“It is appropriate. What’s not appropriate was the Peter Pan.” He was immediately sorry that he had said this, and expected a hail of anger from Cathérine. But instead, even as she held herself stiffly and controlled her breathing, her eyes filled with tears, which she did not want Luc to see. Jules held out his arm, and, after a moment of hesitation, she sat down next to him and buried her face against his shoulder so Luc would not hear her cry. Soon it was over.
A few weeks before, as they were waiting for dinner, she had put on a Peter Pan movie in English. Her command of English was not strong enough to allow her to comprehend the song lyrics. They bothered Jules, but he said nothing until, as he thought about it, he had to turn off the movie even though Luc was literally wide-eyed. And Jules did turn it off, despite making Luc cry as if he had fallen. The combination of Never Never Land and the repetition of the lyric, “I won’t grow up …” was what did it for Jules. Of course, Luc didn’t understand, which somehow made it all the worse, and even Cathérine hadn’t understood until it was explained to her, but then she did, and she said, “Okay. Okay, we can’t have this in our house. Not now.”
So it was, in their house, and their household, where the real danger came from within, mysteriously and improperly choosing as its target the most vulnerable and innocent. Fighting it was not made any easier by a sense that there was a battle outside as well, a danger that seemed to be everywhere in the air.
When, only months before, the massive crowds had marched in Paris, chanting “Death to the Jews,” many of the demonstrators were smiling and laughing. This was easy for some to dismiss. Other than in rare exceptions, in France death was not brought expressly and en masse to the Jews as it was at the beginning of Jules’ life. In fact, despite his history and despite his defense of the Orthodox Jewish boy on the bridge, Jules himself felt unthreatened. The high national unemployment, crime, riots, and the occasional massacre in France notwithstanding, the center of Paris and regions west were welcoming and safe.
Even during the war, the theaters had been open, bakers baked, waiters hustled, mothers took their children to the park, and pigeons washed their wings in puddles. Now, as everyday life continued, even Jews could easily forget the chant of “Death to the Jews,” which was anything but ever-present. This was especially true if like Jules one was blond and looked German, English, or Scandinavian. From his appearance alone, no one had ever taken him for a Jew. So, like Marcel Marceau in a film Jules had seen as a boy, he could walk through walls, or be invisible. And, besides, for him death was not feared, but what he sought. Not only would it correct being alive, which he had always thought a betrayal, but now it had other purposes as well.
Alone, he was immune to the chant, but not when he visited Cathérine and her family. They were young, identifiable, and, most of all, beleaguered from within. The angel of death fluttered against their dwelling like a bird stubbornly beating its wings against the window, and all they could do was watch it quietly, hardly taking a breath, hoping that the glass would not give way.
THE EVENING OF the Babar et le Père No?l puzzle – which lay ninety-percent finished as Luc slept in Jules’ arms, his body limp and conforming, his skin sweet despite the almost marine smell of his medications – Jules wanted to recommend a movie to Cathérine and David. They were eager for that, because he often came up with interesting choices and because, as they never went out and were so often too exhausted to read, they watched a lot of movies.
Jules could not, however, think of the title. Nor could he remember the names of the actors, all of whom were famous and many of whom were his favorites. “You know,” he said. “I can’t … I just can’t think of his name.” He was obviously disturbed by this. And more so when he found himself unable to recall the name of a single person in the cast.”
“Who’s the director?” David asked.
“It’s …. I know who it is, but I can’t summon it.”
It was then that Cathérine said, “I don’t know why we’re acting like idiots, bookmarking pages from the MD Anderson Cancer Center, apartments in Geneva, houses in Geneva. Why are we doing that, when you can’t even remember Fabrice Luchini?”
“It wasn’t Fabrice Luchini.”
“Who was it?” she demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You don’t know the title, you don’t know anything. Why do we let you direct us?”
“One thing has nothing to do with the other, and I’m not directing you. As far as Switzerland and the rest, I’m begging you to trust me.” A moment passed. “And I’m grateful that you have.”
“What I’m saying,” Cathérine let fly, now not so much in anger as in sadness, “is that you’re not all there.”
“Of course I’m all here,” Jules told her, smarting at first. “Memory has nothing to do with judgment. Don’t you understand what happens with memory? I can remember every note and rest in a long piece. I can remember exactly certain things that happened more than seventy years ago.”
“But you can’t remember something that happened yesterday.”
“I’ll tell you why, Cathérine, and maybe you can learn something.”
“Go ahead,” she challenged.
“The Internet,” he said.
“The Internet,” Cathérine echoed mockingly. “That explains it.”
He forgave her. He would always forgive her. It was all right if she gave whatever it was that she could not handle, to him. This was his job after all. He was supposed to be the redoubt in which those he loved could find protection. If not admirable, it was okay that she was angry.
“Bandwidth,” he continued.
“Bandwidth?”
“Yes. You know how politicians brag about bringing bandwidth to poor people and out-of-the-way places?”
“So?”
“It costs a lot of money. But what part of bandwidth is used for text – all the emails, chatting, encyclopedias, books, etcetera – on the Internet?”
“I don’t know,” Cathérine answered.
“About one percent.”
“What are you getting at?” she asked, more convinced than ever, and more upset and alarmed, that he was losing his mind.
“The rest is visual: movies, television, games, photographs. Why do you think that is? It’s because the densest form of information perceptible to humans – other than the spiritual and metaphysical, for which there is no proof within the realm of reason – is visual.