Invisible

I

I shook his hand for the first time in the spring of 1967. I was a second-year student at Columbia then, a know-nothing boy with an appetite for books and a belief (or delusion) that one day I would become good enough to call myself a poet, and because I read poetry, I had already met his namesake in Dante’s hell, a dead man shuffling through the final verses of the twenty-eighth canto of the Inferno. Bertran de Born, the twelfth-century Provençal poet, carrying his severed head by the hair as it sways back and forth like a lantern-surely one of the most grotesque images in that book-length catalogue of hallucinations and torments. Dante was a staunch defender of de Born’s writing, but he condemned him to eternal damnation for having counseled Prince Henry to rebel against his father, King Henry II, and because de Born caused division between father and son and turned them into enemies, Dante’s ingenious punishment was to divide de Born from himself. Hence the decapitated body wailing in the underworld, asking the Florentine traveler if any pain could be more terrible than his.

When he introduced himself as Rudolf Born, my thoughts immediately turned to the poet. Any relation to Bertran? I asked.

Ah, he replied, that wretched creature who lost his head. Perhaps, but it doesn’t seem likely, I’m afraid. No de. You need to be nobility for that, and the sad truth is I’m anything but noble.

I have no memory of why I was there. Someone must have asked me to go along, but who that person was has long since evaporated from my mind. I can’t even recall where the party was held-uptown or downtown, in an apartment or a loft-nor my reason for accepting the invitation in the first place, since I tended to shun large gatherings at the time, put off by the din of chattering crowds, embarrassed by the shyness that would overcome me in the presence of people I didn’t know. But that night, inexplicably, I said yes, and off I went with my forgotten friend to wherever it was he took me.

What I remember is this: at one point in the evening, I wound up standing alone in a corner of the room. I was smoking a cigarette and looking out at the people, dozens upon dozens of young bodies crammed into the confines of that space, listening to the mingled roar of words and laughter, wondering what on earth I was doing there, and thinking that perhaps it was time to leave. An ashtray was sitting on a radiator to my left, and as I turned to snuff out my cigarette, I saw that the butt-filled receptacle was rising toward me, cradled in the palm of a man’s hand. Without my noticing them, two people had just sat down on the radiator, a man and a woman, both of them older than I was, no doubt older than anyone else in the room-he around thirty-five, she in her late twenties or early thirties.

They made an incongruous pair, I felt, Born in a rumpled, somewhat soiled white linen suit with an equally rumpled white shirt under the jacket and the woman (whose name turned out to be Margot) dressed all in black. When I thanked him for the ashtray, he gave me a brief, courteous nod and said My pleasure with the slightest hint of a foreign accent. French or German, I couldn’t tell which, since his English was almost flawless. What else did I see in those first moments? Pale skin, unkempt reddish hair (cut shorter than the hair of most men at the time), a broad, handsome face with nothing particularly distinctive about it (a generic face, somehow, a face that would become invisible in any crowd), and steady brown eyes, the probing eyes of a man who seemed to be afraid of nothing. Neither thin nor heavy, neither tall nor short, but for all that an impression of physical strength, perhaps because of the thickness of his hands. As for Margot, she sat without stirring a muscle, staring into space as if her central mission in life was to look bored. But attractive, deeply attractive to my twenty-year-old self, with her black hair, black turtleneck sweater, black mini skirt, black leather boots, and heavy black makeup around her large green eyes. Not a beauty, perhaps, but a simulacrum of beauty, as if the style and sophistication of her appearance embodied some feminine ideal of the age.

Born said that he and Margot had been on the verge of leaving, but then they spotted me standing alone in the corner, and because I looked so unhappy, they decided to come over and cheer me up-just to make sure I didn’t slit my throat before the night was out. I had no idea how to interpret his remark. Was this man insulting me, I wondered, or was he actually trying to show some kindness to a lost young stranger? The words themselves had a certain playful, disarming quality, but the look in Born’s eyes when he delivered them was cold and detached, and I couldn’t help feeling that he was testing me, taunting me, for reasons I utterly failed to understand.

I shrugged, gave him a little smile, and said: Believe it or not, I’m having the time of my life.

That was when he stood up, shook my hand, and told me his name. After my question about Bertran de Born, he introduced me to Margot, who smiled at me in silence and then returned to her job of staring blankly into space.

Judging by your age, Born said, and judging by your knowledge of obscure poets, I would guess you’re a student. A student of literature, no doubt. NYU or Columbia?

Columbia.

Columbia, he sighed. Such a dreary place.

Do you know it?

I’ve been teaching at the School of International Affairs since September. A visiting professor with a one-year appointment. Thankfully, it’s April now, and I’ll be going back to Paris in two months.

So you’re French.

By circumstance, inclination, and passport. But Swiss by birth.

French Swiss or German Swiss? I’m hearing a little of both in your voice.

Born made a little clucking noise with his tongue and then looked me closely in the eye. You have a sensitive ear, he said. As a matter of fact, I am both-the hybrid product of a German-speaking mother and a French-speaking father. I grew up switching back and forth between the two languages.

Unsure of what to say next, I paused for a moment and then asked an innocuous question: And what are you teaching at our dismal university?

Disaster.

That’s a rather broad subject, wouldn’t you say?

More specifically, the disasters of French colonialism. I teach one course on the loss of Algeria and another on the loss of Indochina.

That lovely war we’ve inherited from you.

Never underestimate the importance of war. War is the purest, most vivid expression of the human soul.

You’re beginning to sound like our headless poet.

Oh?

I take it you haven’t read him.

Not a word. I only know about him from that passage in Dante.

De Born was a good poet, maybe even an excellent poet-but deeply disturbing. He wrote some charming love poems and a moving lament after the death of Prince Henry, but his real subject, the one thing he seemed to care about with any genuine passion, was war. He absolutely reveled in it.

I see, Born said, giving me an ironic smile. A man after my own heart.

I’m talking about the pleasure of seeing men break each other’s skulls open, of watching castles crumble and burn, of seeing the dead with lances protruding from their sides. It’s gory stuff, believe me, and de Born doesn’t flinch. The mere thought of a battlefield fills him with happiness.

I take it you have no interest in becoming a soldier.

None. I’d rather go to jail than fight in Vietnam.

And assuming you avoid both prison and the army, what plans?

No plans. Just to push on with what I’m doing and hope it works out.

Which is?

Penmanship. The fine art of scribbling.

I thought as much. When Margot saw you across the room, she said to me: Look at that boy with the sad eyes and the brooding face-I’ll bet you he’s a poet. Is that what you are, a poet?

I write poems, yes. And also some book reviews for the Spectator.

The undergraduate rag.

Everyone has to start somewhere.

Interesting…

Not terribly. Half the people I know want to be writers.

Why do you say want? If you’re already doing it, then it’s not about the future. It already exists in the present.

Because it’s still too early to know if I’m good enough.

Do you get paid for your articles?

Of course not. It’s a college paper.

Once they start paying you for your work, then you’ll know you’re good enough.

Before I could answer, Born suddenly turned to Margot and announced: You were right, my angel. Your young man is a poet.

Margot lifted her eyes toward me, and with a neutral, appraising look, she spoke for the first time, pronouncing her words with a foreign accent that proved to be much thicker than her companion’s-an unmistakable French accent. I’m always right, she said. You should know that by now, Rudolf.

A poet, Born continued, still addressing Margot, a sometime reviewer of books, and a student at the dreary fortress on the heights, which means he’s probably our neighbor. But he has no name. At least not one that I’m aware of.

It’s Walker, I said, realizing that I had neglected to introduce myself when we shook hands. Adam Walker.

Adam Walker, Born repeated, turning from Margot and looking at me as he flashed another one of his enigmatic smiles. A good, solid American name. So strong, so bland, so dependable. Adam Walker. The lonely bounty hunter in a CinemaScope Western, prowling the desert with a shotgun and six-shooter on his chestnut-brown gelding. Or else the kindhearted, straight-arrow surgeon in a daytime soap opera, tragically in love with two women at the same time.

It sounds solid, I replied, but nothing in America is solid. The name was given to my grandfather when he landed at Ellis Island in nineteen hundred. Apparently, the immigration authorities found Walshinksky too difficult to handle, so they dubbed him Walker.

What a country, Born said. Illiterate officials robbing a man of his identity with a simple stroke of the pen.

Not his identity, I said. Just his name. He worked as a kosher butcher on the Lower East Side for thirty years.

There was more, much more after that, a good hour’s worth of talk that bounced around aimlessly from one subject to the next. Vietnam and the growing opposition to the war. The differences between New York and Paris. The Kennedy assassination. The American embargo on trade with Cuba. Impersonal topics, yes, but Born had strong opinions about everything, often wild, unorthodox opinions, and because he couched his words in a half-mocking, slyly condescending tone, I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. At certain moments, he sounded like a hawkish right-winger; at other moments, he advanced ideas that made him sound like a bomb-throwing anarchist. Was he trying to provoke me, I asked myself, or was this normal procedure for him, the way he went about entertaining himself on a Saturday night? Meanwhile, the inscrutable Margot had risen from her perch on the radiator to bum a cigarette from me, and after that she remained standing, contributing little to the conversation, next to nothing in fact, but studying me carefully every time I spoke, her eyes fixed on me with the unblinking curiosity of a child. I confess that I enjoyed being looked at by her, even if it made me squirm a little. There was something vaguely erotic about it, I found, but I wasn’t experienced enough back then to know if she was trying to send me a signal or simply looking for the sake of looking. The truth was that I had never run across people like this before, and because the two of them were so alien to me, so unfamiliar in their affect, the longer I talked to them, the more unreal they seemed to become-as if they were imaginary characters in a story that was taking place in my head.

