All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [141]
Finally, it was almost eleven, and Madame Leneman went to bed. Leneman retired at midnight. I went to my room and stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. I tried to read but found it impossible to concentrate. I had never waited so anxiously for a phone call, even when I thought I was in love. I picked up the receiver to make sure the line was working. Everything was fine except me. Joseph was driving me crazy. It was already two in the morning, and I was facing another sleepless night. Okay, the important thing was to meet Mendès-France, but would the damn phone ever ring? I talked to it, harassed it, and finally it rang. In my excitement, I woke everyone up: “Joseph?” Givon waited an interminable moment before saying: “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon on the dot.” He hung up before I could say a word. I wondered whether to call Dov. An inner voice urged caution. With Givon you never knew. Tomorrow could mean next week or next year. I had to get some sleep. If the meeting came off, I would have to be in good form. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt like talking to someone so I went downstairs to the corner café, which was still open.
I stood at the counter and drank a scalding café-crème. A muttering drunk was sipping wine. A woman looked at me invitingly. I smiled, thinking of Givon. She smiled back. The waiter gaped at me, incredulous. He often teased me for being too straitlaced, and here I was … The woman walked over to me. “Problems, honey? Something bothering you?” I told her that, on the contrary, everything was fabulous. “In that case,” she said, “why don’t you tell me all about it?” “Leave him alone,” the waiter broke in. “Can’t you see he’s not interested?” I ordered another café-crème, bought her one, and we chatted about this and that—in short, about life. The drunk joined in, for he knew a thing or two about life himself, and pretty soon the waiter put his two cents in as well. We philosophized until dawn. My throat was dry when I got home, but I felt good, at peace with the world. Madame Leneman, up earlier than usual, knocked on my door and invited me to breakfast. “How did it go?” she asked. I looked at her, uncomprehending. “You know, your beautiful friend …” I thanked her for her interest, assured her that the girl was still beautiful and that I loved her with all my heart. But we had decided to stop seeing each other. That made poor Madame Leneman very sad. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s just a lovers’ quarrel.” Her face brightened.
At noon a taxi pulled up. “Let’s go,” Givon said, as though the driver had known the way since childhood. We set out in silence. Givon was a great lover of silences. Perhaps he was a mystic. His meditative air made him seem present yet remote, as though he were listening to voices he alone was worthy of hearing. I was dying of curiosity. Were we going to see Mendès-France? The signs were good. We seemed to be on the way to the National Assembly. Place de la Concorde. Excellent. My heart pounded. But why were we turning onto the Champs-Élysées? This wasn’t the way. Where the hell was my silent torturer taking me? We turned off the main boulevard, drove along the Seine, passed several intersections, and turned into the Rue du Conseiller-Collignon, where the taxi came to a full stop in front of an austere but elegant building. A policeman standing guard at the door recognized Givon and saluted him amicably. Givon finally spoke as we waited for the elevator: “I thought it would be better to see him at home, in private. There are too many people at his office at Matignon.” In other words, Givon, not the prime minister, had decided where the interview would be held. Mendès-France was at his beck and call! I had not yet recovered from my astonishment when Givon added, “I asked if we could have lunch. It’s better that way. More private.”
Givon rang the bell, and the maid who answered