The Zahir Page 0,91

the history of humanity - a rebellion in Haiti! And I had swallowed it whole! I had watched until the end! Stupid people really should be issued their own special identity cards because they are the ones who feed the collective stupidity.

I opened the window and let in the icy night air. I took off my clothes and told myself that I could withstand the cold. I stood there, not thinking anything, just aware of my feet on the floor, my eyes fixed on the Eiffel Tower, my ears hearing barking dogs, police sirens, and conversations I couldn't quite understand.

I was not I, I was nothing - and that seemed to me quite marvelous.

You seem strange."

"What do you mean 'strange'?"

"You seem sad."

"I'm not sad. I'm happy."

"You see? Even your tone of voice is false: you're sad about me, but you don't dare say anything."

Chapter 9

"Why should I be sad?"

"Because I came home late last night and I was drunk. You haven't even asked me where I went."

"I'm not interested."

"Why aren't you interested? I told you I was going out with Mikhail, didn't I?"

"Didn't you go out with him, then?"

"Yes, I did."

"So what's there to ask?"

"Don't you think that when your boyfriend, whom you claim you love, comes home late, you should at least try to find out what happened?"

"All right, then, what happened?"

"Nothing. I went out with Mikhail and some of his friends."

"Fine."

"Do you believe me?"

"Of course I do."

"I don't think you love me anymore. You're not jealous. You don't care. Do I normally get back home at two in the morning?"

"Didn't you say you were a free man?"

"And I am."

"In that case, it's normal that you should get back home at two in the morning and do whatever you want to do. If I were your mother, I'd be worried, but you're a grown-up, aren't you? You men should stop behaving as if you wanted the women in your life to treat you like children."

"I don't mean that kind of worried. I'm talking about jealousy."

"Would you prefer it if I made a scene right now, over breakfast?"

"No, don't do that, the neighbors will hear."

"I don't care about the neighbors. I won't make a scene because I don't feel like it. It's been hard for me, but I've finally accepted what you told me in Zagreb, and I'm trying to get used to the idea. Meanwhile, if it makes you happy, I can always pretend to be jealous, angry, crazy, or whatever."

"As I said, you seem strange. I'm beginning to think I'm not important in your life anymore."

"And I'm beginning to think you've forgotten there's a journalist waiting for you in the sitting room, who is quite possibly listening to our conversation."

Ah, the journalist. I go on automatic pilot, because I know what questions he will ask. I know how the interview will begin ("Let's talk about your new novel. What's the main message?"), and I know how I will respond ("If I wanted to put across a message, I'd write a single sentence, not a book.").

I know he'll ask me what I feel about the critics, who are usually very hard on my work. I know that he will end by asking: "And have you already started writing a new book? What projects are you working on now?" To which I will respond: "That's a secret."

The interview begins as expected:

"Let's talk about your new book. What's the main message?"

"If I wanted to put across a message, I'd write a single sentence, not a book."

"And why do you write?"

"Because that's my way of sharing my feelings with others."

This phrase is also part of my automatic pilot script, but I stop and correct myself:

"Although that particular story could be told in a different way."

"In a different way? Do you mean you're not happy with A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew?"

"No, on the contrary, I'm very pleased with the book, but I'm not so pleased with the answer I've just given you. Why do I write? The real answer is this: I write because I want to be loved."

The journalist eyed me suspiciously: What kind of confession was this?

"I write because when I was an adolescent, I was useless at football, I didn't have a car or much of an allowance, and I was pretty much of a weed."

I was making a huge effort to keep talking. The conversation with Marie had reminded me of a past that no longer made any sense; I needed to talk about