I can’t recall whether we were drinking, but if the party was anything like the others I had gone to since landing in New York, there must have been jugs of cheap red wine and an abundant stock of paper cups, which means that we were probably growing drunker and drunker as we continued to talk. I wish I could dredge up more of what we said, but 1967 was a long time ago, and no matter how hard I struggle to find the words and gestures and fugitive overtones of that initial encounter with Born, I mostly draw blanks. Nevertheless, a few vivid moments stand out in the blur. Born reaching into the inside pocket of his linen jacket, for example, and withdrawing the butt of a half-smoked cigar, which he proceeded to light with a match while informing me that it was a Montecristo, the best of all Cuban cigars-banned in America then, as they still are now-which he had managed to obtain through a personal connection with someone who worked at the French embassy in Washington. He then went on to say a few kind words about Castro-this from the same man who just minutes earlier had defended Johnson, McNamara, and Westmoreland for their heroic work in battling the menace of communism in Vietnam. I remember feeling amused at the sight of the disheveled political scientist pulling out that half-smoked cigar and said he reminded me of the owner of a South American coffee plantation who had gone mad after spending too many years in the jungle. Born laughed at the remark, quickly adding that I wasn’t far from the truth, since he had spent the bulk of his childhood in Guatemala. When I asked him to tell me more, however, he waved me off with the words another time.

I’ll give you the whole story, he said, but in quieter surroundings. The whole story of my incredible life so far. You’ll see, Mr. Walker. One day, you’ll wind up writing my biography. I guarantee it.

Born’s cigar, then, and my role as his future Boswell, but also an image of Margot touching my face with her right hand and whispering: Be good to yourself. That must have come toward the end, when we were about to leave or had already gone downstairs, but I have no memory of leaving and no memory of saying good-bye to them. All those things have been blotted out, erased by the work of forty years. They were two strangers I met at a noisy party one spring night in the New York of my youth, a New York that no longer exists, and that was that. I could be wrong, but I’m fairly certain that we didn’t even bother to exchange phone numbers.

I assumed I would never see them again. Born had been teaching at Columbia for seven months, and since I hadn’t crossed paths with him in all that time, it seemed unlikely that I would run into him now. But odds don’t count when it comes to actual events, and just because a thing is unlikely to happen, that doesn’t mean it won’t. Two days after the party, I walked into the West End Bar following my final class of the afternoon, wondering if I might not find one of my friends there. The West End was a dingy, cavernous hole with more than a dozen booths and tables, a vast oval bar in the center of the front room, and an area near the entrance where you could buy bad cafeteria-style lunches and dinners-my hangout of choice, frequented by students, drunks, and neighborhood regulars. It happened to be a warm, sun-filled afternoon, and consequently few people were present at that hour. As I made my tour around the bar in search of a familiar face, I saw Born sitting alone in a booth at the back. He was reading a German newsmagazine (Der Spiegel, I think), smoking another one of his Cuban cigars, and ignoring the half-empty glass of beer that stood on the table to his left. Once again, he was wearing his white suit-or perhaps a different one, since the jacket looked cleaner and less rumpled than the one he’d been wearing Saturday night-but the white shirt was gone, replaced by something red-a deep, solid red, midway between brick and crimson.

Curiously, my first impulse was to turn around and walk out without saying hello to him. There is much to be explored in this hesitation, I believe, for it seems to suggest that I already understood that I would do well to keep my distance from Born, that allowing myself to get involved with him could possibly lead to trouble. How did I know this? I had spent little more than an hour in his company, but even in that short time I had sensed there was something off about him, something vaguely repellent. That wasn’t to deny his other qualities-his charm, his intelligence, his humor-but underneath it all he had emanated a darkness and a cynicism that had thrown me off balance, had left me feeling that he wasn’t a man who could be trusted. Would I have formed a different impression of him if I hadn’t despised his politics? Impossible to say. My father and I disagreed on nearly every political issue of the moment, but that didn’t prevent me from thinking he was fundamentally a good person-or at least not a bad person. But Born wasn’t good. He was witty and eccentric and unpredictable, but to contend that war is the purest expression of the human soul automatically excludes you from the realm of goodness. And if he had spoken those words in jest, as a way of challenging yet another anti-militaristic student to fight back and denounce his position, then he was simply perverse.

Mr. Walker, he said, looking up from his magazine and gesturing for me to join him at his table. Just the man I’ve been looking for.

I could have invented an excuse and told him I was late for another appointment, but I didn’t. That was the other half of the complex equation that represented my dealings with Born. Wary as I might have been, I was also fascinated by this peculiar, unreadable person, and the fact that he seemed genuinely glad to have stumbled into me stoked the fires of my vanity-that invisible cauldron of self-regard and ambition that simmers and burns in each one of us. Whatever reservations I had about him, whatever doubts I harbored about his dubious character, I couldn’t stop myself from wanting him to like me, to think that I was something more than a plodding, run-of-the-mill American undergraduate, to see the promise I hoped I had in me but which I doubted nine out of every ten minutes of my waking life.

Once I had slid into the booth, Born looked at me across the table, disgorged a large puff of smoke from his cigar, and smiled. You made a favorable impression on Margot the other night, he said.

I was impressed by her too, I answered.

You might have noticed that she doesn’t say much.

Her English isn’t terribly good. It’s hard to express yourself in a language that gives you trouble.

Her French is perfectly fluent, but she doesn’t say much in French either.

Well, words aren’t everything.

A strange comment from a man who fancies himself a writer.

I’m talking about Margot-

Yes, Margot. Exactly. Which brings me to my point. A woman prone to long silences, but she talked a blue streak on our way home from the party Saturday night.

Interesting, I said, not certain where the conversation was going. And what loosened her tongue?

You, my boy. She’s taken a real liking to you, but you should also know that she’s extremely worried.

Worried? Why on earth should she be worried? She doesn’t even know me.

Perhaps not, but she’s gotten it into her head that your future is at risk.

Everyone’s future is at risk. Especially American males in their late teens and early twenties, as you well know. But as long as I don’t flunk out of school, the draft can’t touch me until after I graduate. I wouldn’t want to bet on it, but it’s possible the war will be over by then.

Don’t bet on it, Mr. Walker. This little skirmish is going to drag on for years.

I lit up a Chesterfield and nodded. For once I agree with you, I said.

Anyway, Margot wasn’t talking about Vietnam. Yes, you might land in jail-or come home in a box two or three years from now-but she wasn’t thinking about the war. She believes you’re too good for this world, and because of that, the world will eventually crush you.

I don’t follow her reasoning.

She thinks you need help. Margot might not possess the quickest brain in the Western world, but she meets a boy who says he’s a poet, and the first word that comes to her is starvation.

That’s absurd. She has no idea what she’s talking about.

Forgive me for contradicting you, but when I asked you at the party what your plans were, you said you didn’t have any. Other than your nebulous ambition to write poetry, of course. How much do poets earn, Mr. Walker?

Most of the time nothing. If you get lucky, every now and then someone might throw you a few pennies.

Sounds like starvation to me.

I never said I planned to make my living as a writer. I’ll have to find a job.

Such as?

It’s difficult to say. I could work for a publishing house or a magazine. I could translate books. I could write articles and reviews. One of those things, or else several of them in combination. It’s too early to know, and until I’m out in the world, there’s no point in losing any sleep over it, is there?

Like it or not, you’re in the world now, and the sooner you learn how to fend for yourself, the better off you’ll be.

Why this sudden concern? We’ve only just met, and why should you care about what happens to me?

Because Margot asked me to help you, and since she rarely asks me for anything, I feel honor-bound to obey her wishes.

Tell her thank you, but there’s no need for you to put yourself out. I can get by on my own.

Stubborn, aren’t you? Born said, resting his nearly spent cigar on the rim of the ashtray and then leaning forward until his face was just a few inches from mine. If I offered you a job, are you telling me you’d turn it down?

It depends on what the job is.

That remains to be seen. I have several ideas, but I haven’t made a decision yet. Maybe you can help me.

I’m not sure I understand.

My father died ten months ago, and it appears I’ve inherited a considerable amount of money. Not enough to buy a château or an airline company, but enough to make a small difference in the world. I could engage you to write my biography, of course, but I think it’s a little too soon for that. I’m still only thirty-six, and I find it unseemly to talk about a man’s life before he gets to fifty. What, then? I’ve considered starting a publishing house, but I’m not sure I have the stomach for all the long-range planning that would entail. A magazine, on the other hand, strikes me as much more fun. A monthly, or perhaps a quarterly, but something fresh and daring, a publication that would stir people up and cause controversy with every issue. What do you think of that, Mr. Walker? Would working on a magazine be of any interest to you?

Of course it would. The only question is: why me? You’re going back to France in a couple of months, so I assume you’re talking about a French magazine. My French isn’t bad, but it isn’t good enough for what you’d need. And besides, I go to college here in New York. I can’t just pick up and move.

Who said anything about moving? Who said anything about a French magazine? If I had a good American staff to run things here, I could pop over every once in a while to check up on them, but essentially I’d stay out of it. I have no interest in directing a magazine myself. I have my own work, my own career, and I wouldn’t have the time for it. My sole responsibility would be to put up the money-and then hope to turn a profit.

You’re a political scientist, and I’m a literature student. If you’re thinking of starting a political magazine, then count me out. We’re on opposite sides of the fence, and if I tried to work for you, it would turn into a fiasco. But if you’re talking about a literary magazine, then yes, I’d be very interested.

Just because I teach international relations and write about government and public policy doesn’t mean I’m a philistine. I care about art as much as you do, Mr. Walker, and I wouldn’t ask you to work on a magazine if it wasn’t a literary magazine.

How do you know I can handle it?

I don’t. But I have a hunch.

It doesn’t make any sense. Here you are offering me a job and you haven’t read a word I’ve written.

Not so. Just this morning I read four of your poems in the most recent number of the Columbia Review and six of your articles in the student paper. The piece on Melville was particularly good, I thought, and I was moved by your little poem about the graveyard. How many more skies above me / Until this one vanishes as well? Impressive.

