Radiant City

by Lauren B. Davis

  Joseph is not there when she returns. “Where did he go?”

  “Out to meet some friends,” says Ramzi. “Leave him be. It is his age. How is Matthew?”

  “He will live, I think,” she says. “It is what happened to him in Israel. He is still quite sick, I think.”

  “He is not very strong, is he?” Her brother says this as though he would have been stronger.

  “And how would you be?”

  He shrugs. “You move on.”

  It is Ramzi’s way, this moving on. Always away from something. Saida knows what he does not: that he is not that strong either. She knows he is moving away from half-remembered images, whispered stories told at night when he was supposed to

  be sleeping. He was only a little boy when they left Lebanon. He remembers only in the bones, in the muscles that twitch to escape. She was older, she remembers more and maybe that is better after all, to know what it is that makes you what you are. A woman’s way more than a man’s, she thinks, all this sorting, sifting and measuring out the feelings of a life.

  Finally, Ramzi is satisfied that there is no more to learn and they go back to their work. If he looks at her with unasked questions, she does not feel the need to offer explanations. He would like it if she found another man, someone to take his place here in the restaurant, someone to take hold of the end of the rope as he cuts himself free.

  A pang twists like a sharp-clawed lizard in her stomach. They are a family broken. Other families cleave to each other in exile from their homeland. They cluster together at their church, Notre Dame de Liban, on rue d’Ulm. They hold each other closer because the world has become so wide. But the Ferhats are scattering. They are birds chasing seeds flying on the wind. In Lebanon, there was a celebration for everything, bringing everyone together, and there was work done together—like when the woman made kechek powder to cook in the winter with the lamb. Drying it on the roofs, grinding it, always together, talking, their voices like music. Here there was only the rustle of Ramzi’s newspapers and her father’s baffled expression.

  Where does Matthew come from? Where are his people? All these people in Paris, wanderers without connection either to the place or to anyone else. It seems such a lonely life. How do you know yourself loved if there are only strangers around you, only the friends of this season? Saida keeps an eye on Matthew’s windows, hoping to see them thrown back. It would be nice to feel she had made that happen, made him turn away from the dark loneliness inside him.

  Except for the one shutter he opened when she was in the apartment, they stay closed, and then his hand reaches out and that one closes as well. Without realizing she is doing it, her hand goes to her cheek. Then she shakes her head. Foolish thoughts. No one saves anyone else. They swim or sink alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The next morning Matthew wakes up and, for the first time in a week, does not automatically reach for something to make him go back to sleep. He turns on the television and sees that no more bombs have gone off in Paris. Security is tight. Hundreds of soldiers and police patrol the streets carrying machine guns. Train stations, airports, the metro stations, all filled with law enforcement personnel. Vigipirate, the French emergency vigilance plan, is in effect and authorities caution commuters to be aware of any suspicious activities or items.

  Matthew sits on the couch and stares at the plank floor, the dust balls, the ballpoint pen cap, the little turd of crumpled paper, the empty scotch bottle, a tea bag dried to rusty crispness. He cannot remember the last time he drank a cup of tea.

  The stack of papers he wrote is still in the desk drawer. He takes it out and reads it over. Maybe he should not have tried writing about Rwanda; maybe it was too soon. Nonetheless, he did it. He remembered, and here he is. Kate would be proud of me, he thinks, and raises his eyebrows in surprise at the unbidden thought. He turns his hands over and looks at his wrists, the pale skin, the fragile veins like innocent blue rivers, and shudders.

  He stands and shakes himself, plods into the bathroom, snatching sheets off radiators as he goes. After his shower he throws back the shutters, opens the window, letting in the cold air. Across the street Elias sits in the café window; he looks up, sees Matthew and waves, gestures for him to come over. Matthew waves back. He has promised to go and talk to Joseph and he will, but first he wants to see Jack.

