All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [147]
The bell rang to alert us to return to our seats. I continued to feign enthusiasm, applauding in all the right places, admiring the choreography and the ballerinas. It’s amazing what you’ll do for someone you’re about to fall in love with, someone you already love. Had Kathleen suggested we go onstage for a few entrechats, I would have followed her without fear of ridicule. Maybe that’s what love is: not to fear. But I had feared it all my life, and when the curtain came down, the old inhibitions resurfaced.
I invented an excuse to disappear. Professional duty, I said. It was time to send my cable. Shraggai tried to persuade me to go with them to a restaurant. I resisted. I owed it to my readers, I said. In fact, I had no dispatch to send that night, and Shraggai probably guessed as much. “If you stay with us, I’ll give you a scoop tomorrow,” he said. Of course, I had no wish to leave, but I dug in my heels so as not to lose face. It was a suggestion from Kathleen that saved me from myself: “Why don’t you send your cable and then join us? We’ll wait for you, won’t we, Shraggai?” Of course, he said. “But hurry.” “Yes, hurry,” Kathleen pleaded. Was she already getting attached to me?
I set out for the métro station at a run, but Shraggai’s voice stopped me: “Don’t you want to know which restaurant?” Idiot. He named a well-known café, adding, “It’s not far from the telegraph office, Rue Montmartre.” True, it wasn’t far, but I had nothing to send anyway. I decided to wire Dov a brief message: “Project Mendès-France on track again.” Let him have a sleepless night for a change. He would definitely call me in the morning, wanting to know more, but there was time enough to think about that. For the moment I had to hurry. Shraggai and Kathleen were waiting. I repeated her name to myself as I walked. Kath-leen, Kath-leen. It seemed the most beautiful name in the world. Sure, it wasn’t Jewish, but so what? The important thing was that she was waiting for me and that she was beautiful. And there she was, keeping an eye on the entrance.
She smiled when she saw me come in. “Thanks for being so quick,” she said. “We’ve already ordered,” Shraggai said. “What do you feel like?” Coffee. “That’s all?” Kathleen asked. “Aren’t you hungry?” I wasn’t. “Try,” she urged. Okay, I would have what she was having. “A sandwich?” Fine. “A ham sandwich?” Uh-oh. There’s your answer, I said to myself: She’s not Jewish. “Cheese, then?” she suggested. Fine. At which point Shraggai launched into a discussion about dietary laws in the Jewish tradition. Kathleen asked pertinent questions. Her voice set me dreaming and her glance intoxicated me. I told her I would explain the complicated dietary laws some other time. “So there’ll be another time?” she asked in an innocent, anxious voice. “Of course,” Shraggai said. “What about tomorrow night?” “Sorry,” Kathleen replied, “I can’t.” I added that I couldn’t either, that I was busy. “I was lying,” she whispered to me as Shraggai paid the check. “Actually I’m not busy. I was going to suggest we start the English lessons tomorrow night, but if you’re not free …” I told her I had lied too—I was at her service. I came close to confessing that I was free every night. “Call me in the morning,” she said joyously, giving me her number. When Shraggai came back he announced that he was taking Kathleen back to Neuilly. It was two in the morning, and I walked home borne by a new happiness.
The next morning was ruled by the telephone.
“What’s up?” an excited Dov