A Masterpiece of Revenge (4 page)

That thought proved I was losing my sanity. At that instant I decided to go to Berkeley as soon as possible — the next day — and visit Jean-Louis. I had planned to return to San Francisco at some point anyway; I had an open invitation from the Young Museum to authenticate a work attributed to Le Nain.

I have said I was not a superstitious man. I was changing. That morning, on the way to the post office to mail in my article (entitled “The Play of Contrasts in Lorrain's Landscapes”), a large cat with orange fur, a magnificent creature, stopped in front of me and stared unblinkingly with its phosphorescent green eyes. I couldn't rid my mind of the image of those eyes the entire day.

I must have looked the way I felt, for the secretary and the security guard at the College both inquired after my health. I told them I was feeling fine, thank you, though the truth was that I had had to stop twice on the way to the office because my heart was beating so hard and my head felt coated in ice. I had gone into a café and ordered sugared tea. Next to me two men were talking.

One said to the other, “Anyway, I expected it. I had lived with the fear of it for so long I couldn't breathe. Everything scared me. I knew I needed to prepare for the worst. But, you know, I just couldn't face it. Every time I tried, I closed my eyes.”

“There's your mistake,” the other replied. “If they're threatening you, it's because they're the ones who feel threatened. Don't you see?
They're
afraid of
you.”

I swallowed my tea and stopped in at the first travel agency I could find to buy my ticket.

“I'm very sorry,” an officious young girl behind a desk told me, “but the next two Air France flights to San Francisco are fully booked.”

“These planes are never fully booked. Look again, please, miss. There must be a free seat somewhere. In the middle, toward the back, I don't care —”

“Sir, I'm telling you. They're full. Not one seat is open.” I left the travel agency feeling that the world was in league against me. I decided to take matters into my own hands. Early the next morning I packed and went to the airport, where I bought a standby ticket for the first flight to San Francisco.

O
f course there were empty seats on the first flight. There always are, especially in first class. Getting on the flight settled my nerves a bit. I had lots of legroom, and was comforted by the idea that I would be with Jean-Louis in a dozen hours. I had called from the airport to tell him I was coming. He told me he would come meet me.

The champagne was chilled, the flight attendants cordial. I dove into an article on seventeenth-century drawings and for a while lost track of time.

Then two Americans sitting in the row behind me began talking about recent earthquakes in the San Francisco area.

This brought back all my fear. I regretted that Jean-Louis had ever had the idea of getting his business degree at Berkeley. What was wrong with the University of Michigan, or Yale? Why did he have to choose a school located, as the whole world is well aware, equidistant between the San Andreas and Hayward Faults? I knew that only one quake in ten thousand was dangerous, and that there was a million times smaller chance of being killed in an earthquake than of winning the lottery. Reminding myself of this did little good.

I recalled one California guidebook cheerfully informing me that California was particularly susceptible to earthquakes in the autumn. Here it was, the beginning of autumn. How delightful.

Where my son was involved I had always imagined the worst. I would never forget the day when he said the words that caused my heart to fall into my shoes: “Dad, I want a motorcycle.”

Five little words, yet they had thrown me into total panic. Images instantly crowded my teeming brain — Jean-Louis in a coma, on a hospital bed, bleeding profusely in some gutter, broken in a thousand places. It had seemed like only yesterday he had cut himself above the eye falling off his tricycle.

And now he wanted a motorcycle! Good God. Those metal death traps that made that infernal racket. Never!

“No, Jean-Louis. Never.” I had said this as calmly as I could.

“But, Dad—”

“No.”

“But,
Daddy.”
He began his sweet-talking routine, and I'd had to shut my ears.

Eventually, of course, I relented. I allowed myself to be dragged down to the nearest motorcycle dealer, where Jean-Louis pointed out the one he had his heart set on. It was shiny and red. The color of blood.

I had never seen such a monstrous machine, and searched the salesman's eyes for some shred of sympathy. Nothing but the sale was on his mind. In desperation I had asked Jean-Louis if he didn't want a VCR instead, an electric organ, a drum set (to hell with the neighbors!) What about a trip to Canada? Iroquois still live in its primeval woods, you know!