I’m glad you think so. Even more impressive is that you acted so quickly.

That’s the way I am. Life is too short for dawdling.

My third-grade teacher used to tell us the same thing-with exactly those words.

A wonderful place, this America of yours. You’ve had an excellent education, Mr. Walker.

Born laughed at the inanity of his remark, took a sip of beer, and then leaned back to ponder the idea he had set in motion.

What I want you to do, he finally said, is draw up a plan, a prospectus. Tell me about the work that would appear in the magazine, the length of each issue, the cover art, the design, the frequency of publication, what name you’d want to give it, and so on. Leave it at my office when you’re finished. I’ll look it over, and if I like your ideas, we’ll be in business.

Young as I might have been, I had enough understanding of the world to realize that Born could have been playing me for a dupe. How often did you wander into a bar, bump into a man you had met only once, and walk out with the chance to start a magazine-especially when the you in question was a twenty-year-old nothing who had yet to prove himself on any front? It was too outlandish to be believed. In all likelihood, Born had raised my hopes only in order to crush them, and I was fully expecting him to toss my prospectus into the garbage and tell me he wasn’t interested. Still, on the off chance that he meant what he’d said, that he was honestly intending to keep his word, I felt I should give it a try. What did I have to lose? A day of thinking and writing at the most, and if Born wound up rejecting my proposal, then so be it.

Bracing myself against disappointment, I set to work that very night. Beyond listing half a dozen potential names for the magazine, however, I didn’t make much headway. Not because I was confused, and not because I wasn’t full of ideas, but for the simple reason that I had neglected to ask Born how much money he was willing to put into the project. Everything hinged on the size of his investment, and until I knew what his intentions were, how could I discuss any of the myriad points he had raised that afternoon: the quality of the paper, the length and frequency of the issues, the binding, the possible inclusion of art, and how much (if anything) he was prepared to pay the contributors? Literary magazines came in numerous shapes and guises, after all, from the mimeographed, stapled underground publications edited by young poets in the East Village to the stolid academic quarterlies to more commercial enterprises like the Evergreen Review to the sumptuous objets backed by well-heeled angels who lost thousands with every issue. I would have to talk to Born again, I realized, and so instead of drawing up a prospectus, I wrote him a letter explaining my problem. It was such a sad, pathetic document-We have to talk about money-that I decided to include something else in the envelope, just to convince him that I wasn’t the out-and-out dullard I appeared to be. After our brief exchange about Bertran de Born on Saturday night, I thought it might amuse him to read one of the more savage works by the twelfth-century poet. I happened to own a paperback anthology of the troubadours-in English only-and my initial idea was simply to type up one of the poems from the book. When I began reading through the translation, however, it struck me as clumsy and inept, a rendering that failed to do justice to the strange and ugly power of the poem, and even though I didn’t know a word of Provençal, I figured I could turn out something better working from a French translation. The next morning, I found what I was looking for in Butler Library: an edition of the complete de Born, with the original Provençal on the left and literal prose versions in French on the right. It took me several hours to complete the job (if I’m not mistaken, I missed a class because of it), and this is what I came up with:

I love the jubilance of springtime

When leaves and flowers burgeon forth,

And I exult in the mirth of bird songs

Resounding through the woods;

And I relish seeing the meadows

Adorned with tents and pavilions;

And great is my happiness

When the fields are packed

With armored knights and horses.

And I thrill at the sight of scouts

Forcing men and women to flee with their belongings;

And gladness fills me when they are chased

By a dense throng of armed men;

And my heart soars

When I behold mighty castles under siege

As their ramparts crumble and collapse

With troops massed at the edge of the moat

And strong, solid barriers

Hemming in the target on all sides.

And I am likewise overjoyed

When a baron leads the assault,

Mounted on his horse, armed and unafraid,

Thus giving strength to his men

Through his courage and valor.

And once the battle has begun

Each of them should be prepared

To follow him readily,

For no man can be a man

Until he has delivered and received

Blow upon blow.

In the thick of combat we will see

Maces, swords, shields, and many-colored helmets

Split and shattered,

And hordes of vassals striking in all directions

As the horses of the dead and wounded

Wander aimlessly around the field.

And once the fighting starts

Let every well-born man think only of breaking

Heads and arms, for better to be dead

Than alive and defeated.

I tell you that eating, drinking, and sleeping

Give me less pleasure than hearing the shout

Of “Charge!” from both sides, and hearing

Cries of “Help! Help!,” and seeing

The great and the ungreat fall together

On the grass and in the ditches, and seeing

Corpses with the tips of broken, streamered lances

Jutting from their sides.

Barons, better to pawn

Your castles, towns, and cities

Than to give up making war.

Late that afternoon, I slipped the envelope with the letter and the poem under the door of Born’s office at the School of International Affairs. I was expecting an immediate response, but several days went by before he contacted me, and his failure to call left me wondering if the magazine project was indeed just a spur-of-the-moment whim that had already played itself out-or, worse, if he had been offended by the poem, thinking that I was equating him with Bertran de Born and thereby indirectly accusing him of being a warmonger. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. When the telephone rang on Friday, he apologized for his silence, explaining that he had gone to Cambridge to deliver a lecture on Wednesday and hadn’t set foot in his office until twenty minutes ago.

You’re perfectly right, he continued, and I’m perfectly stupid for ignoring the question of money when we spoke the other day. How can you give me a prospectus if you don’t know what the budget is? You must think I’m a moron.

Hardly, I said. I’m the one who feels stupid-for not asking you. But I couldn’t tell how serious you were, and I didn’t want to press.

I’m serious, Mr. Walker. I admit that I have a penchant for telling jokes, but only about small, inconsequential things. I would never lead you along on a matter like this.

I’m happy to know that.

So, in answer to your question about money… I’m hoping we’ll do well, of course, but as with every venture of this sort, there’s a large element of risk, and so realistically I have to be prepared to lose every penny of my investment. What it comes down to is the following: How much can I afford to lose? How much of my inheritance can I squander away without causing problems for myself in the future? I’ve given it a good deal of thought since we talked on Monday, and the answer is twenty-five thousand dollars. That’s my limit. The magazine will come out four times a year, and I’ll put up five thousand per issue, plus another five thousand for your annual salary. If we break even at the end of the first year, I’ll fund another year. If we come out in the black, I’ll put the profits into the magazine, and that would keep us going for all or part of a third year. If we lose money, however, then the second year becomes problematical. Say we’re ten thousand dollars in the red. I’ll put up fifteen thousand, and that’s it. Do you understand the principle? I have twenty-five thousand dollars to burn, but I won’t spend a dollar more than that. What do you think? Is it a fair proposition or not?

Extremely fair, and extremely generous. At five thousand dollars an issue, we could put out a first-rate magazine, something to be proud of.

I could dump all the money in your lap tomorrow, of course, but that wouldn’t really help you, would it? Margot is worried about your future, and if you can make this magazine work, then your future is settled. You’ll have a decent job with a decent salary, and during your off-hours you can write all the poems you want, vast epic poems about the mysteries of the human heart, short lyric poems about daisies and buttercups, fiery tracts against cruelty and injustice. Unless you land in jail or get your head blown off, of course, but we won’t dwell on those grim possibilities now.

I don’t know how to thank you…

Don’t thank me. Thank Margot, your guardian angel.

I hope I see her again soon.

I’m certain you will. As long as your prospectus satisfies me, you’ll be seeing as much of her as you like.

I’ll do my best. But if you’re looking for a magazine that will cause controversy and stir people up, I doubt a literary journal is the answer. I hope you understand that.

I do, Mr. Walker. We’re talking about quality… about fine, rarefied things. Art for the happy few.

Or, as Stendhal must have pronounced it: ze appy foo.

Stendhal and Maurice Chevalier. Which reminds me… Speaking of chevaliers, thank you for the poem.

The poem. I forgot all about it-

The poem you translated for me.

What did you think of it?

I found it revolting and brilliant. My faux ancestor was a true samurai madman, wasn’t he? But at least he had the courage of his convictions. At least he knew what he stood for. How little the world has changed since eleven eighty-six, no matter how much we prefer to think otherwise. If the magazine gets off the ground, I think we should publish de Born’s poem in the first issue.

I was both heartened and bewildered. In spite of my doleful predictions, Born had talked about the project as if it was already on the brink of happening, and at this point the prospectus seemed to be little more than an empty formality. No matter what plan I drew up, I felt he was prepared to give it his stamp of approval. And yet, pleased as I was by the thought of taking charge of a well-funded magazine, which on top of everything else would pay me a rather excessive salary, for the life of me I still couldn’t fathom what Born was up to. Was Margot really the cause of this unexpected burst of altruism, this blind faith in a boy with no experience in editing or publishing or business who just one week earlier had been absolutely unknown to him? And even if that was the case, why would the question of my future be of any concern to her? We had barely talked to each other at the party, and although she had looked me over carefully and given me a pat on the cheek, she had come across as a cipher, an utter blank. I couldn’t imagine what she had said to Born that would have made him willing to risk twenty-five thousand dollars on my account. As far as I could tell, the prospect of publishing a magazine left him cold, and because he was indifferent, he was content to turn the whole matter over to me. When I thought back to our conversation at the West End on Monday, I realized that I had probably given him the idea in the first place. I had mentioned that I might look for work with a publisher or a magazine after I graduated from college, and a minute later he was telling me about his inheritance and how he was considering starting up a publishing house or a magazine with his newfound money. What if I had said I wanted to manufacture toasters? Would he have answered that he was thinking about investing in a toaster factory?

