All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [148]
Anxious, I called Kathleen. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, I wasn’t sleeping.”
“What were you doing?”
“Thinking about last night.”
“I owe you a confession. I don’t know a thing about dance.”
“I know, I could feel you looking at me.”
“But I didn’t look at you either.”
“I felt it anyway.”
There was a long silence. “Do you really want to see me again?” she asked, in her touchingly sweet voice. I threw the question right back to her. Another long silence, and then she said, “Yes, very much.” We made an appointment for me to pick her up in Neuilly.
Next came an amused call from Shraggai. “So, don’t you want to thank me? Don’t tell me you didn’t find her beautiful, charming, cultured—in a word, extraordinary.” I said nothing. “If you want to ask me anything about her,” he went on, “don’t hesitate.” But I had only one question: How had he met her? He said it was a long story. “Why don’t you come and have coffee with me?”
Shraggai looked tired—pale and drawn, his eyes bloodshot from insomnia. “She thinks a lot of you,” he said without further preamble. I thanked him and reminded him that he had promised me a scoop today. He laughed. “Isn’t Kathleen the most beautiful scoop a journalist could ask for? She told me she was afraid of you. Afraid to fall in love with you.” And that frightened her? “Yes, because she’s not free.” I almost choked. She’s married? “No, engaged.” My anticipated happiness was vanishing. I don’t know how I managed to get out the words: “So where did you meet her?”
He had noticed her a month ago standing in line at the Salle Pleyel box office. By chance, they had bought adjoining seats. During the intermission Shraggai was approached by a friend of his, a Mossad officer, who questioned him about his neighbor. How long had he known her? What did he know about her? Shraggai explained that he had never seen her before. The Mossad agent was disappointed. “Too bad. We thought you could help us. She’s German, and she lives with someone we’re interested in, a German scientist who’s working for Syria.” Shraggai was skeptical: “Even the Mossad can make a mistake. On the way in, I struck up a conversation with her, so I can tell you she’s not German but American. I doubt she knows anyone who works for an Arab country. In fact, she just arrived from the United States.”
Shraggai accompanied her home and since that evening had become her chaperon, guide, and bodyguard. She treated him not so much like a father as like an old friend of her father’s; he was her confidant. Why had he wanted to meet her? “I like helping fate,” he said. And that’s why he wanted to throw us into each other’s arms, even though she was engaged? “Sometimes fate opens a door, sometimes it closes it. And sometimes it stands aside without doing anything.”
Then Shraggai asked me some questions about his protégée. Had I found her sufficiently attractive? Did I want to see her again? If my profession had taught me anything, it was the art of sidestepping questions with a minimum of elegance but a maximum of caution. I knew how to keep a secret and didn’t breathe a word about my appointment with Kathleen.
The afternoon seemed interminable. I had a terrible migraine and found it hard to breathe. I canceled all my appointments. I would not attend the press conference at the Quai d’Orsay tomorrow, nor tonight’s reception. Leneman suggested we take in a premiere at the Théâtre Antoine. “No thanks,” I said. “Something has come up.” Suddenly it was impossible for me to sit down at the typewriter and concentrate.
That evening I took the métro to Neuilly. Feeling like a smitten teenager, I rang the bell. Kathleen let me in. “Do you mind if we go to my room instead of the living room?” I didn’t mind at all. Her room would be more private. Besides which,