All to no effect. He walked around the thing, stroking its smooth metal flanks. It was already his. That murderous salesman, who was his accomplice, sidled up to me.

“All boys want motorcycles. It's natural,” he said.

The imbecile!

“All students want to study in California,” Jean-Louis's professors had said years later. “It's natural.”

And so off to California he had gone, putting seven thousand miles between us, a plane trip of over eleven hours. Here was the separation I had always expected and dreaded. Here was the reality: that I would wake up old, helpless, alone. I would become a pathetic old man, leading a joyless existence between phone calls from my son.

It has only been six weeks since he left, but I felt I'd already begun the long, slow journey toward death. A chill engulfed me. No more vacations together. No more evenings when I would come home with a surprise for him — a video game, a CD, an art book, fresh foie gras.

All the fun had gone out of my life. Now I was going to live with ceaseless worry and a thousand new things to fret about: earthquakes, mud slides, AIDS, drugs, religious cults, random violence. Worst was the distinct and very alarming possibility Jean-Louis would fall in love with some silly American girl and settle down with her in her native state — Arkansas, or Nevada.

In my calmer moments I understood perfectly Jean-Louis's decision to study in California. He had always dreamed of living near golden beaches, pounding surf, sequoias, the land of Jack London and the Sierra Nevada. He was happy; so should I have been. Instead of bemoaning my loneliness I should have been celebrating his happiness. Berkeley was a world-class institution. I myself had taught there for a semester before Jean-Louis's birth and I remembered well the sights and smells of California — the food and wines; the snowy tops of the Panamints; Zabriski Point, an infinite landscape whose desolation yields unexpected splendors; Badwater, near whose heated earth you could almost fry an egg; the wild roses of the Mojave.

Yes, I had sung the praises of California to Jean-Louis. I also knew that with an American business degree in hand, and then returning to France's Ecole Nationale d'administration — breeding ground of the country's leaders — Jean-Louis's future was a bright one indeed.

Of course I'd relented. It was only to be for two years. I would count the days until his return, just as I was counting the hours until the plane touched down at San Francisco airport.

Following a stopover in Chicago to refuel, my excitement began to mount. In one hundred forty-two minutes I would see him. Already I felt his proximity to me, an encroaching feeling of happiness, a wave of warmth. How fragile and tender a thing is happiness. As light as the air beneath the engines of flight.

We got a new pilot in Chicago, an American. Alas, he was a chatty fellow who felt obliged to give us a running and very homespun commentary on every aspect of the flight. Each time the public address system came on I winced.

“Captain Jerry Carter here. Well, folks, well be cruising at an altitude of thirty thousand feet… heading right smack over Kansas City. We've got real clear skies today. If you look way over on the left side of the aircraft in ‘bout half an hour you'll be able to take a gander at the Grand Canyon. That's quite some sight, believe you me.” I felt as if I was stuck on a guided tour.

Eventually, thankfully, the plane landed in San Francisco, and with such deft lightness that I forgave the pilot all his chatter. I headed into the terminal with a radiant smile.

There he was, just on the other side of customs, waving his arms, looking the way he used to when I came home from a trip. I was the most adored father in the world.

In the time it took to get through customs, I already knew almost everything: Jean-Louis looked happy; he glowed with good health; he was tanned and fit. When I got to him I smothered him in an embrace.

We drove into the city, talking freely and merrily How far away my troubles in Paris seemed!

We went straight to Berkeley and to Chez Panisse. I had promised Jean-Louis in a letter that one day we would visit this mecca of California cuisine. Not only had he made the reservation, he had booked the best table, on the first floor, near the fireplace. There were fresh flowers on the table.

Time felt suspended in its flight, and I savored the delights of the moment. Warm oysters served with endive from Chino Ranch — a strange and delicious combination Jean-Louis recommended. The boy had exquisite taste. I had made him a gourmet in my own image, weaning him on the finest and rarest of foods. Perhaps this was my way of compensating for the loss of his mother. I felt a deep obligation to teach him the art of living, and acuity of the senses, I believed firmly, was one of life's essential arts.

