How did I know you were American? No, not by the color of your skin; we have a range of complexions in this country, and yours occurs often among the people of our northwest frontier. Nor was it your dress that gave you away; a European tourist could as easily have purchased in Des Moines your suit, with its single vent, and your buttondown shirt. True, your hair, shortcropped, and your expansive chest – the chest, I would say, of a man who benchpresses regularly, and maxes out well above twotwentyfive – are typical of a certain type of American; but then again, sportsmen and soldiers of all nationalities tend to look alike. Instead, it was your bearing that allowed me to identify you, and I do not mean that as an insult, for I see your face has hardened, but merely as an observation.
Come, tell me, what were you looking for? Surely, at this time of day, only one thing could have brought you to the district of Old Anarkali – named, as you may be aware, after a courtesan immured for loving a prince – and that is the quest for the perfect cup of tea. Have I guessed correctly? Then allow me, sir, to suggest my favorite among these many establishments. Yes, this is the one. Its metal chairs are no better upholstered, its wooden tables are equally rough, and it is, like the others, open to the sky. But the quality of its tea, I assure you, is unparalleled.
You prefer that seat, with your back so close to the wall? Very well, although you will benefit less from the intermittent breeze, which, when it does blow, makes these warm afternoons more pleasant. And will you not remove your jacket? So formal! Now that is not typical of Americans, at least not in my experience. And my experience is substantial: I spent four and a half years in your country. Where? I worked in New York, and before that attended college in New Jersey. Yes, you are right: it was Princeton! Quite a guess, I must say.
What did I think of Princeton? Well, the answer to that question requires a story. When I first arrived, I looked around me at the Gothic buildings – younger, I later learned, than many of the mosques of this city, but made through acid treatment and ingenious stonemasonry to look older – and thought, This is a dream come true. Princeton inspired in me the feeling that my life was a film in which I was the star and everything was possible. I have access to this beautiful campus, I thought, to professors who are titans in their fields and fellow students who are philosopherkings in the making.
I was, I must admit, overly generous in my initial assumptions about the standard of the student body. They were almost all intelligent, and many were brilliant, but whereas I was one of only two Pakistanis in my entering class – two from a population of over a hundred million souls, mind you – the Americans faced much less daunting odds in the selection process. A thousand of your compatriots were enrolled, five hundred times as many, even though your country’s population was only twice that of mine. As a result, the nonAmericans among us tended on average to do better than the Americans, and in my case I reached my senior year without having received a single B.
Looking back now, I see the power of that system, pragmatic and effective, like so much else in America. We international students were sourced from around the globe, sifted not only by wellhoned standardized tests but by painstakingly customized evaluations – interviews, essays, recommendations – until the best and the brightest of us had been identified. I myself had among the top exam results in Pakistan and was besides a soccer player good enough to compete on the varsity team, which I did until I damaged my knee in my sophomore year. Students like me were given visas and scholarships, complete financial aid, mind you, and invited into the ranks of the meritocracy. In return, we were expected to contribute our talents to your society, the society we were joining. And for the most part, we were happy to do so. I certainly was, at least at first.
Every fall, Princeton raised her skirt for the corporate recruiters who came onto campus and – as you say in America – showed them some skin. The skin Princeton showed was good skin, of course – young, eloquent, and clever as can be – but even among all that skin, I knew in my senior year that I was something special. I was a perfect breast, if you will – tan, succulent, seemingly defiant of gravity – and I was confident of getting any job I wanted.
Except one: Underwood Samson & Company. You have not heard of them? They were a valuation firm. They told their clients how much businesses were worth, and they did so, it was said, with a precision that was uncanny. They were small – a boutique, really, employing a bare minimum of people – and they paid well, offering the fresh graduate a base salary of over eighty thousand dollars. But more importantly, they gave one a robust set of skills and an exalted brand name, so exalted, in fact, that after two or three years there as an analyst, one was virtually guaranteed admission to Harvard Business School. Because of this, over a hundred members of the Princeton Class of 2001 sent their grades and résumés to Underwood Samson. Eight were selected – not for jobs, I should make clear, but for interviews – and one of them was me. --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.
Revue de presse
A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
“Theatrically entertaining… A 184-page dramatic monologue reminiscent of The Fall by Albert Camus and Robert Browning’s My Last Duchess.” — The Globe and Mail
“[An] elegant and chilling little novel. . . . Hamid’s novel . . . is distinguished by its portrayal of Changez’s class aspirations and inner struggle. . . . [With] an Arabian Nights-style urgency . . . . The fundamentalist, and potential assassin, may be sitting on either side of the table.” —The New York Times
“[A] taut and absolutely absorbing second novel. . . . The Reluctant Fundamentalist is at least as much about the apparent unease felt by the listener — and reader — in hearing the story, as it is about the growing sense of cultural displacement described by Changez. . . . Hamid . . . makes it impossible for the reader to know for certain what danger actually lurks or whether the reader’s perceived sense of dread and underlying malice is nothing more than the product of an overactive, media-fed imagination.” —Toronto Star
“In his beautifully accomplished little volume, Hamid . . . succeeds at illustrating not only that Changez changes , but that much else changes too, following 9/11. . . . Hamid is sophisticated with symbols, and the relationship between Changez and Erica is especially affecting, in great part because of what it says about missed opportunities, misunderstanding and the growing rift between Judeo-Christian West and Muslim Middle East.” —The Globe and Mail
“An intelligent and absorbing 9/11 novel.” —Publishers Weekly
“A quietly told, cleverly constructed fable of infatuation and disenchantment with America. . . . It fosters the kind of concentratedly astute cultural observation at which Hamid excels. . . . An intelligent, highly engaging piece of work.”– Guardian
“Beautifully written and superbly constructed. It is more exciting than any thriller I've read for a long time, as well as being a subtle and elegant analysis of the state of our world today.” -- Philip Pullman
“A brilliant book. With spooky restraint and masterful control, Hamid unpicks the underpinnings of the most recent episode of distrust between East and West. The narrative is balanced by a love as powerful as the sinister forces gathering, even when it recedes into a phantom of hope.” -- Kiran Desai
“A superb cautionary tale, and a grim reminder of the continuing cost of ethnic profiling, miscommunication and confrontation.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“This novel’s firm, steady, even beautiful voice proclaims the completeness of the soul when personal and global issues are conjoined.” —Booklist (starred review)
“The novel succeeds in wrapping an exploration of the straining relationship between East and West in a gripping yarn, which remains tout until the final pages. . . . In the wake of 9/11, the international political landscape has become warped through mutual distrust and political hyperbole. The Reluctant Fundamentalist is an elegant and sharp indictment of the colds of suspicion that now shroud our world.” —Observer --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.