‘No, but I’m sure he’ll see me,’ I replied. ‘I represent an American company, and we’re interested in developing our skills in terms of interacting with our business associates in a more effective manner.’
‘He’s not here,’ said the young man as he began rubbing cream on his cuticles. I detected a scent of almonds and honey. A new tune began playing. A woman singing in French to an easy dance rhythm.
‘Could I speak to Alain’s secretary?’ I said, glancing up at the stairs behind him. Another glass wall at the top.
‘Send an email,’ he said, taking a nail file out of a small case.
‘I already did,’ I told him, but he didn’t even deign to look at me.
OK, I thought, taking two steps back. Then I set off for the stairs, quickly dashing around the reception desk and taking the steps two at a time.
‘Wait a minute. Hello? You can’t … Stop!’
I heard him switch to French behind me. Merde and putain were words I understood quite well. At the top of the stairs I pushed open a glass door and stepped inside a huge office space that occupied the entire floor. The building’s past was evident in the massive stone walls and the stucco work on the ceiling, but everything else could have been clipped out of a decorating magazine for the modern office. Desks made of chrome and glass, computers with oversized flat screens, spotlights. I stopped in the middle of the room.
There wasn’t a soul in sight. It was completely deserted. The computer screens were all black. The desks were bare. No folders, no piles of paperclips, no colourful pads of paper or anything else that belonged in a workplace. I went over to a wastepaper basket made of shiny metal and looked inside. Not a single crumpled note, not so much as an apple core.
It’s a front, I thought. There’s nothing here. It’s a projection of a company, an image of the perfect office.
At that moment I felt a faint change in the air behind me, and the next second someone was grabbing my upper arm. I screamed and turned around, finding myself staring into a shirtfront. Short sleeves, bulging muscles. The man was a head taller than me, with a broad face and a nose that seemed too small for it. Pig-like eyes. Bald head.
‘I’m looking for Alain Thery,’ I said, feeling his grip tighten. ‘But apparently he’s not in, so I’ll be on my way … Let go, damn it.’
But the security guard, or whatever he was, didn’t let go as he escorted me back downstairs to the reception desk.
‘Who are you? Why are you really here? Who do you work for?’ The blond guy translated the questions, since the guard apparently didn’t speak English.
My thoughts whirled chaotically. ‘I was looking for the ladies’ room. I thought I was going to … throw up. If you understand me.’ I made an effort to smile. ‘I’m … pregnant.’
I shouldn’t have said that, but it was the only thing I could think of. The blond guy translated. Enceinte was the French word for it. The guard finally let go of my arm and gave me a shove in the back. Then he used his whole hand to point to the door.
‘You can call back on Monday,’ said the blond guy.
The door slid open and closed up again like a clam when I was back out on the street.
‘Are you the one meeting with Arnaud?’
The girl standing outside the door wore ragged jeans and sported a crew-cut. On the wall of the building someone had scrawled: zone anti-patriotique.
‘He asked me to let you in,’ she said, putting out her cigarette in a tin can that had been cut in half.
I introduced myself and then followed her inside. The light in the stairwell was broken, and only faint daylight seeped in through a dirty windowpane.
‘Plenty of people would want to throw something through the window if we advertised our address,’ said the girl, whose name was Sylvie, as she pulled open a heavy metal door. For the first time since arriving in Paris I felt like I was in the right place. Patrick had definitely been here. It smelled of paper and ink and energy and struggles, with posters on the walls showing clenched fists and various symbols. Even if Patrick was now a well-dressed journalist, the rebel from his university years was still very much part of him.
‘So you work with illegal immigrants too?’ I said.
‘That’s politician speak,’ she said with a glare. ‘No human being is illegal.’
We entered an old industrial space where pipes and cables criss-crossed the ceiling overhead. Computers and bookcases were everywhere, along with stacks of newspapers and books.
‘I work to help promote Fair Trade,’ said Sylvie, ‘and greater diversity. Several organizations share the expenses here, but we’re actually all working towards the same goals. Gender equality, and justice for all nations and for the oppressed people of the world.’
‘Did you meet Patrick Cornwall when he was here?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘He came here to interview Arnaud.’ She cast a glance at a tall young man with tousled hair who wore a colourful scarf around his neck. He made his way around all the boxes and piles of newspapers and came over to us.
‘Hi. You must be Helena,’ said Arnaud Rachid.
‘Alena,’ Sylvie corrected him. ‘Arnaud is hopeless with names,’ she added, giving him a radiant smile.
Arnaud’s section of the big office space was at the very back. There was a row of dusty windows four metres up on the wall, but otherwise the only light came from a few fluorescent lights on the ceiling. They looked as if they’d been there since the heyday of industrialization.
‘Welcome to the hypocrites’ paradise,’ he said, dropping onto a chair. ‘This country wouldn’t last a day without all the undocumented workers who do the shit work. Cleaners and builders and apple pickers. Our ageing population would die if there was no one to wipe their butts. Maybe then, if not before, Europe would have to smell its own shit.’
I moved a pile of mail aside and sat down on the edge of the desk.
‘When did you last see Patrick Cornwall?’ I asked.
