The Sonderberg Case (10 page)

I love my father. I want him to know that. For all time.

Alika and I went to Long Island for a few days, to the home of her friends Alex and Emilie Bernstein, who are both movie actors. We needed it. Our relationship has become
increasingly tense and strained. If it seems like we still understand each other, it’s because we hardly speak to each other. As soon as I utter a sentence I know it will be misunderstood. I need only give an opinion for it to trigger in my wife a reaction that’s not only offended but offensive. This isn’t her fault or mine. It’s life. Passionate love is for adolescents. We’ve outgrown that phase.

The first day begins without incident: the gods are protecting us. We take our meals together, and Emilie, curious by nature, asks what we have on our minds these days.

“The politics of the American administration,” Alex proclaims. “It’s appalling. The whole world is against us. You need only go to Europe to become aware of it.”

“Whereas for me, it’s the theater, of course,” Emilie says.

“Whereas I’m troubled by both these things,” Alika replies.

“Whereas for me,” I say, “I deplore the fact that the two are linked. The politics of theater is as sickening as the theater of politics.”

“There, that’s who I have to live with,” Alika replies, “a punster.”

They all laugh. And we change the subject. I withdraw into my shell.

At dinner, we are joined by an Anglo-French couple. We talk about journalism. Is it useful to a democratic society? Honest or corrupt like everything else? A reliable source of information, a necessary tool for forming an opinion? Emilie and I stand up for the media, primarily because they represent
an indispensable element in protecting individual and collective liberties. Alika is our most violent opponent. I’ve rarely seen her as fierce in her opinions. For her, even the best daily papers disgrace their readers. And she goes on to quote and appropriate the remark of a big British press baron concerning a well-known magazine: “It isn’t what it used to be … and actually it never was.” And this applies to all publications, she tries to convince us, with no exceptions. Alex agrees with her. So do their guests. Emilie and I valiantly stand up to them. Alika flares up.

“How can the two of you stick up for all those miserable newspapers and weeklies? I’m prepared to think you don’t read them! Even the cultural pages are overpoliticized. As for the literary supplements, what do they tell us except ‘long live the buddy-buddy network’? What kind of moral rectitude is that? And what about the right to truth?”

I admit I’m surprised. I didn’t expect this flow of haughty words from her mouth. Clearly we’re not in the same camp anymore.

Calm and resolute, Emilie pursues her counterattack and cites the facts: Can we really suspect such and such a writer, at such and such a newspaper, of dishonesty? And can we honestly question the integrity of such and such a professor, who writes in such and such a journal?

Without the slightest compunction, Alika answers with a shrug of the shoulders. “Yes we can. And we should.”

“In other words,” Emilie says, “they’re all guilty until proven innocent, is that it?”

“No,” Alika concedes. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I maintain that, as a reader, I have the right to wonder about their conception of ethics.”

After the meal, we retire to our bedroom. It is late. I feel like sleeping. But I know I won’t get to sleep. Alika is angry. If I understand correctly, she feels I shouldn’t have challenged her views.

“You allied yourself with Emilie. You make a lovely couple.”

“Don’t be silly. Are you jealous?”

“No … Yes … I resent you for ruining our stay here.”

“Because I’m of the same opinion as Emilie about one specific point?”

“No, because you’re closer to her than to me.”

“To her? Of course not. Only to some of her ideas.”

“In the past we used to agree on every subject.”

“There were some we had never talked about. Proof is …”

“In the past, you loved me.”

“And now?”

“Now you love me less. And differently.”

“Don’t tell me you think I’m in love with Emilie!”

“No. I just think you could be. And that you don’t love me the way you used to.”

A pregnant silence. A restless night. We each stay on our own side of the bed.

ON THE SUBJECT OF JEALOUSY …

Enter the beautiful and fearsome Kathy, one of the secretaries from the cultural pages: a svelte, lithe brunette in her early thirties, with wavy hair and gleeful eyes, she is outspoken and a malicious gossip. She is a workaholic who loves to complain of being treated as a slave (by herself?). According to rumor—a rumor she believes, perhaps rightly—half the men on the editorial staff are madly in love with her. And she loves to joke around about it.

“Oh,” she often sighs, “all these broken hearts …”

I’ve been one of her favorite targets for a long time. She never ceases to provoke me, perhaps because I’m not in her circle of suitors. She calls me the “ascetic,” and I have neither the courage nor the desire to set her straight.

One evening, I return from the trial and think I’m alone in my office. I set to work on my article when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Kathy. She’s come from upstairs where the editors are preparing the layout for the literary supplement.

“Tell me you’re in love with me.”

“I hate lies.”

“Well, then, tell me you love me a little.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I could use it.”

I could reply that I could use someone saying that to me, too, but I prefer to cut the conversation short.

“I have to finish this piece. Afterward I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear.”

“I have time. I’ll wait for you.”

I know that Alika will be coming home late tonight: she’s attending the rehearsal of a play directed by a girlfriend.

“I’m working on my third draft. I’m afraid I’ll still be at it for a good hour.”

“Show it to me.”

Still standing, she grabs my pages, frowns as she reads them, picks up a pen, makes a few corrections, and hands them back.

“Here’s your article. Now it’s good.”

She’s right, of course.

“As a reward, let’s get a cup of coffee.”

“Okay. Where should we go?”

“Well, what about my place?”

I look at her, stunned.

“You know full well that I’m not free, that I’m married.”

“There’s nothing I don’t know about you. But don’t be afraid: I don’t intend to take your virginity.”

“Too bad,” I say.

We burst out laughing. I’m embarrassed; she’s impertinent.
Then we leave the editorial offices. Her apartment isn’t very far away. We walk there.