It took me longer to finish the prospectus than I’d imagined it would-four or five days, I think, but that was only because I did such a thorough job. I wanted to impress Born with my diligence, and therefore I not only worked out a plan for the contents of each issue (poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, translations, as well as a section at the back for reviews of books, films, music, and art) but provided an exhaustive financial report as well: printing costs, paper costs, binding costs, matters of distribution, print runs, contributors’ fees, newsstand price, subscription rates, and the pros and cons of whether to include ads. All that demanded time and research, telephone calls to printers and binders, conversations with the editors of other magazines, and a new way of thinking on my part, since I had never bothered myself with questions of commerce before. As for the name of the magazine, I wrote down several possibilities, wanting to leave the choice to Born, but my own preference was the Stylus-in honor of Poe, who had tried to launch a magazine with that name not long before his death.

This time, Born responded within twenty-four hours. I took that as an encouraging sign when I picked up the phone and heard his voice, but true to form he didn’t come right out and say what he thought of my plan. That would have been too easy, I suppose, too pedestrian, too straightforward for a man like him, and so he toyed with me for a couple of minutes in order to prolong the suspense, asking me a number of irrelevant and disjointed questions that convinced me he was stalling for time because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings when he rejected my proposal.

I trust you’re in good health, Mr. Walker, he said.

I think so, I replied. Unless I’ve contracted a disease I’m not aware of.

But no symptoms yet.

No, I’m feeling fine.

What about your stomach? No discomfort there?

Not at the moment.

Your appetite is normal, then.

Yes, perfectly normal.

I seem to recall that your grandfather was a kosher butcher. Do you still follow those ancient laws, or have you given them up?

I never followed them in the first place.

No dietary restrictions, then.

No. I eat whatever I want to.

Fish or fowl? Beef or pork? Lamb or veal?

What about them?

Which one do you prefer?

I like them all.

In other words, you aren’t difficult to please.

Not when it comes to food. With other things yes, but not with food.

Then you’re open to anything Margot and I choose to prepare.

I’m not sure I understand.

Tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Are you busy?

No.

Good. Then you’ll come to our apartment for dinner. A celebration is in order, don’t you think?

I’m not sure. What are we celebrating?

The Stylus, my friend. The beginning of what I hope will turn out to be a long and fruitful partnership.

You want to go ahead with it?

Do I have to repeat myself?

You’re saying you liked the prospectus?

Don’t be so dense, boy. Why would I want to celebrate if I hadn’t liked it?

I remember dithering over what present to give them-flowers or a bottle of wine-and opting in the end for flowers. I couldn’t afford a good enough bottle to make a serious impression, and as I thought the matter through, I realized how presumptuous it would have been to offer wine to a couple of French people anyway. If I made the wrong choice-which was more than likely to happen-then I would only be exposing my ignorance, and I didn’t want to start off the evening by embarrassing myself. Flowers on the other hand would be a more direct way of expressing my gratitude to Margot, since flowers were always given to the woman of the house, and if Margot was a woman who liked flowers (which was by no means certain), then she would understand that I was thanking her for having pushed Born to act on my behalf. My telephone conversation with him the previous afternoon had left me in a state of semishock, and even as I walked to their place on the night of the dinner, I was still feeling overwhelmed by the altogether improbable good luck that had fallen down on me. I remember putting on a jacket and tie for the occasion. It was the first time I had dressed up in months, and there I was, Mr. Important himself, walking across the Columbia campus with an enormous bouquet of flowers in my right hand, on my way to eat and talk business with my publisher.

He had sublet an apartment from a professor on a year long sabbatical, a large but decidedly stuffy, overfurnished place in a building on Morningside Drive, just off 116th Street. I believe it was on the third floor, and from the French windows that lined the eastern wall of the living room there was a view of the full, downward expanse of Morningside Park and the lights of Spanish Harlem beyond. Margot answered the door when I knocked, and although I can still see her face and the smile that darted across her lips when I presented her with the flowers, I have no memory of what she was wearing. It could have been black again, but I tend to think not, since I have a vague recollection of surprise, which would suggest there was something different about her from the first time we had met. As we were standing on the threshold together, before she even invited me into the apartment, Margot announced in a low voice that Rudolf was in a foul temper. There was a crisis of some sort back home, and he was going to have to leave for Paris tomorrow and wouldn’t return until next week at the earliest. He was in the bedroom now, she added, on the telephone with Air France arranging his flight, so he probably wouldn’t be out for another few minutes.

As I entered the apartment, I was immediately hit by the smell of food cooking in the kitchen-a sublimely delicious smell, I found, as tempting and aromatic as any vapor I had ever breathed. The kitchen happened to be where we headed first-to hunt down a vase for the flowers-and when I glanced at the stove, I saw the large covered pot that was the source of that extraordinary fragrance.

I have no idea what’s in there, I said, gesturing to the pot, but if my nose knows anything, three people are going to be very happy tonight.

Rudolf tells me you like lamb, Margot said, so I decided to make a navarin-a lamb stew with potatoes and navets.

Turnips.

I can never remember that word. It’s an ugly word, I think, and it hurts my mouth to say it.

All right, then. We’ll banish it from the English language.

Margot seemed to enjoy my little remark-enough to give me another brief smile, at any rate-and then she began to busy herself with the flowers: putting them in the sink, removing the white paper wrapper, taking down a vase from the cupboard, trimming the stems with a pair of scissors, putting the flowers in the vase, and then filling the vase with water. Neither one of us said a word as she went about these minimal tasks, but I watched her closely, marveling at how slowly and methodically she worked, as if putting flowers in a vase of water were a highly delicate procedure that called for one’s utmost care and concentration.

Eventually, we wound up in the living room with drinks in our hands, sitting side by side on the sofa as we smoked cigarettes and looked out at the sky through the French windows. Dusk ebbed into darkness, and Born was still nowhere to be seen, but the ever-placid Margot betrayed no concern over his absence. When we’d met at the party ten or twelve days earlier, I had been rather unnerved by her long silences and oddly disconnected manner, but now that I knew what to expect, and now that I knew she liked me and thought I was too good for this world, I felt a bit more at ease in her company. What did we talk about in the minutes before her man finally joined us? New York (which she found to be dirty and depressing); her ambition to become a painter (she was attending a class at the School of the Arts but thought she had no talent and was too lazy to improve); how long she had known Rudolf (all her life); and what she thought of the magazine (she was crossing her fingers). When I tried to thank her for her help, however, she merely shook her head and told me not to exaggerate: she’d had nothing to do with it.

Before I could ask her what that meant, Born entered the room. Again the rumpled white pants, again the unruly shock of hair, but no jacket this time, and yet another colored shirt-pale green, if I remember correctly-and the stump of an extinguished cigar clamped between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, although he seemed not to be aware that he was holding it. My new benefactor was angry, seething with irritation over whatever crisis was forcing him to travel to Paris tomorrow, and without even bothering to say hello to me, utterly ignoring his duties as host of our little celebration, he flew into a tirade that wasn’t addressed to Margot or myself so much as to the furniture in the room, the walls around him, the world at large.

Stupid bunglers, he said. Sniveling incompetents. Slow-witted functionaries with mashed potatoes for brains. The whole universe is on fire, and all they do is wring their hands and watch it burn.

Unruffled, perhaps even vaguely amused, Margot said: That’s why they need you, my love. Because you’re the king.

Rudolf the First, Born replied, the bright boy with the big dick. All I have to do is pull it out of my pants, piss on the fire, and the problem is solved.

Exactly, Margot said, cracking the largest smile I’d yet seen from her.

I’m getting sick of it, Born muttered, as he headed for the liquor cabinet, put down his cigar, and poured himself a full tumbler of straight gin. How many years have I given them? he asked, taking a sip of his drink. You do it because you believe in certain principles, but no one else seems to give a damn. We’re losing the battle, my friends. The ship is going down.

This was a different Born from the one I had come to know so far-the brittle, mocking jester who exulted in his own witticisms, the displaced dandy who blithely went about founding magazines and asking twenty-year-old students to his house for dinner. Something was raging inside him, and now that this other person had been revealed to me, I felt myself recoil from him, understanding that he was the kind of man who could erupt at any moment, that he was someone who actually enjoyed his own anger. He swigged down a second belt of gin and then turned his eyes in my direction, acknowledging my presence for the first time. I don’t know what he saw in my face-astonishment? confusion? distress?-but whatever it was, he was sufficiently alarmed by it to switch off the thermostat and immediately lower the temperature. Don’t worry, Mr. Walker, he said, doing his best to produce a smile. I’m just letting off a little steam.

He gradually willed himself out of his funk, and by the time we sat down to eat twenty minutes later, the storm seemed to have passed. Or so I thought when he complimented Margot on her superb cooking and praised the wine she had bought for the meal, but it proved to be no more than a temporary lull, and as the evening progressed, further squalls and gales came swooping down on us to spoil the festivities. I don’t know if the gin and Burgundy affected Born’s mood, but there was no question that he packed away a good deal of alcohol-at least twice the amount that Margot and I downed together-or if he was simply out of sorts because of the bad news he had received earlier in the day. Perhaps it was both in combination, or perhaps it was something else, but there was scarcely a moment during that dinner when I didn’t feel that the house was about to catch on fire.

It began when Born raised his glass to toast the birth of our magazine. It was a gracious little speech, I thought, but when I jumped in and started mentioning some of the writers I was planning to solicit work from for the first issue, Born cut me off in mid-sentence and told me never to discuss business while eating, that it was bad for the digestion and I should learn to start acting like an adult. It was a rude and unpleasant thing to say, but I hid my injured pride by pretending to agree with him and then took another bite of Margot’s stew. A moment later, Born put down his fork and said to me: You like it, Mr. Walker, don’t you?

Like what? I asked.

The navarin. You seem to be eating it with relish.

It’s probably the best meal I’ve had all year.

In other words, you’re attracted to Margot’s food.

Very much. I find it delicious.

And what about Margot herself? Are you attracted to her as well?

She’s sitting right across the table from me. It seems wrong to talk about her as if she weren’t here.

