and never come back. In a fraction of a second, I understand that he and only he can save me from the blessing - or the curse - of the Zahir, because he is the only one who knows where to find it, and I will finally be able to ask the questions I have been repeating to myself for so long.
"I wanted you to know that she's all right, that she may even have read your book."
The publishers, salespeople, and booksellers come over. They all embrace me and say it's been a great afternoon. Let's go and relax and drink and talk about it all.
"I'd like to invite this young man to supper," I say. "He was the last in the queue and he can be the representative of all the other readers who were here with us today."
"I can't, I'm afraid. I have another engagement."
And turning to me, rather startled, he adds: "I only came to give you that message."
"What message?" asks one of the salespeople.
"He never usually invites anyone!" says my publisher. "Come on, let's all go and have supper!"
"It's very kind of you, but I have a meeting I go to every Thursday."
"When does it start?"
"In two hours' time."
"And where is it?"
"In an Armenian restaurant."
My driver, who is himself Armenian, asks which one and says that it's only fifteen minutes from the place where we are going to eat. Everyone is doing their best to please me: they think that the person I'm inviting to supper should be happy and pleased to be so honored, that anything else can surely wait.
"What's your name?" asks Marie.
"Mikhail."
"Well, Mikhail," and I see that Marie has understood everything, "why don't you come with us for an hour or so; the restaurant we're going to is just around the corner. Then the driver will take you wherever you want to go. If you prefer, though, we can cancel our reservation and all go and have supper at the Armenian restaurant instead. That way, you'd feel less anxious."
I can't stop looking at him. He isn't particularly handsome or particularly ugly. He's neither tall nor short. He's dressed in black, simple and elegant - and by elegance I mean a complete absence of brand names or designer labels.
Marie links arms with Mikhail and heads for the exit. The bookseller still has a pile of books waiting to be signed for readers who could not come to the signing, but I promise that I will drop by the following day. My legs are trembling, my heart pounding, and yet I have to pretend that everything is fine, that I'm glad the book signing was a success, that I'm interested in what other people are saying. We cross the Champs-Elysees, the sun is setting behind the Arc de Triomphe, and, for some reason, I know that this is a sign, a good sign.
As long as I can keep control of the situation.
Why do I want to speak to him? The people from the publishing house keep talking to me and I respond automatically; no one notices that I am far away, struggling to understand why I have invited to supper someone whom I should, by rights, hate. Do I want to find out where Esther is? Do I want to have my revenge on this young man, so lost, so insecure, and yet who was capable of luring away the person I love? Do I want to prove to myself that I am better, much better than he? Do I want to bribe him, seduce him, make him persuade my wife to come back?
I can't answer any of these questions, and that doesn't matter. The only thing I have said up until now is: "I'd like to invite this young man to supper." I had imagined the scene so often before: we meet, I grab him by the throat, punch him, humiliate him in front of Esther; or I get a thrashing and make her see how hard I'm fighting for her, suffering for her. I had imagined scenes of aggression or feigned indifference or public scandal, but the words "I'd like to invite this young man to supper" had never once entered my head.
No need to ask what I will do next, all I have to do now is to keep an eye on Marie, who is walking along a few paces ahead of me, holding on to Mikhail's arm, as if she were his girlfriend. She won't let him go and yet I