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"You know. Everyone knows."
"Possibly, but I still haven't quite grasped what you're saying."
"It was an American writer who first mentioned it. It's the most powerful bank in the world, and you'll find it in every sphere of life."
"Yes, but I come from a country without a literary tradition. What favors could I do for anyone?"
"That doesn't matter in the least. Let me give you an example: I know that you're an up-and-coming writer and that, one day, you'll be very influential. I know this because, like you, I too was once ambitious, independent, honest. I no longer have the energy I once had, but I want to help you because I can't or don't want to grind to a halt just yet. I'm not dreaming about retirement, I'm still dreaming about the fascinating struggle that is life, power, and glory.
"I start making deposits in your account--not cash deposits, you understand, but contacts. I introduce you to such-and-such a person, I arrange certain deals, as long as they're legal. You know that you owe me something, but I never ask you for anything."
"And then one day..."
"Exactly. One day, I'll ask you for a favor and you could, of course, say no, but you're conscious of being in my debt. You do what I ask, I continue to help you, and other people see that you're a decent, loyal sort of person and so they too make deposits in your account--always in the form of contacts, because this world is made up of contacts and nothing else. They too will one day ask you for a favor, and you will respect and help the people who have helped you, and, in time, you'll have spread your net worldwide, you'll know everyone you need to know and your influence will keep on growing."
"I could refuse to do what you ask me to do."
"You could. The Favor Bank is a risky investment, just like any other bank. You refuse to grant the favor I asked you, in the belief that I helped you because you deserved to be helped, because you're the best and everyone should automatically recognize your talent. Fine, I say thank you very much and ask someone else into whose account I've also made various deposits; but from then on, everyone knows, without me having to say a word, that you are not to be trusted.
"You'll grow only half as much as you could have grown, and certainly not as much as you would have liked to. At a certain point, your life will begin to decline, you got halfway, but not all the way, you are half-happy and half-sad, neither frustrated nor fulfilled. You're neither cold nor hot, you're lukewarm, and as an evangelist in some holy book says: 'Lukewarm things are not pleasing to the palate.'"
The publisher places a lot of deposits--or contacts--into my account at the Favor Bank. I learn, I suffer, my books are translated into French, and, in the tradition of that country, the stranger is welcomed. Not only that, the stranger is an enormous success! Ten years on, I have a large apartment with a view over the Seine, I am loved by my readers and loathed by the critics (who adored me until I sold my first 100,000 copies, but, from that moment on, I ceased to be "a misunderstood genius"). I always repay promptly any deposits made and soon I too am a lender--of contacts. My influence grows. I learn to ask for favors and to do the favors others ask of me.
Esther gets permission to work as a journalist in France. Apart from the normal conflicts in any marriage, I am contented. I understand for the first time that all the frustrations I felt about previous love affairs and marriages had nothing to do with the women involved, but with my own bitterness. Esther, however, was the only woman who understood one very simple thing: in order to be able to find her, I first had to find myself. We have been together for eight years; I believe she is the love of my life, and although I do occasionally (or, to be honest, frequently) fall in love with other women who cross my path, I never consider the possibility of divorce. I never ask her if she knows about my extramarital affairs. She never makes any comment on the subject.
That is why I am astonished when, as we are leaving a cinema, she tells me that she has asked her magazine if she can file a report on a civil war in Africa.
What are you saying?"
"That I want to be a war correspondent."
"You're mad. You don't need to do that. You're already doing the work you want to do now. You earn good money--not that you need that money to live on. You have all the contacts you need in the Favor Bank. You have talent and you've earned your colleagues' respect."
"All right then, let's just say I need to be alone."
"Because of me?"
"We've built our lives together. I love my man and he loves me, even though he's not always the most faithful of husbands."
"You've never said anything about that before."
"Because it doesn't matter to me. I mean, what is fidelity? The feeling that I possess a body and a soul that aren't mine? Do you imagine I haven't been to bed with other men during all these years we've been together?"
"I don't care and I don't want to know."
"Well, neither do I."
"So, what's all this about wanting to write about a war in some godforsaken part of the world?"
"As I said, I need to."
"Haven't you got everything you need?"
"I have everything a woman could want."
"What's wrong with your life then?"
"Precisely that. I have everything, but I'm not happy. And I'm not the only one either; over the years, I've met and interviewed all kinds of people: the rich, the poor, the powerful, and those who just make do. I've seen the same infinite bitterness in everyone's eyes, a sadness which people weren't always prepared to acknowledge, but