I’m sure she doesn’t mind. Do you, Margot?

No, Margot said. Not in the least.

You see, Mr. Walker? Not in the least.

All right, then, I answered. In my opinion, Margot is a highly attractive woman.

You’re avoiding the question, Born said. I didn’t ask if you found her attractive, I want to know if you are attracted to her.

She’s your wife, Professor Born. You can’t expect me to answer that. Not here, not now.

Ah, but Margot isn’t my wife. She’s my special friend, as it were, but we aren’t married, and we have no plans to marry in the future.

You live together. As far as I’m concerned, that’s as good as being married.

Come, come. Don’t be such a prude. Forget that I have any connection to Margot, all right? We’re talking in the abstract here, a hypothetical case.

Fine. Hypothetically speaking, I would hypothetically be attracted to Margot, yes.

Good, Born said, rubbing his hands together and smiling. Now we’re getting somewhere. But attracted to what degree? Enough to want to kiss her? Enough to want to hold her naked body in your arms? Enough to want to sleep with her?

I can’t answer those questions.

You’re not telling me you’re a virgin, are you?

No. I just don’t want to answer your questions, that’s all.

Am I to understand that if Margot threw herself at you and asked you to fuck her, you wouldn’t be interested? Is that what you’re saying? Poor Margot. You have no idea how much you’ve hurt her feelings.

What are you talking about?

Why don’t you ask her?

Suddenly, Margot reached across the table and took hold of my hand. Don’t be upset, she said. Rudolf is only trying to have some fun. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.

Born’s notion of fun had nothing to do with mine, alas, and at that stage of my life I was ill-equipped to play the sort of game he was trying to drag me into. No, I wasn’t a virgin. I had slept with a number of girls by then, had fallen in and out of love several times, had suffered through a badly broken heart just two years earlier and, like most young men around the world, thought about sex almost constantly. The truth was that I would have been delighted to sleep with Margot, but I refused to allow Born to goad me into admitting it. This wasn’t a hypothetical case. He actually seemed to be propositioning me on her behalf, and whatever sexual code they lived by, whatever romps and twisted dalliances they indulged in with other people, I found the whole business ugly, off-kilter, sick. Perhaps I should have spoken up and told him what I thought, but I was afraid-not of Born exactly, but of causing a rift that might lead him to change his mind about our project. I desperately wanted the magazine to work, and as long as he was willing to back it, I was prepared to put up with any amount of inconvenience and discomfort. So I did what I could to hold my ground and not lose my temper, to absorb blow upon blow without falling from my horse, to resist him and appease him at the same time.

I’m disappointed, Born said. Until now, I took you for an adventurer, a renegade, a man who enjoys thumbing his nose at convention, but at bottom you’re just another stuffed shirt, another bourgeois simpleton. How sad. You strut around with your Provençal poets and your lofty ideals, with your draft-dodger cowardice and that ridiculous necktie of yours, and you think you’re something exceptional, but what I see is a pampered middle-class boy living off Daddy’s money, a poseur.

Rudolf, Margot said. That’s enough. Leave him alone.

I realize I’m being a bit harsh, Born said to her. But young Adam and I are partners now, and I need to know what he’s made of. Can he stand up to an honest insult, or does he crumble to pieces when he’s under attack?

You’ve had a lot to drink, I said, and from all I can gather you’ve had a rough day. Maybe it’s time for me to be going. We can pick up the conversation when you’re back from France.

Nonsense, Born replied, pounding the table with his fist. We’re still working on the stew. Then there’s the salad, and after the salad the cheese, and after the cheese dessert. Margot has already been hurt enough for one night, and the least we can do is sit here and finish her remarkable dinner. In the meantime, maybe you can tell us something about Westfield, New Jersey.

Westfield? I said, surprised to discover that Born knew where I had grown up. How did you find out about Westfield?

It wasn’t difficult, he said. As it happens, I’ve learned quite a bit about you in the past few days. Your father, for example, Joseph Walker, age fifty-four, better known as Bud, owns and operates the Shop-Rite supermarket on the main street in town. Your mother, Marjorie, a.k.a. Marge, is forty-six and has given birth to three children: your sister, Gwyn, in November nineteen forty-five; you in March nineteen forty-seven; and your brother, Andrew, in July nineteen fifty. A tragic story. Little Andy drowned when he was seven, and it pains me to think how unbearable that loss must have been for all of you. I had a sister who died of cancer at roughly the same age, and I know what terrible things a death like that does to a family. Your father has coped with his sorrow by working fourteen hours a day, six days a week, while your mother has turned inward, battling the scourge of depression with heavy doses of prescription pharmaceuticals and twice-weekly sessions with a psychotherapist. The miracle, to my mind, is how well you and your sister have done for yourselves in the face of such calamity. Gwyn is a beautiful and talented girl in her last year at Vassar, planning to begin graduate work in English literature right here at Columbia this fall. And you, my young intellectual friend, my budding wordsmith and translator of obscure medieval poets, turn out to have been an outstanding baseball player in high school, co-captain of the varsity team, no less. Mens sana in corpore sano. More to the point, my sources tell me that you’re a person of deep moral integrity, a pillar of moderation and sound judgment who, unlike the majority of his classmates, does not dabble in drugs. Alcohol yes, but no drugs whatsoever-not even an occasional puff of marijuana. Why is that, Mr. Walker? With all the propaganda abroad these days about the liberating powers of hallucinogens and narcotics, why haven’t you succumbed to the temptation of seeking new and stimulating experiences?

Why? I said, still reeling from the impact of Born’s astounding recitation about my family. I’ll tell you why, but first I’d like to know how you managed to dig up so much about us in such a short time.

Is there a problem? Were there any inaccuracies in what I said?

No. It’s just that I’m a little stunned, that’s all. You can’t be a cop or an FBI agent, but a visiting professor at the School of International Affairs could certainly be involved with an intelligence organization of some kind. Is that what you are? A spy for the CIA?

Born cracked up laughing when I said that, treating my question as if he’d just heard the funniest joke of the century. The CIA! he roared. The CIA! Why on earth would a Frenchman work for the CIA? Forgive me for laughing, but the idea is so hilarious, I’m afraid I can’t stop myself.

Well, how did you do it, then?

I’m a thorough man, Mr. Walker, a man who doesn’t act until he knows everything he needs to know, and since I’m about to invest twenty-five thousand dollars in a person who qualifies as little more than a stranger to me, I felt I should learn as much about him as I could. You’d be amazed how effective an instrument the telephone can be.

Margot stood up then and began clearing plates from the table in preparation for the next course. I made a move to help her, but Born gestured for me to sit back down in my chair.

Let’s return to my question, shall we? he said.

What question? I asked, no longer able to keep track of the conversation.

About why no drugs. Even the lovely Margot has a joint now and then, and to be perfectly frank with you, I have a certain fondness for weed myself. But not you. I’m curious to know why.

Because drugs scare me. Two of my friends from high school are already dead from heroin overdoses. My freshman roommate went off the rails from taking too much speed and had to drop out of college. Again and again, I’ve watched people climb the walls from bad LSD trips-screaming, shaking, ready to kill themselves. I don’t want any part of it. Let the whole world get stoned on drugs for all I care, but I’m not interested.

And yet you drink.

Yes, I said, lifting my glass and taking another sip of wine. With immense pleasure, too, I might add. Especially with stuff as good as this to keep me company.

We moved on to the salad after that, followed by a plate of French cheeses and then a dessert baked by Margot that afternoon (apple tart? raspberry tart?), and for the next thirty minutes or so the drama that had flared up during the first part of the meal steadily diminished. Born was being nice to me again, and although he continued to drink glass after glass of wine, I was beginning to feel confident that we would get to the end of the dinner without another outburst or insult from my capricious, half-crocked host. Then he opened a bottle of brandy, lit up one of his Cuban cigars, and started talking about politics.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as gruesome as it could have been. He was deep in his cups by the time he poured the cognac, and after an ounce or two of those burning, amber spirits, he was too far gone to engage in a coherent conversation. Yes, he called me a coward again for refusing to go to Vietnam, but mostly he talked to himself, lapsing into a long, meandering monologue on any number of disparate subjects as I sat there listening in silence and Margot washed pots and pans in the kitchen. Impossible to recapture more than a fraction of what he said, but the key points are still with me, particularly his memories of fighting in Algeria, where he spent two years with the French army interrogating filthy Arab terrorists and losing whatever faith he’d once had in the idea of justice. Bombastic pronouncements, wild generalizations, bitter declarations about the corruption of all governments-past, present, and future; left, right, and center-and how our so-called civilization was no more than a thin screen masking a never-ending assault of barbarism and cruelty. Human beings were animals, he said, and soft-minded aesthetes like myself were no better than children, diverting ourselves with hairsplitting philosophies of art and literature to avoid confronting the essential truth of the world. Power was the only constant, and the law of life was kill or be killed, either dominate or fall victim to the savagery of monsters. He talked about Stalin and the millions of lives lost during the collectivization movement in the thirties. He talked about the Nazis and the war, and then he advanced the startling theory that Hitler’s admiration of the United States had inspired him to use American history as a model for his conquest of Europe. Look at the parallels, Born said, and it’s not as far-fetched as you’d think: extermination of the Indians is turned into the extermination of the Jews; westward expansion to exploit natural resources is turned into eastward expansion for the same purpose; enslavement of the blacks for low-cost labor is turned into subjugation of the Slavs to produce a similar result. Long live America, Adam, he said, pouring another shot of cognac into both our glasses. Long live the darkness inside us.

As I listened to him rant on like this, I felt a growing pity for him. Horrible as his view of the world was, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for a man who had descended into such pessimism, who so willfully shunned the possibility of finding any compassion, grace, or beauty in his fellow human beings. Born was just thirty-six, but already he was a burnt-out soul, a shattered wreck of a person, and at his core I imagined that he must have suffered terribly, living in constant pain, lacerated by the jabbing knives of despair, disgust, and self-contempt.

