I was able to feed myself – and the thin bouillon was restorative. I even managed to eat most of the baguette – my hunger overcoming the general lie-there-and-die listlessness I felt.
'You are being far too nice to me,' I said.
A small shy nod.
'My job,' he said and excused himself. When he returned some minutes later, he was carrying another tray – with a teapot and a cup.
'I have made you an infusion of verveine,' he said. 'It will help you sleep. But you must first take all your medicines.'
He gathered up the necessary pills and a glass of water. I swallowed them, one by one. Then I drank some of the herbal tea.
'Are you on duty tomorrow night?' I asked.
'I start at five,' he said.
'That's good news. No one has been this nice to me since . . .'
I put my hand over my face, hating myself for that self-pitying remark – and trying to suppress the sob that was wailing up. I caught it just before it reached my larynx – and took a deep steadying breath. When I removed my hands from my eyes, I saw Adnan watching me.
'Sorry . . .' I muttered.
'For what?' he asked.
'I don't know . . . Everything, I guess.'
'You are alone here in Paris?'
I nodded.
'It is hard,' he said. 'I know.'
'Where are you from?' I asked.
'Turkey. A small village around a hundred kilometers from Ankara.'
'How many years in Paris?'
'Four.'
'Do you like it here?' I asked.
'No.'
Silence.
'You must rest,' he said.
He reached over to the desk and picked up a remote control, which he pointed at the small television that had been bracketed to the wall.
'If you are lonely or bored, there is always this,' he said, placing the remote in my hand.
I stared up at the television. Four pretty people were sitting around a table, laughing and talking. Behind them a studio audience was seated on bleachers, laughing whenever one of the guests made a funny comment – or breaking into loud applause when the fast-talking presenter encouraged them to cheer.
'I will come back and check on you later,' Adnan said.
I clicked off the television, suddenly drowsy. I looked at the boxes of medicine again. One of them read, Zopiclone. The name rang some sort of distant bell . . . something my doctor back in the States might have once recommended when I was going through one of my insomnia jags. Whatever the drug was, it was certainly creeping up on me quickly, blurring the edges of things, damping down all anxieties, diminishing the florescent glow of the room's blue chandelier, sending me into . . .
Morning. Or perhaps a moment just before morning. Gray dawn light was seeping into the room. As I stirred, I could sense that I was marginally better. I was able to put my feet on the floor and take slow, old-man steps into the bathroom. I peed. I splashed a little water on my face. I fell back into the blue room. I crawled into bed.
Monsieur Brasseur arrived with breakfast at nine. He knocked twice sharply on the door, then waltzed in without warning, placing the tray on the bed. No hello, no comment allez-vous, monsieur ? Just one question: 'Will you be staying another night?'
'Yes.'
He retrieved my bag. I signed another hundred dollars' worth of traveler's checks. He picked them up and left. I didn't see him for the rest of the day.
I managed to eat the stale croissant and the milky coffee. I turned on the television. I channel-surfed. The hotel only had the five French channels. Morning television here was as banal and inane as in the States. Game shows – in which housewives tried to spell out scrambled words and win drycleaning for a year. Reality shows – in which faded actors coped with working on a real-life farm. Talk shows – in which glossy celebrities talked to glossy celebrities, and every so often girls in skimpy clothes would come out and sit on some aging rock star's lap. . . .
I clicked off the television. I picked up Pariscope and studied the cinema listings, thinking about all the movies I could be sitting through right now. I dozed. A knock on the door, followed by a quiet voice saying, 'Monsieur?'
Adnan already? I glanced at my watch. Five fifteen p.m. How had the day disappeared like that?
He came into the room, carrying a tray.
'You are feeling better today, monsieur ?'
'A little, yes.'
'I have your clean laundry downstairs. And if you are able to try something a little more substantial than soup and a baguette . . . I could make you an omelet, perhaps?'
'That would be very kind of you.'
'Your French – it is very good.'
'It's passable.'
'You are being modest,' he said.
'No – I am being accurate. It needs improvement.'
'It will get it here. Have you lived in Paris before?'
'Just spent a week here some years ago.'
'You picked up such fluent French in just a week?'
'Hardly,' I said, with a small laugh. 'I've been taking classes for the past five years back home in the States.'
'Then you must have known you would be coming here.'
'I think it was more of a dream . . . a life in Paris . . .'
'A life in Paris is not a dream,' he said quietly.
But it had been my dream for years; that absurd dream which so many of my compatriots embrace: being a writer in Paris. Escaping the day-to-day routine of teaching at a nowhere college to live in some small, but pleasant atelier near the Seine . . . within walking distance of a dozen cinemas. Working on my novel in the mornings, then ducking out to a 2 p.m. screening of Louis Malle's Ascenseur pour l'échafaud before picking up Megan at the bilingual school in which we'd enrolled her.
Yes, Susan and Megan always played a part in this Paris fantasia. And for years – as we took language classes together at the college and even devoted an hour a day to speaking to each other in French – my wife encouraged this dream. But – and there was always a but – we first had to get a new kitchen for our slightly tumbledown house. Then the house required rewiring. Then Susan wanted to wait until we both received tenured positions at the college. But once my tenure came through, she felt we had to find the 'right time' to take a sabbatical, and the 'appropriate moment' to take Megan out of her local school without damaging her 'educational and social development'. Susan was always obsessive about 'getting the timing just right' on 'major life decisions'. The problem was, things never went exactly according to Susan's plan. There was always something holding her back from making the jump. After five years of 'maybe in eighteen months' time', she stopped auditing the language classes and also ended our nightly conversations in French – two events that dovetailed with her withdrawal from me. I kept taking the classes, kept telling myself that, one day, I would get to live and write in Paris. Just as I also kept reassuring myself that Susan's distancing act was just a temporary thing – especially as she would never acknowledge that she had pulled away from me, and kept insisting that nothing was wrong.
