Page 401 - A Little Life: A Novel

he had remembered that Willem had, in fact, committed the previous year to
a project that would be shooting in Russia in early January. But when he
mentioned this to him, Willem had shrugged. “Oh, that?” he’d asked.

“Didn’t work out. It’s fine. I didn’t really want to do it anyway.” He had
been suspicious, though, and when he had looked online, there were reports
that Willem had pulled out of the film for personal reasons; another actor
had been cast instead. He had stared at the screen then, the story blurring
before him, but when he had asked Willem about it, Willem had shrugged
again. “That’s what you say when you realize you and the director really
aren’t on the same page and no one wants to lose face,” he said. But he

knew that Willem wasn’t telling him the truth.
“You don’t need to get me anything,” Willem said, as he knew he would,
and he said (as he always did), “I know I don’t need to, but I want to.” And
then he added, also as he always did, “A better friend would know what to
get you and wouldn’t have to ask for suggestions.”
“A better friend would,” Willem agreed, as he always did, and he smiled,

because it felt like one of their normal conversations.
More days passed. Willem moved back into his suite at the other end of
the apartment. Lucien called him a few times to ask him about one thing or
another, apologizing as he did, but he was happy to get his calls, and happy
that Lucien now began their conversations by complaining about a client or
a colleague instead of asking how he was. Aside from Tremain and Lucien
and one or two other people, no one at the firm knew the real reason he’d

been absent: they, like his clients, had been told he was recovering from
emergency spinal cord surgery. He knew that when he returned to Rosen
Pritchard, Lucien would immediately restart him on his normal caseload;
there would be no talk of giving him an easy transition, no speculation
about his ability to handle the stress, and he was grateful for that. He
stopped taking his drugs, which he realized were making him feel dopey,

and after they had left his system, he was amazed by how clear he felt—
even his vision was different, as if a plate-glass window had been wiped
clean of all grease and smears and he was finally getting to admire the
brilliant green lawn beyond it, the pear trees with their yellow fruit.
But he also realized that the drugs had been protecting him, and without
them, the hyenas returned, less numerous and more sluggish, but still
circling him, still following him, less motivated in their pursuit but still

there, his unwanted but dogged companions. Other memories came back to