Margot reentered the dining room, and when she saw the state Born was in-bloodshot eyes, slurred speech, body listing to the left as if he was about to fall off his chair-she put her hand on his back and gently told him in French that the evening was over and that he should toddle off to bed. Surprisingly, he didn’t protest. Nodding his head and muttering the word merde several times in a flat, barely audible voice, he allowed Margot to help him to his feet, and a moment later she was guiding him out of the room toward the hall that led to the back of the apartment. Did he say good night to me? I can’t remember. For several minutes, I remained in my chair, expecting Margot to return in order to show me out, but when she didn’t come back after what seemed to be an inordinate length of time, I stood up and headed for the front door. That was when I saw her-emerging from a bedroom at the end of the hall. I waited as she walked toward me, and the first thing she did when we were standing next to each other was put her hand on my forearm and apologize for Rudolf’s behavior.

Is he always like that when he drinks? I asked.

No, almost never, she said. But he’s very upset right now and has many things on his mind.

Well, at least it wasn’t dull.

You comported yourself with great discretion.

So did you. And thank you for the dinner. I’ll never forget the navarin.

Margot gave me one of her small, fleeting smiles and said: If you want me to cook for you again, let me know. I’ll be happy to give you another meal while Rudolf is in Paris.

Sounds good, I said, knowing I would never find the courage to call her but at the same time feeling touched by the invitation.

Again, another flicker of a smile, and then two perfunctory kisses, one on each cheek. Good night, Adam, she said. You will be in my thoughts.

I didn’t know if I was in her thoughts or not, but now that Born was out of the country, she had entered mine, and for the next two days I could barely stop thinking about her. From the first night at the party, when Margot had trained her eyes on me and studied my face with such intensity, to the disturbing conversation Born had provoked at the dinner about the degree of my attraction to her, a sexual current had been running between us, and even if she was ten years older than I was, that didn’t prevent me from imagining myself in bed with her, from wanting to go to bed with her. Was the offer to give me another dinner a veiled proposition, or was it simply a matter of generosity, a desire to help out a young student who subsisted on the wretched fare of cheap diners and warmed-over cans of precooked spaghetti? I was too timid to find out. I wanted to call her, but every time I reached for the phone, I understood that it was impossible. Margot lived with Born, and even though he had insisted that marriage wasn’t in their future, she was already claimed, and I didn’t feel I had the right to go after her.

Then she called me. Three days after the dinner, at ten o’clock in the morning, the telephone rang in my apartment, and there she was on the other end of the line, sounding a little hurt, disappointed that I hadn’t been in touch, in her own subdued way expressing more emotion than at any time since we’d met.

I’m sorry, I lied, but I was going to call you later today. You beat me to it by a couple of hours.

Funny boy, she said, seeing right through my fib. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.

But I do, I answered, meaning every word of it. Very much.

Tonight?

Tonight would be perfect.

You don’t have to worry about Rudolf, Adam. He’s gone, and I’m free to do whatever I like. We all are. Nobody can own another person. Do you understand that?

I think so.

How do you feel about fish?

Fish in the sea or fish on a plate?

Grilled sole. With little boiled potatoes and choux de Bruxelles on the side. Does that appeal to you, or would you rather have something else?

No. I’m already dreaming about the sole.

Come at seven. And don’t trouble yourself with flowers this time. I know you can’t afford them.

After we hung up, I spent the next nine hours in a torment of anticipation, daydreaming through my afternoon classes, pondering the mysteries of carnal attraction, and trying to understand what it was about Margot that had worked me up to such a pitch of excitement. My first impression of her had not been particularly favorable. She had struck me as an odd and vapid creature, sympathetic at heart, perhaps, intriguing to look at, but with no electricity in her, a woman lost in some murky inner world that shut her off from true engagement with others, as if she were some silent visitor from another planet. Two days later, I had run into Born at the West End, and when he told me about her reaction to our meeting at the party, my feelings for her began to shift. Apparently she liked me and was concerned about my welfare, and when you’re informed that a person likes you, your instinctive response is to like that person back. Then came the dinner. The languor and precision of her gestures as she cut the flowers and put them in the vase had stirred something in me, and the simple act of watching her move had suddenly become fascinating, hypnotic. There were depths of sensuality in her, I discovered, and the bland, uninteresting woman who seemed not to have a thought in her head turned out to be far more astute than I had imagined. She had defended me against Born at least twice during the dinner, intervening at the precise moments when things had threatened to fly out of control. Calm, always calm, barely speaking above a whisper, but each time her words had produced the desired effect. Thrown by Born’s prodding insinuations, convinced that he was trying to lure me into some voyeuristic mania of his-watching me make love to Margot?-I’d assumed that she was in on it as well, and therefore I had held back and refused to play along. But now Born was on the other side of the Atlantic, and Margot still wanted to see me. It could only be for one thing. I understood now that it had always been that one thing, right from the moment she’d spotted me standing alone at the party. That was why Born had behaved so testily at the dinner-not because he wanted to instigate an evening of depraved sexual antics, but because he was angry at Margot for telling him she was attracted to me.

She cooked us dinner for five straight nights, and for five straight nights we slept together in the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. We could have used the other bedroom, which was larger and more comfortable, but neither one of us wanted to go in there. That was Born’s room, the world of Born’s bed, and for those five nights we made it our business to create a world of our own, sleeping in that tiny room with the single barred window and the narrow bed, which came to be known as the love bed, although love finally had nothing to do with what happened to us during those five days. We didn’t fall for each other, as the saying goes, but rather we fell into each other, and in the deeply intimate space we inhabited for that short, short time, our sole preoccupation was pleasure. The pleasure of eating and drinking, the pleasure of sex, the pleasure of taking part in a wordless animal dialogue that was conducted in a language of looking and touching, of biting, tasting, and stroking. That doesn’t mean we didn’t talk, but talk was kept to a minimum, and what talk there was tended to focus on food-What should we eat tomorrow night?-and the words we exchanged over dinner were wispy and banal, of no real importance. Margot never asked me questions about myself. She wasn’t curious about my past, she didn’t care about my opinions on literature or politics, and she had no interest in what I was studying. She simply took me for what I represented in her own mind-her choice of the moment, the physical being she desired-and every time I looked at her, I sensed that she was drinking me in, as if just having me there within arm’s reach was enough to satisfy her. What did I learn about Margot during those days? Very little, almost nothing at all. She had grown up in Paris, was the youngest of three children, and knew Born because they were second cousins. They had been together for two years now, but she didn’t think it would last much longer. He seemed to be growing bored with her, she said, and she was growing bored with herself. She shrugged when she said that, and when I saw the distant expression on her face, I had the terrible intuition that she already considered herself to be half dead. After that, I stopped pressing her to open up to me. It was enough that we were together, and I cringed at the thought of accidentally touching on something that might cause her pain.

Margot without makeup was softer and more earthbound than the striking female object she presented to the public. Margot without clothes proved to be slight, almost meager, with small, pubescent-like breasts, slender hips, and sinewy arms and legs. A full-lipped mouth, a flat belly with a slightly protruding navel, tender hands, a nest of coarse pubic hair, firm buttocks, and extremely white skin that felt smoother than any skin I had ever touched. The particulars of a body, the irrelevant, precious details. I was tentative with her at first, not knowing what to expect, a bit awed to find myself with a woman so much more experienced than I was, a beginner in the arms of a veteran, a fumbler who had always felt shy and awkward in his nakedness, who until then had always made love in the dark, preferably under the blankets, coupling with girls who had been just as shy and awkward as he was, but Margot was so comfortable with herself, so knowledgeable in the arts of nibbling, licking, and kissing, so unreluctant to explore me with her hands and tongue, to attack, to swoon, to give herself without coyness or hesitation that it wasn’t long before I let myself go. If it feels good, it’s good, Margot said at one point, and that was the gift she gave me over the course of those five nights. She taught me not to be afraid of myself anymore.

I didn’t want it to end. Living in that strange paradise with the strange, unfathomable Margot was one of the best, most unlikely things that had ever happened to me, but Born was due to return from Paris the next evening, and we had no choice but to cut it off. At the time, I imagined it was only a temporary cease-fire. When we said good-bye on the last morning, I told her not to worry, that sooner or later we’d figure out a way to continue, but for all my bluster and confidence Margot looked troubled, and just as I was about to leave the apartment, her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears.

I have a bad feeling, she said. I don’t know why, but something tells me this is the end, that this is the last time I’ll ever see you.

Don’t say that, I answered. I live just a few blocks from here. You can come to my apartment anytime you want.

I’ll try, Adam. I’ll do my best, but don’t expect too much from me. I’m not as strong as you think I am.

I don’t understand.

Rudolf. Once he comes back, I think he’s going to throw me out.

If he does, you can move in with me.

And live with two college boys in a dirty apartment? I’m too old for that.

My roommate isn’t so bad. And the place is fairly clean, all things considered.

I hate this country. I hate everything about it except you, and you aren’t enough to keep me here. If Rudolf doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll pack up my things and go home to Paris.

You talk as if you want it to happen, as if you’re already planning to break it off yourself.

I don’t know. Maybe I am.

And what about me? Haven’t these days meant anything to you?

Of course they have. I’ve loved being with you, but we’ve run out of time now, and the moment you walk out of here, you’ll understand that you don’t need me anymore.

That’s not true.

Yes, it is. You just don’t know it yet.

What are you talking about?

Poor Adam. I’m not the answer. Not for you-probably not for anyone.