It’s a spring evening, calm and bright. The sidewalks are congested with students in shirtsleeves. The restaurants and a number of shops are still open. What would Alika say if she suddenly encountered us? It’s best not to think about it. Besides, we’ve arrived.

“I live on the sixth floor. Should we wait for the elevator? It’s pretty slow.”

“Let’s walk up.”

Kathy is more energetic than I am. I struggle as I follow her up. Hers is a modest apartment, tastefully furnished. Living room, kitchen, and bedroom. I flop down on the couch, out of breath. I ask her if she knows the story about Sarah Bernhardt; she lived on the ground floor when she was young and on the fifth floor when she was old. “I’ve always wanted a man’s heart to race when he comes to see me,” she used to say.

“I’m not old yet,” says Kathy. “And if your heart is thumping, let me hear it.”

“You’re not a physician, as far as I know.”

“But I might be a healer.”

She brings us coffee and sits down next to me.

“What are you thinking about? Your article?”

“No. I’m thinking about Werner.”

“The murderer?”

“The young man accused of murder.”

“Why are you thinking about him right now and not about me?”

“I’m wondering whether you would make love to him if you saw him smile.”

“A weird question. People often say there’s an erotic component in every act of murder. If you want, if I have the opportunity, I’m prepared to experiment, as we used to say in college. And I’ll get back to you with the results.”

“In this particular instance, theory will do. I’m not interested in the practical applications.”

Kathy puts her cup down on the table and, while scrutinizing me at length with an amused look, sharply cross-examines me in a mocking tone.

“We’ve known each other for quite some time, my friend. You’ve never courted me; you avoid me. Actually, you’re not my type; don’t worry: I’m not trying to seduce you, but I find you interesting. I look at you. I observe you. You intrigue me. You live in your own world; strangers are not welcome. Agitated, nervous, tormented: you’re never satisfied, never happy. Why do you remain so closed, stubborn, insensitive to warmth and the beauty of the world? Why do you turn down simple pleasures? Why do you reject what is offered to you? Why do you cling to your solitude? It’s as if you see danger, or an enemy, in every woman. And betrayal in every moment of joy. Why? I’d like to understand.”

What could I answer?

I didn’t expect this verbal avalanche with solemn overtones
coming from Kathy. Usually she expresses herself more flippantly and insouciantly. Does she ever speak this bluntly with other colleagues on the paper? Is she doing me a favor? To tell the truth, even if I don’t want to admit it to myself, I was prepared for something completely different, the beginning of a flirtation perhaps, even if it meant warding her off as far as possible. Yes, I was ready for that. Am I disappointed? By her analysis of my personality, or by her saying that I wasn’t her type? After all, Kathy is attractive. And sensual. Should I have made the first move?

“Why do you behave as though you care about me?”

“Because you’re remote,” she replies, “and remoteness attracts me. Because you’re a stranger—at any rate for me. A strange stranger.”

Suddenly I think of Alika, who would soon be coming home. I look at Kathy, a gaze fraught with remorse.

“All your questions, I can’t answer them. Besides, this isn’t a good time.”

“You mean you’ll answer some other time?”

“Maybe.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I have to get home. But before I go, do you know the touching story of the two drops of water …”

I cut myself off.

“Two drops of water?” She urges me on.

“That talk to each other. One says: How about going off to seek adventure and discover the immensity of the sea? ‘Let’s go,’ says the other. An eternity later, they meet on my
table. You understand? For them, a glass of water is the ocean.”

I head toward the door. She walks over and opens it. And there, on the threshold, driven by the desire for forbidden fruit, I kiss her. Will she try to detain me? If she makes the slightest attempt, will I join her? And make Alika wait? And punish her?

Kathy lets me leave. True, I’m not her type. End of episode? Unless fate decides to add another chapter. But is she
my
type? And what about Alika? Let’s not think about it anymore. As the proverb my grandfather liked to cite goes: What reason fails to accomplish, time will accomplish.

Actually, when it comes to women, I don’t have an easy time. Like children choosing a future profession, for a long time I suffered from chronic indecision. I used to flit from one woman to another, without their realizing it. One day the woman of my dreams was blond; the next, she was dark-haired. Sometimes somber, sometimes sensual. Arrogant in the morning, seductive in the evening.

I have to confess, or at least wonder: if Alika and I have stayed together for so long, perhaps it’s because, as she’s in theater, she manages to incarnate all women, even women who don’t resemble her in the least.

And now, has the time come to change the part, the play, or the tableau? To bring down the curtain? Deep down, I know the answer: we’re only at intermission. I’m very attached to Alika. I’d like to get old by her side. She doesn’t like my articles on the trial, but she’ll come to accept them.

To tell the truth, for the first time in years, I feel good in my new position. Thanks to the trial, for the last few days my name has been on the front page. People talk about me. They’re interested in my opinion. Colleagues, both unfamiliar and familiar, acknowledge me as one of them. Suddenly I’ve become—for how long?—a “member of the brotherhood,” a key player. Has the newspaper taken the place of my wife in my life?

Back in the courtroom. Jury and lawyers, prosecutor and witnesses: the entire dramatis personae are present. Elisabeth Whitecomb, the receptionist in the Mountain Hotel, a chubby but pretty woman, clearly glad to be the center of attention for so many onlookers, describes her brief contacts with the defendant in a prudent and solemn tone of voice. He was wearing a dark gray suit. He seemed more like a young teacher than a student. He looked intelligent, calm. Not very talkative, but courteous.

The prosecutor: “He was alone when you saw him?”

Elisabeth Whitecomb bites her lips in order to better concentrate. “Not at the beginning of his stay. He was with an older man. Someone who looked like a senior official or an industrialist. Wealthy, you could see that from his suit. It was Hans Dunkelman. His uncle. Polite, mannered.”