But everything was wrong. And everything went from bad to catastrophic. And Paris didn't turn into a fantasia, but . . .
'Coming here was a way out for me,' I told Adnan.
'From what?'
'Problems.'
'Bad problems?'
'Yes.'
'I'm sorry,' he said.
Then he excused himself. He arrived back with the omelet and a basket of bread fifteen minutes later. As I ate, he said, 'I will ring the doctor tonight to confirm that he will be seeing you tomorrow.'
'I can't afford the doctor. I can't afford this hotel.'
'But you are still very sick.'
'I'm on something of a budget. A tight budget.'
I was waiting for him to reply with something like, 'I thought all Americans are rich.' But Adnan said nothing, except, 'I will see what I can do.'
The sleeping pills did their chemical magic and sent me through the night
. Brasseur arrived with the breakfast tray at eight and relieved me of another hundred-dollar traveler's check. I managed to make it to the bathroom again without aid – but only just. I spent the day reading and flipping mindlessly through the television channels. Adnan arrived at five.
'I called the doctor before I came to work. He said that he didn't need to see you as long as your condition hadn't deteriorated . . .'
Well, that was one bit of decent news.
'But he was also very adamant that you did not move for at least another forty-eight hours, even if you are feeling better. He said that there is a high incidence of relapse with this flu, so you must be prudent – otherwise you could end up in hospital.'
Where the tarif would be a lot more than one hundred bucks a night.
'I guess I have no choice but to sit still,' I said.
'Where will you go after here?'
'I need to find somewhere to live.'
'An apartment?'
'A very cheap apartment.'
A small nod of acknowledgment, then he asked, 'Are you ready for your bath now, monsieur?'
I told him I could take care of it myself.
'So you are on the mend?' he asked.
'I'm determined to check out of here in two days. Any thoughts on a cheaper place to live?'
'My arrondissement still has lots of inexpensive places, even though people with money are starting to buy them up.'
'Where are you?'
'Do you know the Tenth? Near the Gare de l'Est?'
I shook my head.
'Many Turks still live around there.'
'How long have you lived there?'
'Ever since I came to Paris.'
'Always in the same place?'
'Yes.'
'Do you miss home?'
He looked away from me.
'All the time.'
'Can you afford to get back there occasionally?'
'I cannot leave France.'
'Why not?'
'Because . . .' He halted for a moment and studied my face, seeing if he could trust me. '. . . if I leave France, I will probably have difficulties returning. I do not have the appropriate papers.'
'You're illegal here?'
A nod.
'Does Brasseur know that?'
'Of course. That's why he can get away with paying me nothing.'
'How much is nothing?'
'Six euros an hour.'
'And you work how many hours?'
'Five until one, six days a week.'
'Can you live on that?'
'If I didn't have to send money back to my wife . . .'
'You're married?'
He avoided my eyes again.
'Yes.'
'Children?'
'A son.'
'How old?'
'Six.'
'And you haven't seen him . . . ?'
'In four years.'
'That's terrible.'
'Yes, it is. Being unable to see your children . . .'
He broke off without finishing the sentence.
'Believe me, I know,' I said. 'Because I have no idea if I will ever be allowed to see my daughter again.'
'How old is she?'
I told him.
'She must miss her father.'
'It's a very difficult situation . . . and I find myself thinking of her all the time.'
'I'm sorry,' he said.
'As I am for you.'
He acknowledged this with a small, hesitant nod, then turned and stared out the window.
'Can't your wife and son somehow visit you here?' I asked.
'The money doesn't exist for that. Even if I could somehow find a way for them to come, they would be denied entry. Or they would be asked to give an address at which they were staying. If the address didn't check out, they'd be deported immediately. And if it did check out, it would lead the police directly to me.'
'Surely the cops have other things on their mind these days than busting one illegal immigrant.'
'We're now all potential terrorists in their eyes – especially if you look like you come from that part of the world. Do you know about the system of being controlled here? The police are legally allowed to stop anyone and demand to see their papers. No papers, and they can lock you up, or if you have papers and no residency permit – la carte de séjour – it's the beginning of the end.'
'You mean, if I stay on after my initial six-month visa and the cops stop me in the street . . .'
'You won't get stopped. You're American, white . . .'
'Have you ever been controlled ?'
'Not yet – but that's because I avoid certain places, like the Strasbourg Saint-Denis or Châtelet métro stations where the police often check papers. In wealthy areas I also try to stay away from the intersections of big thoroughfares. After four years, you get very adept at looking around corners, knowing just how far to walk down a certain street.'
'How can you live like that?' I heard myself saying (and immediately regretting that I spoke without thinking). Adnan didn't flinch or bridle at such a direct question.
'I have no choice. I can't go back.'
'Because . . .'
'Trouble,' he said.
'Bad trouble?'
'Yes,' he said. 'Bad trouble.'
'I know what that's all about.'
'You can't return home either?'
'I suppose there's nothing legally stopping me,' I said. 'But there's also nothing for me to go back to. So . . .'
Another silence. This time he broke it.
'You know, monsieur, if you need somewhere cheap in a hurry . . .'
'Yes?'
'Sorry,' he said, suddenly shy. 'I shouldn't be interfering in this way.'
'You know somewhere?'
'It isn't very nice, but . . .'
'Define "not very nice".'
'Do you know what a "chambre de bonne" is?'
'A maid's room?' I said, using a literal translation.
'What used to be a maid's room, but is now a tiny studio apartment. Maybe eleven meters square in size. A bed, a chair, a sink, a hotplate, a shower.'
The Woman In The Fifth Page 4
