam rose and joined them, joking and chewing on a toothpick. When I stood I felt the wine in my head. I followed him out of the restaurant, and I knew he could feel my eyes on him, knew that he knew I wanted him, though I would like to say, Your Honor, in my defense, that it was not only lust I felt for him, it was also a kind of tenderness, as if I might be able to lessen the pain I had seen in the face he had wiped away with his sleeve. He winked at me when he tossed me the helmet, but it was the awkward and unsure young man behind the posturing that made me want to ask him home with me. We arrived at the entrance of the guesthouse and I groped for the right words, but before I could say them he announced that a friend of one of the waiters had a desk, and if I wanted he could bring me to see it tomorrow. Then he kissed me chastely on the cheek and drove away without saying what time he would come for me.

That night I found a number for Paul Alpers in my address book. I had not spoken to him for many years and when he picked up after two short rings I almost hung up. It’s Nadia, I said, and because that did not seem like enough, I added, I’m calling from Jerusalem. For a moment he was silent, as if he were trying to get back to the place where that name—mine or the city’s—meant something to him. Abruptly, he laughed. I told him that I had gotten divorced. He told me that he had lived for some years with a woman in Copenhagen but it was over now. We did not go on for long, hurried by the long distance of the call. After we cleared the particularities of our lives aside I asked him if he sometimes thought about Daniel Varsky. Yes, he said. I was going to call you a few years back. They found out that he was kept on a boat for a while. A boat? I echoed. In the hold, Paul said, with