Page 111 - A Little Life: A Novel

borrow his roommate’s suit for the Sullivan interview, and he had tried to
move carefully in it the entire time it was his, aware of its largeness and the
fineness of its wool.

Then “That’s him,” he heard Harold say, and when he turned, Harold was
standing with a small man who had a measuring tape draped around his
neck like a snake. “He’ll need two suits—a dark gray and a navy—and let’s
get him a dozen shirts, a few sweaters, some ties, socks, shoes: he doesn’t
have anything.” To him he nodded and said, “This is Marco. I’ll be back in
a couple of hours or so.”
“Wait,” he said. “Harold. What are you doing?”

“Jude,” said Harold, “you need something to wear. I’m hardly an expert
on this front, but you can’t show up to Sullivan’s chambers wearing what
you’re wearing.”
He was embarrassed: by his clothes, by his inadequacy, by Harold’s
generosity. “I know,” he said. “But I can’t accept this, Harold.”
He would’ve continued, but Harold stepped between him and Marco and

turned him away. “Jude,” he said, “accept this. You’ve earned it. What’s
more, you need it. I’m not going to have you humiliating me in front of
Sullivan. Besides, I’ve already paid for it, and I’m not getting my money
back. Right, Marco?” he called behind him.
“Right,” said Marco, immediately.
“Oh, leave it, Jude,” Harold said, when he saw him about to speak. “I’ve
got to go.” And he marched out without looking back.

And so he found himself standing before the triple-leafed mirror,
watching the reflection of Marco busying about his ankles, but when Marco
reached up his leg to measure the inseam, he flinched, reflexively. “Easy,
easy,” Marco said, as if he were a nervous horse, and patted his thigh, also
as if he were a horse, and when he gave another involuntary half kick as
Marco did the other leg, “Hey! I have pins in my mouth, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and held himself still.
When Marco was finished, he looked at himself in his new suit: here was
such anonymity, such protection. Even if someone were to accidentally
graze his back, he was wearing enough layers so that they’d never be able
to feel the ridges of scars beneath. Everything was covered, everything was
hidden. If he was standing still, he could be anyone, someone blank and
invisible.