It was a dismal end to what had been such a momentous time for me, and I left the apartment feeling shattered, perplexed, and perhaps a little angry as well. For days afterward, I kept going over that final conversation, and the more I analyzed it, the less sense it made to me. On the one hand, Margot had teared up at the moment of my departure, confessing that she was afraid she would never see me again. That would suggest she wanted our fling to go on, but when I proposed that we begin meeting at my apartment, she had become hesitant, all but telling me it wouldn’t be possible. Why not? For no reason-except that she wasn’t as strong as I thought she was. I had no idea what that meant. Then she had started talking about Born, which quickly devolved into a muddle of contradictions and conflicting desires. She was worried that he was going to kick her out, but a second later that seemed to be exactly what she wanted. Even more, perhaps she was going to take the initiative and leave him herself. Nothing added up. She wanted me and didn’t want me. She wanted Born and didn’t want Born. Each word that came out of her mouth subverted what she had said a moment earlier, and in the end there was no way to know what she felt. Perhaps she didn’t know herself. That struck me as the most plausible explanation-Margot in distress, Margot pulled apart by equal and opposite forces-but after spending those five nights with her, I couldn’t help feeling hurt and abandoned. I tried to keep my spirits up-hoping she would call, hoping she would change her mind and come rushing back to me-but deep down I knew it was finished, that her fear of never seeing me again was in fact a prophecy, and that she was gone from my life for good.

Meanwhile, Born was back in New York, but a full week had gone by and I still hadn’t heard from him. The longer his silence went on, the more I realized how much I was dreading his call. Had Margot told him what she and I had been up to during his absence? Were the two of them still together, or was she already back in France? After three or four days, I found myself hoping that he had forgotten about me and that I would never have to see him again. There would be no magazine, of course, but I hardly cared about that now. I had betrayed him by sleeping with his girlfriend, and even if he had more or less encouraged me to do it, I wasn’t proud of what I had done-especially after Margot had told me that I didn’t need her anymore, which meant, I now understood, that she didn’t need me anymore. I had created a mess for myself, and coward that I probably was, I would have preferred to hide under my bed than have to face either one of them.

But Born hadn’t forgotten me. Just when I was beginning to think the story was over, he called early one evening and asked me to drop by his apartment for a chat. That was the word he used-chat-and I was amazed by how chipper he sounded on the phone, positively bursting with energy and good cheer.

Sorry for the delay, he said. A thousand pardons, Walker, but I’ve been busy, busy, juggling this and that, a thousand things, for which I beg a thousand pardons, but time is a-wasting, and the moment has come to sit down and talk business. I owe you a check for the first issue, and after we’ve had our little chat, I’ll take you out for dinner somewhere. It’s been a while, and I believe we have some catching up to do.

I didn’t want to go, but I went. Not without trepidation, not without a flutter of panic twitching in my stomach, but in the end I felt I had no choice. By some miracle, the magazine appeared to be alive, and if he wanted to talk to me about it, if he was in fact ready to start writing checks to support the cause, I didn’t see how I could turn down his invitation. I believe we have some catching up to do. Like it or not, I was about to find out if Born knew what had been going on behind his back-and, if he did know, exactly what he had done about it.

He was dressed in white again: the full suit, the shirt open at the collar, but clean and unrumpled this time, the perfect hidalgo. Freshly shaven, his hair combed, looking nattier and more pulled together than I had ever seen him. A warm smile when he opened the door, a firm shake of the hand as I entered the apartment, a friendly pat on the shoulder as he led me toward the liquor cabinet and asked me what I wanted to drink, but no Margot, no sign of her anywhere, and while that didn’t necessarily mean anything, I was beginning to suspect the worst. We sat down near the French windows overlooking the park, I on the sofa, he in a large chair opposite, facing each other across the coffee table, Born grinning with contentment, so pleased with himself, so terribly happy as he told me that his trip to Paris had been a resounding success and the knotty problem that had been bedeviling his colleagues was now untangled at last. Then, after a few desultory questions about my studies and the books I had been reading lately, he leaned back in his chair and said, apropos of nothing: I want to thank you, Walker. You’ve done me an important service.

Thank me? For what?

For showing me the light of truth. I feel greatly in your debt.

I still don’t know what you’re talking about.

Margot.

What about her?

She betrayed me.

How? I asked, trying to play dumb but feeling ridiculous, crumpling up with shame as Born continued to smile at me.

She slept with you.

She told you that?

Whatever her faults might be, Margot never lies. If I’m not mistaken, you spent five straight nights with her-right here in this apartment.

I’m sorry, I said, looking down at the floor, too embarrassed to meet Born’s gaze.

Don’t be sorry. I fairly pushed you into it, didn’t I? If I had been in your shoes, I probably would have done the same thing. It was obvious that Margot wanted to sleep with you. Why would a healthy young man turn down an opportunity like that?

If you wanted her to do it, then why do you feel betrayed?

Ah, but I didn’t want her to do it. I was only pretending.

And why would you pretend?

To test her loyalty, that’s why. And the tramp fell for the bait. Don’t worry, Walker. I’m well rid of her, and I have you to thank for getting her out the door.

Where is she now?

Paris, I presume.

Did you push her out, or did she leave because she wanted to?

That’s difficult to say. Probably a little of both. Let’s call it a separation by mutual consent.

Poor Margot…

A wonderful cook, a wonderful fuck, but at bottom just another mindless slut. Don’t feel sorry for her, Walker. She isn’t worth it.

Harsh words for someone who shared your life for two years.

Perhaps. As you’ve already noticed, my mouth tends to run away from me at times. But facts are facts, and the fact is I’m not getting any younger. It’s time for me to think about marriage, and no sane man would consider marrying a girl like Margot.

Do you have someone in mind, or is that just a statement of future intentions?

I’m engaged. As of two weeks ago. Yet one more thing I accomplished on my trip to Paris. That’s why I’m in such a good mood tonight.

Congratulations. And when is the happy day?

It’s still not clear. There are complicated issues involved, and the wedding can’t take place until next spring at the earliest.

A pity to wait so long.

It can’t be helped. Technically, she’s still married to someone else, and we have to wait for the law to do its work. Not that it isn’t worth it. I’ve known this woman since I was your age, and she’s an exemplary person, the partner I’ve longed for all my life.

If you care about her so much, why have you been with Margot for the past two years?

Because I didn’t know I was in love with her until I saw her again in Paris.

Exit Margot, enter wife. Your bed won’t be empty for long, will it?

You underestimate me, young man. Much as I’d like to move in with her now, I’m going to hold off until we’re married. It’s a question of principle.

Chivalry in action.

That’s it. Chivalry in action.

Like our old friend from Périgord, the ever-gentle, peace-loving Bertran.

The mention of the poet’s name seemed to stop Born dead in his tracks. Merde! he said, thwacking his knee with the palm of his left hand, I almost forgot. I owe you money, don’t I? Sit tight while I look for my checks. I won’t be a minute.

With those words Born bounced out of his chair and began rushing toward the other end of the apartment. I stood up to stretch my legs, and by the time I reached the dining room table, which was no more than ten or twelve feet from the sofa, he had already returned. Brusquely pulling out a chair, he sat down, opened his checkbook, and started to write-using a speckled green fountain pen, I remember, with a thick nib and blue-black ink.

I’m giving you six thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars, he said. Five thousand to pay for the first issue, plus twelve fifty to cover a fourth of your annual salary. Take your time, Adam. If you can put the contents together by… let’s see… by the end of August or the beginning of September, that will be soon enough. I’ll be long gone by then, of course, but we can stay in contact through the post, and if something urgent comes up, you can call me and reverse the charges.

It was the largest check I had ever seen, and when he tore it out of the book and handed it to me, I looked down at the sum and felt dizzy with apprehension. Are you sure you want to go ahead with it? I asked. This is an awful lot of money, you know.

Of course I want to go ahead with it. We made a deal, and now it’s up to you to assemble the best first issue you possibly can.

But Margot’s out of the picture now. You’re under no obligation to her anymore.

What are you talking about?

It was Margot’s idea, remember? You gave me this job because of her.

Nonsense. It was my idea from the start. The only thing Margot ever wanted was to crawl into bed with you. She couldn’t have cared less about jobs or magazines or the precarious state of your future. If I told you she was the one who put me up to it, that was only because I didn’t want to embarrass you.

Why in the world would you do this for me?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. But I see something in you, Walker, something I like, and for some inexplicable reason I find myself willing to take a gamble on you. I’m betting that you’ll make a success of it. Prove me right.

It was a warm spring evening, a soft and beautiful evening with a cloudless sky overhead, the smell of flowers in the air, and no wind at all, not even the faintest hint of a breeze. Born was planning to take me to a Cuban restaurant on Broadway and 109th Street (the Ideal, a favorite spot of his), but as we walked westward across the Columbia campus, he proposed that we continue on past Broadway and head for Riverside Drive, where we could stop to look at the Hudson for a few moments, and then make our way downtown along the edge of the park. It was that kind of a night, he said, and since we weren’t in any rush, why not prolong the journey a bit and take advantage of the good weather? So we took our little stroll in the pleasant spring air, talking about the magazine, about the woman Born was planning to marry, about the trees and shrubs in Riverside Park, about the geological composition of the New Jersey Palisades across the river, and I remember that I felt happy, awash in a sense of well-being, and whatever misgivings I might have had about Born were beginning to melt away, or at least had been put in abeyance for now. He hadn’t blamed me for allowing myself to be seduced by Margot. He had just given me a check for an enormous amount of money. He wasn’t haranguing me with his warped political ideas. For once, he seemed to be relaxed and undefensive, and perhaps he really had fallen in love, perhaps his life was turning in a new and better direction, and for that one night, in any case, I was willing to give him every benefit of the doubt.