‘Two weeks ago, I think, maybe less.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘How’s it going with the articles he’s writing?’
‘I haven’t read them yet.’
‘So he’s back in New York now?’
‘No, there was something else he needed to do first.’
I looked over at the double rows of books on the shelves, noting titles by Karl Marx, Malcolm X, and Che Guevara. Arnaud continued talking about politicians who wanted to nail shut the borders, and at the same time pick and choose from the world’s populations. Get to the point, I told myself, or else we’re going to get bogged down in rhetoric and propaganda.
‘Patrick interviewed several guys who had escaped from what was blatant slave labour,’ I said, taking out my notepad. ‘Were you involved with that?’
‘You can’t write that. It’s not an official part of our work.’
‘I’m not going to write anything. I’m a researcher.’
Arnaud pulled his scarf loose and then wrapped it around his neck again.
‘We hid them,’ he said. ‘I took Patrick to their hiding place.’
He leaned back, and I fixed my eyes on him as he talked. I thought he seemed nervous. He kept fiddling with his scarf, and his foot was drumming on the floor.
He told me three young men from Mali had been smuggled into France and were being exploited as slaves on a construction site, forced to do heavy lifting and loading, without receiving pay of any kind. When they weren’t working, they were kept locked up in a safe house, an old warehouse, and physically threatened. Arnaud had been put in touch with the men after they managed to escape.
‘So that’s what Patrick was focusing on? Some sort of criminal network that smuggles people into France?’
He sighed loudly and propped his feet up on the desk.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said, running both hands through his hair and making it even more dishevelled. ‘We’re not against the smuggling of human beings. We’re for a Europe with open borders.
If immigration was freely allowed, there would be no market for smuggling people. They are merely providing a service that people want. There are plenty of crooks, of course, who charge scandalous prices and risk lives. But that’s a whole other story.’
‘Did this criminal network know about what Patrick was writing?’
‘What do you mean? Has something happened to him?’ Arnaud Rachid lowered his feet back down, knocking some of the mail onto the floor. He bent down and picked up the envelopes.
‘Where was Patrick going when he left Paris?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know.’ He gave me a searching glance. ‘Doesn’t his editor know?’
I was spared from answering because at that moment Sylvie appeared behind me.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Arnaud, quickly getting to his feet. I went with him.
The coffee-maker was in a cramped cubbyhole. Arnaud took several little colourful plastic packets out of a box, and chose a black one. He pushed down a lever and pressed a button. Nothing happened.
‘Who is Josef K?’ I asked.
He gave a start and turned to look at me.
‘What do you mean by Josef K? Are you talking about Kafka, or something?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It was Patrick who mentioned something …’ The cubbyhole was so small that his hip brushed against mine when he moved. I swallowed hard and backed up until I was standing in the doorway. ‘So what happened to those young men?’ I went on. ‘Are you still hiding them? Could I meet them?’
‘Merde,’ said Arnaud, banging on the coffee-maker. ‘I don’t understand why this thing never works. Just look at these!’ He motioned to the little plastic packets that each contained one serving of coffee. ‘Why all this waste of resources for a single cup of espresso?’
Arnaud pressed the button again, and water sprayed out.
‘Let’s go out instead,’ he said, switching off the machine. ‘I just need to make a pit-stop first.’
As he disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs, the girl with the torn jeans came over to me.
‘Go easy on Arnaud,’ she said, coming a little too close for comfort. ‘He knew some of the people who died in the fire. Did you know that? He may not show it, but he’s been taking it really hard.’
I felt an icy shiver race down my back.
‘At the hotel, you mean? The one that burned down two weeks ago?’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Arnaud was on his way over to us, cutting across the room with a jacket slung over his shoulder.
‘By the way, I heard you asking about Josef K,’ said Sylvie in a low voice.
My heart skipped a beat.
‘What can you tell me about him?’ I asked.
‘I thought you knew,’ she said, giving me a searching glance. ‘Josef K is a human-trafficker. It’s a cover name, of course. He’s an Eastern European gangster. From Ukraine. He used to be KGB, but then he became a capitalist like everybody else after glasnost. A real nasty guy.’
I clutched at the doorframe. The last name in Patrick’s notebook. Was he the one Patrick had gone to meet? I pictured the clichéd image of an Eastern European gangster: clean-shaven and scar-faced, with dead eyes. There’s just one more thing I have to do … I’m headed straight into the darkness.
No, I thought. Sweetheart, please no …
‘I’ll come too,’ said Sylvie, ‘if you’re going out for coffee.’
But Arnaud shook his head at her.
‘Not now,’ he said and headed off. I gave Sylvie a smile. She was clearly hopelessly in love with her revolutionary comrade.
‘If you’re really interested, you can sign up on the web,’ she said, handing me a flyer, which I crumpled up and dropped into a trash can as soon as we were out on the street.
‘Sylvie is incredibly committed to the cause,’ said Arnaud. ‘I remember how it was when I was a newcomer and had just had my eyes opened. Back then I could work 24/7 too. She’s always here.’
He took long strides, and I practically had to jog to keep up with him.