  The hostel where Jack works sits west of the Eiffel Tower, behind an unsightly group of high-rises in the 15th arrondissement. The New Friends Hostel is a yellow stucco building with a black-and-gold sign above a large window that looks into the somewhat shabby lobby. Matthew opens the door and steps in. The place smells of recent fumigation. To his right is a reception booth, but it is empty. In front of him, a door leads to a courtyard with a jungle of bamboo growing in it, and a scatter of white plastic chairs and tables, the chairs tilted forward and leaning on the tables. To the left, another door leads into what looks like a bar. Two kids speaking German scuffle down the stairs. The girl is chubby and packed tightly into hip-hugging jeans. A sausage of white stomach spills over the waistband below a short, fuzzy blue sweater, both visible under her unbuttoned jacket. The boy is acne-speckled and his hair stands in a series of spikes, so that he looks like he is wearing a wet hedgehog on his head. They smile at Matthew as they leave.

  Matthew proceeds to the bar. It is a large room with a paned window overlooking the courtyard. A brick bar curves along the wall and the room is scattered with wooden pub chairs and tables. There is a video-game machine at the end of the room and T-shirts hang for sale on the walls. Three girls stand talking and drinking beer, Americans, Southern.

  “I don’t care what you say. I’m not staying here another night. Look at my legs,” a thin blond girl says as she pulls up her pant leg and pulls down her sock. Angry-looking bites cover her calf. “I swear that’s from bed bugs. I swear it.”

  “I know, I’ve got ‘em too,” says another girl with strange purple eyes, which Matthew assumes must be due to contacts.

  The bartender, a young bulldoggish guy, comes over to Matthew.

  “Est-ce que je peux vous aider?” he says.

  “I’m looking for Jack Saddler.”

  At the sound of Jack’s name, the three girls turn toward him.

  “Who isn’t? He’s not in the front?” says the bartender.

  “Nobody’s there.”

  “I don’t know if he’s working today. I thought he was, but maybe his shift’s finished. Somebody should be out there, though. You want something?”

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll wait in the lobby for a few minutes.”

  The girls whisper and giggle as Matthew steps out of the bar. A minute later, the tall girl with the long dark hair comes out.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Hello.”

  “We’re waiting for Jack, too. He’s not back yet?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  She smiles and twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “Maybe he’s up in one of the rooms. He goes up to take care of things sometimes.”

  “Does he?”

  “You a friend of his, or what?”

  “I’m a friend.”

  “I don’t think he’s here.”

  The two other girls come out of the bar and stand next to the dark girl. Matthew finds the mauve eyes unsettling. She looks like an alien.

  “So?” she says.

  The dark girl cocks her head and raises a warning eyebrow.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” says Purple Eyes. “Just ask him.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “We’re waiting for Jack because we were told he might have some grass to sell.”

  “Karen!” says the thin blond. “He might be a cop or something.”

  “He’s American,” says the dark girl. “He can’t be a cop. Can you?”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  A woman comes down the stairs and opens the counter into the reception booth. She has meaty arms in a sleeveless dress,
which Matthew thinks must be chilly on a day like this. She is in her fifties, and her hair is not clean. It sticks to her head in greasy brown strands.

  “Oui,” she says as she pulls a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket. “This is a hostel, monsieur. For young people. Eighteen to twenty-eight only.”

  “I don’t want a room. I’m looking for Jack Saddler.”

  “He not here today. Does not show up. Says he is sick.” She makes a noise in her throat. “You see him, you tell him he don’t show up tomorrow, he has no job.”

  “Thanks,” Matthew says and opens the door to leave. The three girls follow him out.

  “Okay, so, you know, we just thought that maybe if you were a friend of Jack’s or something and if he’s not going to show up, well, maybe you might know …” The dark girl’s voice trails off as she twirls her hair around a finger.

  “Can’t help you.”

  “We have the money.”

  “I have nothing for you, believe me.”

  “Shit,” says the thin blond girl.

  He leaves them on the sidewalk, thinking he should take their money and leave them stranded. That would teach them a lesson. Stupid kids. Stupid him. Saida was probably right. If Jack is dealing drugs and Joseph is suddenly walking around with too much money there is most likely a connection. Not necessarily, of course. There are many places to get dope in the city and Jack would not have much trouble finding out who and where and when. So why do I have a bad feeling?

