The Fugitivities, стр. 88

with Francesca. They were really clicking, it seemed. And Jonah asked him if he thought it would last. Octavio shrugged it off. Who knows? Probably not, in the long run, he said. But this was about the present, the extraordinary intensity of all that he had been learning from her about how to be a dad. Not for real, of course. But it was wonderful in ways he hadn’t thought of, and Jonah could see that he really meant it. If they could figure out the visas, Francesca might try to bring Paolina to visit him in New York one day. Jonah was overjoyed to see Octavio. But he was embarrassed at how hard it was for him to make that even somewhat apparent to his friend. He found it hard to talk. He kept trying to think of a way to tell him everything about Arna, but for some reason he couldn’t bring myself to. “What’s next for you, caballero?” Octavio wanted to know. He evaded the question.

Now he suddenly wished that he hadn’t waited for Octavio. It was so good to see him, but it also felt like somehow his being there was making things worse. He had botched everything, even his own departure. They tried a neutral gear, talking sports, and Octavio noted that his beloved Vasco was performing horribly this year and was in danger of being knocked out of the Brazilian Série A altogether. They tried to talk about New York, but the news about the aftermath of the riots there really didn’t help. Actually, it made things worse and Jonah started to feel slightly ill. He had to get to his flight. Octavio helped carry his bags up the Avenida 9 de Julio. There was sadness in his eyes. Jonah felt stupid for not thinking of something better to have done with their brief time together. But then a cab pulled up and Octavio was yelling at the driver in Spanish, beaming with his usual fire. Jonah got in and Octavio came over to the window and they clasped hands. Jonah was mumbling something about seeing him around, but Octavio with great dignity and noblesse, cut him off. “Avant tout, la liberté!” He was still shouting in his awkward French and making grandiloquent waves as the taxi pulled out into the main lanes and Jonah lost sight of him in the heavy traffic.

While he had been away nothing had changed, but now everything was different. The first decade of the new millennium was winding down and headed into troubled waters. The television screens in the waiting area of the baggage claim oscillated between coverage of a potentially historic American election and an economic crisis of devastating proportions. But the anxious hope and breathless panic saturating the airwaves went beyond the question of financial catastrophe or politics. It seemed to encompass a whole new way of being in the world, as if everyone had stopped to peer collectively over a cliff, allowing the new normal to momentarily come into view, or at least the outlines of its major patterns, which promised to be glittering, swift, and cruel. The France Jonah had left behind was doing its best to keep apace of the times. At the airport all the business-class types were following the bad news on their new portable screens.

What chance did Nate’s injunction to do good, or the work of a few teachers at a high school, or Uncle Vernon’s hope for him to do something righteous have against all that?

His mother was waiting for him under the gray high arches of the terminal at Charles de Gaulle. She looked older, more delicate and frail than he had remembered. But the deepest lines in her face hadn’t changed. Not a drop of clarity was missing in her eyes. She wanted to help with the bags but he insisted he was fine. As they weaved their way through the terminal, he struggled to hear her voice over the clamor of announcements. On the RER train the fatigue caught up with him in heavy waves. They passed the suburban stations in procession. The housing projects loomed on the horizon. His mother was happy because he was home. She was talking about things that he had missed while he was away. His father’s health was worsening, she warned, worsening every day. He leaned against the window. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Mama, I’m no good…”

“What do you mean no good, sweetie? You’re tired, you’re jet-lagged…”

“No, no. You’re not listening. I’m no good at anything. My life hasn’t worked at all. I feel like…like all I’ve ever done is waste time.”

“You’ve been out in the world, exploring, learning, teaching. Right now, you’re hungry, you’re pooped! Look at you! You probably haven’t eaten a proper meal in days!”

“No. No, that’s not it. I feel empty inside. About everything. I hate everything, and nothing even makes sense anymore. I’m nothing. I’m nowhere.”

“Jonah, listen to me. I’m your mother, I know what I’m talking about. What happened to Arna isn’t your fault. These things just happen…they just do, and you can’t take it all upon yourself, it doesn’t mean the world is against you or hates you, it’s just that, I don’t know, it’s the way things are. But it’s going to be okay again, I promise it will.”

“Mama.”

“I’m so sorry about Arna, Jonah. I’m so sorry.”

He waved her away. He didn’t want to talk about it. The train plunged underground, racing to the platform at Gare du Nord.

“You know she sent you all these letters. Your friend Isaac forwarded them all from New York. I’ve been keeping them for you in your room. I brought them with me. I thought you might want them right away.”

The stack of envelopes was addressed in Arna’s unmistakable hand. His mother had tied the packet together carefully with string. He thumbed through them, checking the postage stamps. Arna had sent him letters from every corner of the new Europe.