All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [146]
Overcoming my embarrassment, I told him I was not a diplomat but a journalist. He asked which paper I worked for. I told him and quickly asked for an interview. I expected him to plead lack of time or to tell me to call his secretary, but instead he took out an appointment book, and an instant later, I was the world’s happiest journalist. “Are you sure you’re not busy that day?” he asked. I was sure. “But you didn’t even check your book.” No need, I told him as we shook hands. You only had to dare, I told myself, and the rest was easy.
It was easy, that is, except for the usual waiting. To make time pass, I wrote a few pieces: Paris by night, Paris on Sunday, Paris at dawn. A colleague of mine—Yerahmiel Viernik, a former leader in Jabotinsky’s party and editor in chief of the review that had published my long piece on Beethoven—joined me for an all-night walk through Pigalle, the Parisian red-light district. We bought some french fries and stood under the glaring lights of a café counter drinking coffee and discussing (don’t laugh!) the poetry of Chaim Nahman Bialik, the man who had said that words were whores. Not surprisingly, none of the working girls approached us. No doubt they realized at a glance that we were not prospective customers. Luckily, they didn’t understand our Hebrew, or they would have collapsed in laughter. Back home I faced the astonished smiles of the Lenemans sitting at their breakfast table. It was the first time I had stayed out all night, but they were too discreet to ask questions. “I was out working on an article,” I told them. I had completely forgotten that I was supposedly involved in a complicated love affair. They must have thought me a wretched liar.
The next day I was invited to a performance of the Marquis de Cuevas dance company. In truth, I am not a lover of dance. But that night I was the guest of a member of the Israeli parliament—Shraggai, a politician friend of Viernik’s and mine. He adored ballet, and for me it simply meant spending a couple of hours in his company. A tireless emissary of his movement, Shraggai had clear blue eyes, a thick, drooping moustache, and incredible charm. If he didn’t know everybody, he knew everything everybody wanted to know about everybody else. I loved listening to his gossip, predictions, and analyses. Besides which, he told me he had a pleasant surprise for me.
He was right about that. The surprise was a young American student whose beauty left me breathless. Her name was Kathleen and that night she tiptoed into my life. I liked her name, its melodious sound. Everything about this girl was attractive: her dark brown eyes, silky black shoulder-length hair, a discreet, mysterious smile. I knew if I lowered my guard I would be hit by one of those thunderbolts I never knew how to handle. So of course I lowered my guard.
I pretended to be absorbed in the show and to ignore the young American girl seated between Shraggai and me. But suddenly I forgot all about my appointment with Mauriac. I forgot about Mendès-France. I even forgot about Givon. A single question popped into my mind: Was she Jewish? But then, did it really matter? After all, I wasn’t going to marry her. Just the same, I was curious. During the intermission she left us for a moment. “So?” Shraggai asked. “Not bad,” I lied, “but believe me, I’m not interested.” He wanted to know what I was interested in. Mauriac and Mendès-France, I told him. He didn’t believe me, and I tried to convince him. In the meantime, Kathleen came back. Having overheard snatches of our exchange, she asked me about Mauriac and about my work. My English left a lot