‘She told me you knew some of the people who died in the fire,’ I said. ‘Was it the hotel fire over near boulevard Michelet?’
Arnaud stopped abruptly and looked at me.
‘What do you know about the fire?’ he asked.
‘Seventeen people died,’ I said. ‘And I think Patrick was there that night.’
Arnaud continued on without replying.
‘Was that where you were hiding them? At the hotel?’ I said, suddenly realizing how it all fit together. And why Patrick had rushed out in the middle of the night. ‘Those young men from Mali were among the dead, weren’t they?’
Arnaud turned right onto rue Bretagne and made his way past the displays of produce and basins of live shellfish. I had to run to catch up. This was a residential neighbourhood where people bicycled and did their grocery shopping and sorted their trash into colourful plastic containers. It reminded me a little of the East Village.
‘Let’s go in here,’ he said, holding open the door to a bar. ‘What would you like?’
I ordered a sandwich and juice and then sat down in the corner. Most of the customers were gay. Arnaud placed his order and came over to join me. He took a packet of tobacco out of his jacket pocket and began rolling a cigarette.
‘We thought it was safe,’ he said. ‘Otherwise we would never have used that place.’
I shivered at the memory of the burned-out building. Arnaud’s hands shook, spilling some tobacco onto the table.
‘They had to share a room,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t much of a place, but at least they had a roof over their heads, and beds to sleep in. There was a bathroom down the hall with hot water.’
‘It was a deathtrap,’ I said.
‘There aren’t many places like that left in Paris. Places where they don’t ask for papers. Nobody knew they were staying there except me and a few others.’
Arnaud picked up a lighter, but then put it down along with the cigarette. ‘Shit. I keep forgetting. I never thought they’d manage to make France smoke-free.’ He ran his hand through his hair and nervously glanced around.
‘Patrick went over there several times to talk to them,’ he went on. ‘The last time was on the afternoon before it happened. Everything seemed perfectly calm. Otherwise we would have moved them instantly, of course.’
The waiter set a toasted sandwich in front of me. Melted cheese seeped out onto the plate.
‘Someone phoned Patrick that night and told him the building was on fire,’ I said. ‘Was it you?’
‘I’d switched off my cell. I was sleeping somewhere else.’
I wonder where, I thought, but it wasn’t any of my business where Arnaud Rachid spent his nights. He took some chewing gum out of his pocket and stuck a piece in his mouth.
‘We met on Saturday after the fire,’ he went on. ‘We went to look at the site, and Patrick talked to the police. He was convinced it was arson.’
‘But in the newspaper it said there was no evidence of any criminal activity.’
‘The police took his statement. Later they dropped the investigation.’ He fixed his gaze on me. ‘Those people have contacts everywhere.’
‘But how did Patrick know it was arson? Did he know who did it?’
Arnaud touched the scarf around his neck.
‘That’s something I can’t talk about,’ he said. ‘My first priority is the people we’re trying to protect.’
Finally I picked up my sandwich and took a bite as I studied him. The melted cheese had congealed. Arnaud finished his beer.
‘What did Sarah tell you, by the way?’ he asked.
‘She said you’re an idealist,’ I replied.
He grimaced. ‘Sarah thinks that she’s seeing justice done, that everyone is equal before the law. But almost half a million people who live in this city are undocumented. They have no rights whatsoever. What the law does for them is to
throw them out of the country.’
‘Then why did you send Patrick to see her?’
Again he looked uneasy as he lowered his voice.
‘Those young men were scared. Salif was really the only one who wanted to speak out. The others demanded guarantees — residence permits and protection. Otherwise they didn’t want to appear in the magazine. I told Patrick about Sarah. She can seem harsh, but I know she cares. I even think my sister developed a bit of a crush.’
‘On Patrick?’
I stared at him in astonishment. So that’s the part that was off-the-record.
‘But she’s married,’ I said, managing to keep my voice under control.
He laughed. ‘No, she’s not. She’s never been married. The wedding ring is just for court appearances. It wins her more respect.’
I looked away, saw a man kissing another man, people hanging out, having a drink, talking about the weather.
‘I’ve got to go now,’ he said, standing up. ‘But you can always call me if there’s anything else. Where are you staying in Paris, by the way?’
‘Near the Sorbonne,’ I said. ‘In the same hotel where Patrick was staying.’
I stayed sitting at the table and watched him leave. Out of everything he’d said, there was one comment that kept echoing through my head. I even think my sister developed a bit of a crush.
‘Would you like anything else?’
Harry shook the bottle of Worcestershire sauce and poured a few drops into the umpteenth Bloody Mary of the evening.
I swirled my whisky glass. ‘Another one, please. And a glass of water.’
I was drinking what I thought Patrick would have had on the night he called me that time, when he was drunk. The whisky tasted of ashes. Harry’s New York Bar was packed, the heat making it feel damp and foggy. On the walls hung black-and-white photos, drawings of classic Parisian cabarets, and American sports pennants. It was very pre-war, a place living on its memories.
I slid a photograph over to the bartender.
‘Do you recognize this guy?’ I asked.
‘Why do you ask?’ He glanced at the picture.
‘Because I miss him.’
The Forgotten Dead Page 12