We crossed over to the eastern sidewalk of Riverside Drive and began walking downtown. Several streetlamps had burned out, and as we approached the corner of West 112th, we found ourselves entering a block-long stretch of murk and darkness. Night had fallen in earnest by then, and it was difficult to see anything more than a yard or two in front of us. I lit up a cigarette, and through the glow of the match burning near my mouth, I glimpsed the shadowy outline of a figure emerging from a blackened doorway. A second later, Born grabbed my arm and told me to stop. Just that one word: Stop. I let the match fall from my hand and tossed the cigarette into the gutter. The figure was coming toward us, unmistakably walking in our direction, and after a few more steps I saw that it was a black kid dressed in dark clothes. He was rather short, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen, but after another three or four steps, I finally understood why Born had grabbed my arm, finally saw what he had already seen. The kid was holding a gun in his left hand. The gun was pointed at us, and just like that, with a single tick of the clock, the entire universe had changed. The kid wasn’t a person anymore. He was that gun and nothing else, the nightmare gun that lived in every New Yorker’s imagination, the heartless, inhuman gun that was destined to find you alone one night on a darkened street and send you to an early grave. Fork it over. Empty your pockets. Shut up. A moment earlier, I had been on top of the world, and now, suddenly, I was more afraid than I had ever been in my life.

The kid stopped about two feet in front of us, pointed the gun at my chest, and said: Don’t move.

He was close enough now for me to see his face, and as far as I could tell he looked scared, not at all confident about what he was doing. How could I have known this? Perhaps it was something in his eyes, or perhaps I had detected a slight tremor in his lower lip-I can’t be sure. Fear made me blind, and whatever sense I had of him must have come to me through my pores, a subliminal osmosis, so to speak, knowledge without consciousness, but I was almost certain that he was a beginner, a novice thug out on his first or second job.

Born was standing to my left, and after a moment I heard him say: What do you want from us? There was a small quiver in his voice, but at least he had managed to speak, which was more than I was capable of doing just then.

Your money, the kid said. Your money and your watch. Both of you. Wallets first. And be quick about it. I ain’t got all night.

I reached into my pocket for my billfold, but Born unexpectedly chose to make a stand. A stupid move, I thought, an act of defiance that could wind up getting us both killed, but there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

And what if I don’t want to give you my money? he asked.

Then I’ll shoot you, mister, the kid said. I’ll shoot you and take your wallet anyway.

Born let out a long, histrionic sigh. You’re going to regret this, little man, he said. Why don’t you just run along now and leave us alone?

Why don’t you just shut your fucking mouth and give me your wallet? the kid answered, thrusting the gun into the air a couple of times for emphasis.

As you wish, Born replied. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I was still looking at the kid, which meant that I had only a vague, peripheral view of Born, but at the last second I turned my head slightly to the left and saw him reach into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. I assumed he was going for his bill-fold, but when his hand emerged from the pocket it was bunched up into a fist, as if he was hiding something, concealing some object in his closed palm. I couldn’t begin to guess what that thing might have been. An instant later, I heard a click, and the blade of a knife jumped out of its sheath. With a hard, upward thrust, Born immediately stabbed the kid with the switchblade-straight in the stomach, a dead-center hit. The boy grunted as the steel tore through his flesh, grabbed his stomach with his right hand, and slowly sank to the ground.

Shit, man, he said. It ain’t even loaded.

The gun fell out of his hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. I could barely absorb what I was seeing. Too many things had happened in too short a time, and none of them seemed quite real anymore. Born swept up the gun and dropped it into the side pocket of his jacket. The kid was moaning now, clutching his stomach with both hands and writhing around on the pavement. It was too dark to make out much of anything, but after a few moments I thought I saw blood oozing onto the ground.

We have to get him to a hospital, I finally said. There’s a phone booth up on Broadway. You wait with him here and I’ll run to make the call.

Don’t be an idiot, Born said, grabbing hold of my jacket and giving me a good hard shake. No hospitals. The boy is going to die, and we can’t have anything to do with it.

He won’t die if an ambulance gets here within ten or fifteen minutes.

And if he lives, then what? Do you want to spend the next three years of your life in court?

I don’t care. Walk away from it if you like. Go home and drink another bottle of gin, but I’m running off to Broadway right now to call for an ambulance.

Fine. Have it your own way. We’ll pretend to be good little Boy Scouts, and I’ll sit here with this piece of garbage and wait for you to come back. Is that what you want? How stupid do you think I am, Walker?

I didn’t bother to answer him. Instead, I turned on my heels and started running up 112th Street toward Broadway. I was gone for ten minutes, fifteen minutes at the most, but when I returned to the spot where I’d left Born and the wounded boy, they had both disappeared. Except for a patch of congealing blood on the sidewalk, there was no sign that either one of them had ever been there.

I went home. There was no point in waiting for the ambulance now, so I climbed back up the hill toward Broadway and headed downtown. My mind was blank, incapable of producing a single coherent thought, but as I unlocked the door of the apartment, I realized that I was sobbing, had in fact been sobbing for the past several minutes. Luckily, my roommate was out, which spared me the trouble of having to talk to him in that state. I went on crying in my room, and when the tears finally stopped, I tore up Born’s check and put the pieces in an envelope, which I mailed to him early the next morning. There was no accompanying letter. I was confident that the gesture spoke for itself and that he would understand I was finished with him and wanted nothing more to do with his filthy magazine.

That afternoon, the late edition of the New York Post reported that the body of eighteen-year-old Cedric Williams had been discovered in Riverside Park with over a dozen knife wounds gouged into his chest and stomach. There was no doubt in my mind that Born was responsible. The moment I’d left him to call for the ambulance, he had picked up the bleeding Williams and carried him into the park to finish off the job he had started on the sidewalk. Considering the amount of traffic that moves along Riverside Drive, I found it incredible that no one had spotted Born crossing the street with the kid in his arms, but according to the paper, the investigators working on the case had yet to establish any leads.

Knowing what I did, I clearly had an obligation to call the local precinct house and tell them about Born and the knife and the attempt by Williams to hold us up. I chanced upon the article while drinking a cup of coffee in the Lions Den, the snack bar on the ground floor of the undergraduate student center, and rather than use a public phone, I decided to walk to my apartment on 107th Street and make the call from there. I still hadn’t told anyone about what had happened. I had tried to reach my sister in Poughkeepsie-the one person I was prepared to unburden myself to-but she hadn’t been in. Once I arrived at my apartment building, I collected my mail in the lobby before taking the elevator upstairs. There was only one letter for me: a stampless, hand-delivered envelope with my name written across the front in block letters, folded up in thirds and then shoved through a narrow slot in the mailbox. I opened it in the elevator on my way up to the ninth floor. Not a word, Walker. Remember: I still have the knife, and I’m not afraid to use it.

There was no signature at the bottom, but that hardly seemed necessary. It was a vicious threat, and now that I had seen Born in action, now that I had witnessed the brutality he was capable of, I felt certain he wouldn’t hesitate to carry it out. He would come after me if I tried to turn him in. If I did nothing, he would leave me alone. I still had every intention of calling the police, but the day passed, and then more days passed, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Fear reduced me to silence, but the fact was that only silence could protect me from having to cross paths with him again, and that was all that mattered to me now: to keep Born out of my life forever.

This failure to act is far and away the most reprehensible thing I have ever done, the low point in my career as a human being. Not only did it allow a killer to walk free, but it also had the insidious effect of forcing me to confront my own moral weakness, to recognize that I had never been the person I had thought I was, that I was less good, less strong, less brave than I had imagined myself to be. Horrid, implacable truths. My cowardice sickened me, and yet how not to be afraid of that knife? Born had stuck it into Williams’s belly without the slightest compunction or regret, and even if the first stab could have been justified as an act of self-defense, what about the twelve others he had delivered in the park, the cold-blooded decision to kill? After torturing myself for close to a week, I finally found the courage to call my sister again, and when I heard myself spewing out the whole sordid business to Gwyn over the course of our two-hour conversation, I realized that I didn’t have a choice. I had to step forward. If I didn’t talk to the police, I would lose all respect for myself, and the shame of it would go on haunting me for the rest of my life.

I’m fairly certain they believed my story. I gave them Born’s note, for one thing, and although it lacked a signature, the knife was mentioned, the threat was explicit, and if there was any doubt concerning the author’s identity, a handwriting expert could easily confirm that it had been composed by Born. There was also the bloodstain on the sidewalk near the corner of Riverside Drive and West 112th Street. And then there was my emergency call for the ambulance, which tallied with their records, and the additional fact that I was able to tell them that no one had been present at the scene when the ambulance arrived. At first, they were reluctant to believe that a professor at Columbia University’s School of International Affairs could commit such a nasty street crime, let alone that such a person would walk around with a switchblade in his pocket, but in the end they assured me they would look into it. I left the police station convinced that the matter would soon be closed. It was the end of May, which meant there were still two or three weeks to go before the semester ended, and because I had put off reporting to the police for six long days following the discovery of Williams’s corpse, I figured that Born must have thought his threatening note had done its job. But I was wrong, miserably and tragically wrong. As promised, the police did go to question him, but they quickly learned from an administrator at the School of International Affairs that Professor Born had returned to Paris earlier in the week. His mother had died quite suddenly, they were told, and with so little time remaining in the semester, his final classes were going to be taught by a substitute. In other words, Professor Born would not be coming back.

He had been frightened of me, after all. In spite of the note, he had assumed I would ignore his threat and go to the police anyway. Yes, I did go-but not soon enough, not soon enough by half, and because I gave him that extra time, he had pounced at the opportunity and run, fleeing the country and escaping the jurisdiction of New York’s laws. I knew for a fact that the story about his mother’s death was a sham. During our first conversation at the party in April, he had told me that both his parents were dead, and unless his mother had been resurrected in the interim, I was hard-pressed to see how she could have died twice. When the detective called to tell me what had happened, I felt crushed, humiliated, numb. Born had defeated me. He had shown me something about myself that filled me with revulsion, and for the first time in my life I understood what it was to hate someone. I could never forgive him-and I could never forgive myself.