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From then on, I am no longer the man lost in the storm: I find myself through my readers, I understand what I wrote when I see that others understand it too, but never before. On a few rare occasions, like the one that is just about to happen, I manage to look those people in the eye and then I understand that my soul is not alone.
At the appointed time, I start signing books. There is brief eye-to-eye contact and a feeling of solidarity, joy, and mutual respect. There are handshakes, a few letters, gifts, comments. Ninety minutes later, I ask for a ten-minute rest, no one complains, and my publisher (as has become traditional at my book signings in France) orders champagne to be served to everyone still in line. (I have tried to get this tradition adopted in other countries, but they always say that French champagne is too expensive and end up serving mineral water instead. But that, too, shows respect for those still waiting.)
I return to the table. Two hours later, contrary to what anyone observing the event might think, I am not tired, but full of energy; I could carry on all night. The shop, however, has closed its doors and the queue is dwindling. There are forty people left inside, they become thirty, twenty, eleven, five, four, three, two...and suddenly our eyes meet.
"I waited until the end. I wanted to be the last because I have a message for you."
I don't know what to say. I glance to one side, at the publishers, salespeople, and booksellers, who are all talking enthusiastically; soon we will go out to eat and drink and share the excitement of the day and describe some of the strange things that happened while I was signing books.
I have never seen him before, but I know who he is. I take the book from him and write: "For Mikhail, with best wishes."
I say nothing. I must not lose him--a word, a sentence, a sudden movement might cause him to leave 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 wonder, at the same time, why she's helping me, when she knows that a meeting with this young man could also mean that I'll find out where my wife is living.
We arrive. Mikhail makes a point of sitting far away from me; perhaps he wants to avoid getting caught up in a conversation with me. Laughter, champagne, vodka, and caviar--I glance at the menu and am horrified to see that the bookseller is spending about a thousand dollars on the entrees alone. There is general chatter; Mikhail is asked what he thought of the afternoon's event; he says he enjoyed it; he is asked about the book; he says he enjoyed it very much. Then he is forgotten, and attention turns to me--was I happy with how things had gone, was the queue organized to my liking, had the security team