We sipped a fine Pinot Noir from Napa Valley, and remarked how far California wines had truly come. Nothing could compete with Bordeaux, but I knew my chauvinism was tied to a memory of a trip Jean-Louis and I had made to that region. Pine, sand, the smell of grapes, fresh foie gras. Who could forget Bayonne, with its chive purée, its black bread, its beautiful cathedral, the Bonnat Museum, and those omelets. Royan, with its oysters, its butter, and its Pineau de Charentes. Mauléon, with its wood pigeons. All this did credit to Chez Panisse, which brought back other tastes and smells.

For an hour or two I was on a cloud. Jet lag, no doubt. When dessert arrived — croissant pudding, how creative these Californians! — I began to remember why I had come.

I began asking Jean-Louis some questions I'd been rehearsing, though without trying to give him the impression that his replies were of any great moment. Who was he seeing? What did he do in the evenings? Did he go out often? Who were his friends? Simple questions. The difficulty lay in interpreting his answers. One reply can mask another.

Then I started asking questions that were less general, more probing. “Which professor do you most admire?” “Have you met someone here you genuinely dislike?”

I also asked him — in an offhand manner — if any of his friends were addicted to drugs, or if they even took drugs recreationally. Or whether he had tried any. He answered in the negative, though a little quizzically.

“Dad, don't you trust me?”

“Of course, of course. What is there about life in America that you least like?”

I knew that my questions must have seemed a little out of character. But I felt sure that his replies would provide me with some information, a clue perhaps, anything to give me a context for those photos.

All I learned was what I'd already known — that my son was a careful young man who measured the risks before running headlong into some action. And he was no Lothario. Yes, he broke hearts, but he never broke promises. In that way, we were alike, and the realization did not hurt my vanity.

We said good night in the lobby of the Durant Hotel, a comfortable place located near the university.

“You know, Dad,” Jean-Louis teased, “there have been at least fifteen small earthquakes since your arrival. Have you at least stopped worrying about that?”

I burst out laughing. It was true that when we talked on the phone I fretted endlessly about earthquakes.

I hugged him and watched him pull away from the curb in his yellow Mustang convertible. He was a long way from motorcycles now. We had agreed that tomorrow we would spend the day together.

California (Northern California, at least) possesses the appearance of paradise. I forced myself not be taken in by appearances. I needed to be watchful and observant. Danger could be lurking almost anywhere.

For two days I kept my eyes open, scrutinizing every face we passed, observing gestures. I put my powers of observation onto full alert, particularly when he introduced me to his friends.

Max, a Nigerian Jean-Louis often spoke to me about, was a courtly and kind man. He was incredibly tall.

Shirley, a pretty young woman with blond hair and a slightly affected squint, seemed obsessed with her appearance. She and Jean-Louis played tennis. It was clear their relationship went no deeper.

Audrey, a plump young woman with a very sweet disposition, informed me within a minute of our acquaintance that she was in love with a guitarist in a jazz fusion band. From what I could tell, Jean-Louis was a sort of brother to her, a soul willing to listen to her tales of infatuation.

Amanda was a different matter. I knew that she had slept with my son the minute I saw them exchange a conspiratorial look. She was beautiful, with Sharon Stone-like looks, but I found her lacking mystique — the case for so many American women. She was too tanned, too blond, too — how can I put it? — self-assured. I had a hard time imagining her cooking up a plot against us.

The only person who seemed even mildly suspicious was Gregory, who lived on the same floor as my son. He was gay and sported a long beard. He had a faraway look, and indeed was very involved in spiritual matters — a channel for voices, he said, a medium for souls from the Other Side. “I'm a kind of phone line between the living and the dead,” he confided to me (nearly making me burst out laughing). “Yesterday I put an old woman in touch with a man who lived four thousand years ago. The man used my mouth to say that his spirit would come to her and help her leave her mortal coil, so that she might join with eternals.''