  Matthew heads for the metro. As he steps off the curb, he hears an engine gun and turns to see a motor scooter not three feet away, swerving at a trajectory designed to run the red light and to miss him by inches, if his reflexes carry him in the right direction. They do, and he reaches out and flicks, ever so slightly he thinks, the shoulder of the driver. The motorcyclist wavers, nearly falls, rights himself and, with the agility of youth, is off his bike and in Matthew’s face, flapping his hands around. With his helmet still on, he provides Matthew no opportunity to pop him one in the snoot, as he so longs to do.

  In French, the rider asks, loudly, if Matthew is insane.

  He replies that yes, he thinks it possible he is. This makes the rider pause. He then attacks Matthew’s accent, telling him to go back to his own country before he gets the shit beaten out of him.

  At this point, aware that people on the sidewalk are watching, that the drivers of cars stopped at a red light are gawking, Matthew advances a step toward the kid, who retreats. He taps the side of the boy’s head with his knuckle. The boy jerks his head away, but does not remove the helmet. He steps toward Matthew, possibly checking to see if the tactic will work in reverse. It does not.

  “American!” says the boy and makes the word sound foul. Matthew cocks an eyebrow and shrugs, arms open, waiting. The boy says, “Fuck you!” in a surprisingly good accent, gets back on his scooter and peels off, narrowly missing being flattened by a postal van.

  Matthew wishes he had been able to throw at least one punch.

  By the time he reaches the Bok-Bok, the feelings have dwindled and he is a little shaky, ambushed by his own impulses. He takes a place at the bar.

  “Nice tree.” Matthew gestures to the end of the bar where a foot-high plastic Christmas tree squats, garlanded with dog tags.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” says Dan.

  It is only four o’clock, but Matthew orders a double scotch, and when Dan brings it, he takes a healthy slug, although even that does not prepare him for the shock of turning around and seeing Jack and Suzi sitting at the back of the room at Jack’s usual table. Jack has his arm draped around her shoulder and looks well pleased. Suzi wears a white loose-necked blouse, something Mexican maybe. She wears no wig, and her short hair is tousled. Kohl lines her eyes and her lips are very red. She smiles and waves, her fingers fluttering. A leaf from the dull plastic palm next to her brushes against her neck and she giggles and flicks it away, sending a little cloud of dust motes into the smoky air.

  “This is a surprise.” He takes a seat across from Jack.

  “You are too serious, Matthew.” Suzi grins at him and snuggles closer under Jack’s arm.

  “Where you been holed up?” asks Jack.

  “Taking some downtime is all.”

  “Anthony was worried about you,” says Suzi, and when Matthew doesn’t answer, she adds, “We all were.”

  “I tried calling. I was meaning to come by, too. See how you were doing,” says Jack. “I was gonna kick in the door if I had to. Then Anthony called and told me you were okay.”

  Matthew shrugs. “So, you guys are all right again.”

  “Could not be better.” Suzi leans over and kisses Jack on the cheek. “Aren’t we, baby?”

  “Yeah. We patched things up, you know. Thanks to you, really. I probably wouldn’t have apologized if it wasn’t for you, man.”

  “Listen, Jack, I have to ask you something.”

  “Yeah, so ask.”

  “I went down to the hostel today.”

  “I was supposed to work today, but Suzi and I … well, I thought I’d take the day off and celebrate.” Jack raises his glass and so does Suzi and they clink. “Why’d you go there?”

  “Curious, I guess. You’ve told me so many stories about the place.”

  Jack frowns, and smiles ever so slightly. “Curious about what?”

  “There were some girls down there, looking for you.”

  “Why are girls looking for you, Jack?” says Suzi.

  “I don’t know. How the fuck should I know?”

  “They were looking to make a buy.”

  “From me?”

  “Yup. They were very clear about it.”

  “So?”

