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John did not try to get even with those who crossed him. He tried to destroy them, and, more often than not, he succeeded. And he would have tried to destroy me—rightly so—had I, a colleague, a friend in his public life, intruded into that space that belonged to his private self.
    More than that, I knew Catherine did not have a chance against him. I knew that John would call in every favor that he had extended to anyone, he would use every iota of influence he had, to get his way. He would consort with thieves and murderers, if that became necessary. I had divined his character. I had always wondered why Catherine had not seen what I had. Why a woman otherwise so intelligent had missed what was clearly so obvious to the men I knew who knew John.
    Emotions got in Catherine’s way. She allowed herself to be ruled by her heart, as most women did. As my mother did. As I once did with Mulenga before I taught myself to confine such passion to the prison of my dreams.
    There should be a bell that goes off in our heads when we lie to ourselves. Some noise to jar us awake when we allow ourselves to toy with reason so that it bends to our commands. I wanted Marguerite. I needed to find a way to see Marguerite. But I did not want to be disturbed by pangs of conscience. I did not want to feel guilty that I had used Catherine as I would an airline ticket, to getfrom one place to another. So I convinced myself this at least I could do for her: I could tell a friend of the trouble she was in. Perhaps there was something Marguerite could do. Someone she knew who had political influence. I disregarded Catherine’s words that Marguerite could be of no help to her. I used a self-serving logic to suppress objective reason, reason that told me that Catherine was also my friend and I should try to help her, that perhaps there was a chance that I could penetrate John’s conscience. I could move him by the very love he had for Eric and Eric for him. I could make him see that his son’s happiness lay not only in having his father’s love, but his mother’s love, too.
    Instead, I told myself that such an effort on my part would have been futile. Even if I were willing to do the unmanly thing, even if John were to admit me into his private space, I would have lost. For John was also a cunning man. He would have known how to ensnare me with his existential arguments. He would have asked me to define “mother.” He would have pointed out that biology was no determinant for who was the best caretaker for a child. He would have said that he could offer his son opportunities that Catherine could not. His son would travel, go to the best schools, meet the world’s most influential people. And as for love, he had enough love for Eric to make up for Catherine’s absence. His new girlfriend loved Eric and was devoted to him. And, finally, he would have made a defense I could not rebut. He would have reminded me that Catherine was a closet alcoholic. Didn’t I see her get drunk at one too many cocktail parties? She suffered from bouts of depression. Didn’t I see her cry in public? He could not expose his child to such danger and unhappiness. So it was I concluded that it would have been useless, and perhaps not wise, for me to try to persuade John to do as Catherine wanted.
    It would be this, my calculated analysis of the dangers in ceding to Catherine’s pleas for my help, that would lead Catherine to say to Marguerite that if I were Adam there would be no sin in the world. Yet because I tried to be a kind man, because I did not want to be a callous man, I decided that I would speak to Marguerite. I would offer Catherine the consolation of her best friend’s love.
    But even as I came to this conclusion, I knew I was lying to myself again. I knew that it was for my sake I wanted to call Marguerite. That ever since that first time when Catherine mentioned her name, I longed to see my dream incarnate, my fantasies made flesh. For in spite of what