He tipped the ash of his cigarette onto a plate. “How old were you when you went to America?” he asked. “I went for college,” I said. “I was eighteen.” “Ah, much older,” he said. “The janissaries were always taken in childhood. It would have been far more difficult to devote themselves to their adopted empire, you see, if they had memories they could not forget.” He smiled and speculated no further on the subject. Our food arrived shortly thereafter and the sea bass may well have been as splendid as he had claimed; unfortunately, I can no longer recall its taste.
But your expression, sir, tells me that you think something is amiss. Did this conversation really happen, you ask? For that matter, did this so-called Juan-Bautista even exist? I assure you, sir: you can trust me. I am not in the habit of inventing untruths! And moreover, even if I were, there is no reason why this incident would be more likely to be false than any of the others I have related to you. Come, come, I believe we have passed through too much together to begin to raise questions of this nature at so late a stage.
In any case, Juan-Bautista’s words plunged me into a deep bout of introspection. I spent that night considering what I had become. There really could be no doubt: I was a modern-day janissary, a servant of the American empire at a time when it was invading a country with a kinship to mine and was perhaps even colluding to ensure that my own country faced the threat of war. Of course I was struggling! Of course I felt torn! I had thrown in my lot with the men of Underwood Samson, with the officers of the empire, when all along I was predisposed to feel compassion for those, like Juan-Bautista, whose lives the empire thought nothing of overturning for its own gain.
In the morning, with the demeanor of a man facing a firing squad—no, that is perhaps too dramatic, and a dangerous comparison on this of all evenings, but you understand my intent—I told the vice president that I refused to work any further. He was baffled. “What do you mean, refuse?” he said. “I am clone here,” I replied. “I intend to return to New York.” Panic ensued; a conference call with Jim was hastily arranged. “Look, kid,” an uncharacteristically tense Jim said over the speakerphone, “I know you have stuff on your mind. But if you walk out on this now you undermine our firm. You hurt your team. In wartime soldiers don’t really fight for their flags, Changez. They fight for their friends, their buddies. Their team. Well, right now your team is asking you to stay. Afterwards, if you need a break, it’s yours.”
I must admit, Jim’s words gave me pause. I had great admiration for him; he had always stood by me, and now I proposed to betray him. By the time my replacement could be dispatched and brought up to speed, it was probable that the deadline for our valuation would be missed. Jim had sent me as an act of faith and generosity; my repayment would be a slap in the face and all the more impudent for coming at a time of financial weakness for the firm. Besides, without my job—which I was certain to lose—my visa would expire, and I would be compelled to leave the United States. But I resolved not to consider such things at that moment; I did not want to wonder whether I was abandoning any hope of being with Erica. All I knew was that my days of focusing on fundamentals were done. And so, the following evening, two weeks ahead of schedule, I boarded a flight bound for New York.
Ah, our waiter approaches with green tea, the perfect aid to digestion after a heavy meal. Remarkable service, eh? He has arrived just as he was required. One would not have thought, sir, that he was watching us so closely, but the night is now well advanced, and there are no longer any other customers to divert his attention.
11.
IT IS ODD how the character of a public space changes when it is empty; the abandoned amusement park, the shuttered opera house, the vacant hotel: in films these often feature as backdrops for events intended to frighten. So it is with this market: now that our fellow visitors have dwindled in number to a sporadic and scattered few, it has taken on a rather more ominous edge. Perhaps it has to do with the cloudy sky above, through which one occasionally glimpses a gash of moon, or perhaps it is the darkening shadows in the warren of alleyways slipping away from here in all directions, but I would suggest that it is instead our solitude that most disturbs us, the fact that we are all but alone despite being in the heart of a city. Ah! There, sir, do you smell it: the aroma of dust on that warm breeze? That is the smell of the desert to the south, a smell that, were we to encounter it in your homeland, would in all likelihood foreshadow the passage through this dimly lit stage of a desolate ball of tumbleweed.
Although the atmosphere that surrounded me on my flight from Santiago to New York was precisely the opposite—the cabin was bright and close to full—my thoughts belonged to a setting like that which you and I occupy at this moment. Yes, my musings were bleak indeed. I reflected that I had always resented the manner in which America conducted itself in the world; your country’s constant interference in the affairs of others was insufferable. Vietnam, Korea, the straits of Taiwan, the Middle East, and now Afghanistan: in each of the major conflicts and standoffs that ringed my mother continent of Asia, America played a central role. Moreover I knew from my experience as a Pakistani—of alternating periods of American aid and sanctions—that finance was a primary means by which the American empire exercised its power. It was right for me to refuse to participate any longer in facilitating this project of domination; the only surprise was that I had required so much time to arrive at my decision.
I resolved to look about me with an ex-janissary’s gaze—with, that is to say, the analytical eyes of a product of Princeton and Underwood Samson, but unconstrained by the academic’s and the professional’s various compulsions to focus primarily on parts, and free therefore to consider also the whole of your society—upon my return to New York. Seen in this fashion I was struck by how traditional your empire appeared. Armed sentries manned the check post at which I sought entry; being of a suspect race I was quarantined and subjected to additional inspection; once admitted I hired a charioteer who belonged to a serf class lacking the requisite permissions to abide legally and forced therefore to accept work at lower pay; I myself was a form of indentured servant whose right to remain was dependent upon the continued benevolence of my employer. Thank you, Juan-Bautista, I thought as I lay myself down in my bed, for helping me to push back the veil behind which all this had been concealed!