  “So. Maybe it’s none of my business—”

  “Maybe it isn’t.”

  “—and I really don’t care if you are selling.”

  “That’s good news.”

  Matthew rolls the glass between his hands. “But I do care if Joseph Ferhat’s involved.”

  Jack removes his arm from behind Suzi and places his elbows on the table, entwining his fingers. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Only this. Saida’s worried about him. I’ve told you that before. And he’s got some money, more than he should have. Won’t say where he’s getting it from. You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?”

  “Maybe she’s overprotective.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jack leans back and folds his arms over his chest, looking at Matthew. Then he huffs, just a small chuckle. He spreads his hands out on the table, palms flat, the fingers splayed. They cover a good deal of the table. He looks up at Matthew, a big dumb-ass grin on his face. “You and Anthony, man. Even he’s had a little chat with me. You’d think that kid was heir to the throne or something. Fine. Okay, you got me. But listen. He’s not involved like you think. He just made one single introduction. That’s it. And I paid him for it. It was a one-off. No continuing relationship. It happened awhile back. Over and done with. Okay?”

  Matthew looks at Suzi, then back at Jack. “Isn’t there anywhere else you can make a connection?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Leave the kid alone, Jack. Do me a favour.”

  Jack observes Matthew, his face unreadable, and then says, “Sure. No problem. He’s not my kid, right? And it’s not like I’m banging his mom.”

  “Nobody’s banging his mom.”

  “Don’t see why not. She’s pretty good-looking even with those scars.” Jack raises his glass and laughs. “Come on, man. No harm done. I said, come on.”

  “Don’t be jealous, Matthew,” says Suzi.

  “What’s he got to be jealous of?” says Jack.

  “That you are friends with this boy. Such a nice boy.”

  “You met him?”

  “Only a little.” Suzi stands and smoothes her skirt. Matthew notices that her ankles look swollen. “He is a nice boy. Why, you don’t think I’m good enough to meet a nice boy?
”

  “That’s not what I said, Suzi.”

  “We bumped into him once is all,” says Jack. “It wasn’t anything. Jesus. Why am I defending this? You know me. If I give my word, it’s my word, right?”

  Matthew nods.

  “So, are we cool, or do we have a problem?” Jack sips his drink.

  “You tell me.”

  “No problem here. I don’t have anything to do with the kid. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Excuse me. I must try and call my daughter. There is trouble at her school with other girls. They bully her.” Suzi looks pointedly at Matthew. “I am a good mother,” she says, and then rises, but she goes into the toilet rather than to the bar phone.

  “She’s a good girl,” says Jack, and it is unclear if he means Suzi or her daughter. He finishes his drink. “You want another? I’m buying.”

  “No, thanks, I got work to do. Just wanted to get it straight.”

  “Straight it is.” And they shake hands.

  When Matthew arrives at the café, Joseph isn’t there. Matthew sits with Elias and waits for Saida to speak to him, because he is not sure what his reception will be like, after the clumsy pass he made. She behaves, however, as though nothing has happened. Well, perhaps her expression is a hint more guarded than usual, but her welcome seems genuine enough. It isn’t until she smiles at him as she puts coffee down for him that he realizes his shoulders have been up around his ears. He tells her he has seen Jack and feels confident Jack is not a problem. He promises to talk to Joseph soon. Saida clears the cups away, saying little, and it is obvious she is unconvinced.

  “Do you want food?” she says.

  “No, thanks,” he says. “I think I want to do some work.” And he is somewhat surprised to find it is true.

  Back in his apartment his thoughts jump and snag on one thing after another. Suzi and her dark eyes. Her pale skin. That junkie love. Saida and the hope in her eyes. Looking for him to help when he is the last person to ask for such a thing. His fingers curl around the pen. What is the thread of his life? He wants to put it down on the paper. For the first time since starting this book, he actually wants to write it. He realizes that, in writing about Rwanda, he has released something. It is not all on the page yet, he knows that, but it is a marker, something crossed over. And so, not Hebron yet. No, not that. Make a little side trip.