But I must have been in a peculiar emotional state, in a sort of semi-hypnotic daze, for when I woke in the morning my feelings were entirely different. It was then that I was hit by the enormity of what I was giving up. Where else could I—without money and family contacts, and at so young an age—hope to attain such an impressive income? Would I not miss this city of possibility, with its magical vibrancy and sense of excitement? What about my duty to Erica, or rather the duty to myself that was born of my desire for her? And how would I face Jim?
If you have ever, sir, been through the breakup of a romantic relationship that involved great love, you will perhaps understand what I experienced. There is in such situations usually a moment of passion during which the unthinkable is said; this is followed by a sense of euphoria at finally being liberated; the world seems fresh, as if seen for the first time; then comes the inevitable period of doubt, the desperate and doomed backpedaling of regret; and only later, once emotions have receded, is one able to view with equanimity the journey through which one has passed. My doubt and regret came rather quickly, as they so often—in my experience of our species—tend to do, and when I boarded the subway to report for duty at Underwood Samson for the last time, I was in a state of shock similar to that which one undergoes when one has witnessed one’s knee twist impossibly but has yet to feel any pain.
Not—please understand me—that I was convinced that I had made a mistake; no, I was merely unconvinced that I had not made a mistake. I was, in other words, confused. Nevertheless, my pride compelled me to attempt to appear unaffected by the unexpected sadness within me. I did not permit my gaze to linger on the imposing reception area—which struck
me now as reminiscent of the gleaming facade of some exalted and exclusive temple—or on the spectacular view from our windows; I did not permit myself to pocket a box of my business cards, elegantly printed proof that I had once been selected from among hundreds to be here. I simply let myself be led by the pair of security guards who stood on either side of me, watched as I placed a limited number of clearly personal possessions into a small cardboard box, and then escorted me to human resources for my exit conversation.
This was surprisingly brief—stern and dauntingly formal, but without recrimination—and once the requisite forms had been signed and data relevant to performance-enhancing indicators gathered, I was told that Jim wanted to speak with me. He was wearing a dark suit and a dark tie—funereal colors, I thought—and he looked under-slept. “You really screwed us, kid,” he said. “I know,” I replied. “I am sorry.” “I’m not a big believer in compassion at the workplace,” he went on. “I didn’t think twice when it came to firing you. In fact, I wish I’d done it a month ago and saved us the headache you’ve given us down in Valparaiso. But,” he paused, “I’ll tell you this. I like you, Changez. I can see you’re going through a crisis. If you ever need to get something off your chest and you want someone to talk to, call and I’ll buy you a beer. My throat constricted; I could not reply. I nodded slowly, a gesture not unlike a bow.
After leaving Jim’s office, I was marched to the elevator bank. I realized how deep was the suspicion I had engendered in my colleagues over these past few—bearded and resentful—weeks; only Wainwright came over to shake my hand and say farewell; the others, if they bothered to look at me at all, did so with evident unease and, in some cases, a fear which would not have been inappropriate had I been convicted of plotting to kill them rather than of abandoning my post in mid-assignment. The guards did not leave me until I was outside the building, and it was only then that I allowed myself to rub my eyes with the back of my hand, for they had been watering slightly.
You must remember that I was only twenty-two and this had been my first proper job; at such an age and in such a situation events have an emotional resonance that is perhaps exaggerated. In any case, I felt as though a world had ended—which, indeed, it had—and I made my way to the East Village on foot. I imagine I was a rather odd sight—a distraught and hirsute Pakistani carrying an unmarked box through the center of Manhattan—but I do not recall receiving any untoward comments from passersby; then again, I was in all likelihood too preoccupied to have noticed.
In my flat I poured myself a whiskey and sat thinking. It was still early—not yet midday—and so I decided to call my family. My brother answered. He had received the money I had sent, he said, and workers had already dug up and exposed our rotting pipes. By tomorrow they ought to have been replaced. I told him that I had decided to move back to Lahore. He attempted to dissuade me; tension with India was mounting. He had been recently to Islamabad, he said, and spouses and children of foreigners assigned to embassies and NGOs were leaving the country. I explained that I had no choice; “I got fired,” I said, “and my visa will soon be invalid.” He told me the family would of course look after me. I did not say that I had hoped to be the one looking after them, and I continued to cradle my drink for some time after the call was done.
But your own glass, sir, has now remained empty a good while. Shall I request our bill? A quick wave and yes, here he comes. How much, you ask? Please do not worry yourself; you are a guest here and this—it is only a tiny amount—is on me. You wish to pay half? Absolutely not; besides, here we pay all or we pay none. You have reminded me of how alien I found the concept of acquaintances splitting a bill when I first arrived in your country. I had been raised to favor mutual generosity over mathematical precision in such matters; given time both work equally well to even a score.
I had not, however, been schooled in the etiquette of how best to contact a lover who had retreated to a mental institution, and so I vacillated between emailing Erica and going to see her in person. In the end, my decision was made for me: I tried to email her but my message bounced back—with a notice saying it could not be delivered because her inbox was full—and so I rented a car and appeared at the facility unannounced. I was told at reception that visitors without invitations were not welcome—and in any case they could neither confirm nor deny if Erica was even there—but just as it seemed they were about to ask me to leave, I saw the nurse I had met on my previous trip and appealed to her to intervene on my behalf.
“I’ll talk to him,” she said to the receptionist, taking me aside. She looked flustered and suggested I sit down. “What do you know?” she asked me. “What do I know,” I said, “about what?” “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Erica’s gone.” I asked what precisely she meant, gone, and the nurse explained. Erica had vanished about two weeks ago, indeed shortly after I had seen her last. She had not liked to be alone when she had first come to the institution; she would spend hours with the nurses and the counselors and her fellow patients, and especially with the nurse with whom I was speaking. But towards the end of her stay she had increasingly been wandering off by herself, until one day she had walked out and not come back. Her clothes had been found on a rocky bluff overlooking the Hudson, neatly folded in a pile.
“Are you trying to tell me that she killed herself?” I said. “They haven’t recovered any remains,” the nurse said, “and she didn’t leave a note. Technically she’s a missing person. But she’d been saying goodbye to everyone.” I asked if she could show me the place from which Erica might have jumped, and she led me through the grounds until we stood there. It was a beautiful spot to commit suicide, perhaps to run out from between the snow-dusted conifers, to push off from the granite and sail through the air, gazing across at the far bank of the mighty river, where a small house exhaled smoke from its chimney, before crashing into the icy current below. But I could not imagine Erica’s pale, naked body following that arc.
So I drove back to the city and went immediately to her apartment. Erica’s mother was not wearing any makeup; I noticed her eyebrows were so fine as to be almost nonexistent. I explained that I had just returned from the institution; had she heard from Erica? Her mother stared at me as though I had slapped her without provocation. “No,” she said, recovering herself and speaking wearily, “I’m afraid not.” “Please know,” I said, “that I will do anything which is of assistance to you.” “Thank you,” she said, inviting me inside. She told me that the emergency services would remain on the lookout for Erica, and ongoing advertisements had been purchased in the local newspapers; beyond that there was little one could do. We attempted to speak of inconsequential matters, but this proved difficult—when she asked how I was, I said I had just been fired; when I asked the same, she could only muster a wan smile—and so we sat mainly in silence. But before I left, she did two things, I suspect out of kindness: first, she told me that Erica had mentioned that she had found me rather dashing in my new beard; and second, she gave me a copy of Erica’s manuscript. “Maybe,” her mother said, “you’d like to read it.”
I did not do so for over a week; it sat undisturbed on top of my television. During that time I waited for a sign from Erica—an email, a phone call, a ring on my buzzer—but none ever came. I wandered about the city revisiting places she had taken me to, whether because I thought I might see her or because I thought I might see something of us, I am not now certain. A few of these places—such as the gallery in Chelsea we had visited on the night of our first date—I proved unable to find; they had vanished as though they had never existed. Others, like the spot in Central Park where we had gone on our picnic, were easy to locate but seemed to have altered. Perhaps this was the effect of a change in season; perhaps also it was in the city’s nature to be inconstant.
I remembered Erica in September, at what was still the start of our relationship, just after the attacks on the World Trade Center. Although it is traditionally associated with the end of summer and the impending arr
ival of autumn, September has always seemed to me a month of beginnings, a spring of sorts—possibly because it marks the commencement of the academic year. I was diving into my life in New York in September, full of optimism at what was to come. One evening I was walking with Erica through Union Square and we saw a firefly. “Look!” she said, amazed. “It’s trying to compete with the buildings.” Indeed it was: a tiny greenish glow visible up close but overwhelmed by the city’s luminance when viewed from even a modest distance. We watched as it crossed Fourteenth Street, headed south. Erica stood in front of me, her back to my chest, and I placed my arms around her, resting my palms on her belly. It felt an intimate gesture—like that of an expectant father with his pregnant wife—and she leaned against me. I can still recall the movement of her muscles as she breathed. A taxi sped by and we lost sight of the firefly. “Do you think he made it?” she asked me. “I have no idea,” I said, “but I hope so.”
Such memories occupied my waking hours in those days after her disappearance, and likely also permeated my dreams; they were in that period my only form of contact with her. But eventually I did read the manuscript her mother had given me. I must admit, I was frightened to do so—as though it might be the last time I would hear Erica’s voice—and I was nervous about what that voice might say. Yet her novel was no tortured, obviously autobiographical affair. It was simply a tale of adventure, of a girl on an island who learns to make do. The narrative shimmered with hope, and although it was for the most part rather spare, it paused often to delight in little details: in the texture of the skin of a piece of fallen fruit, for example, or in the swaying antennas of crayfish in a stream.