I managed to eat the stale croissant and the milky coffee. I turned on the television. 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 dry-cleaning 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. 5:15 PM. 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 2:00 PM 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 do 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 the hospital.”
Where the damages 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 minds 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 metro 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 regretted 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.”
“But in bad condition?”
“Not good.”
“Clean?”
“I could help you clean it. It is down the hall from my own chambre de bonne.”
“I see,” I said.
“As I said, I don’t want to intrude into your . . .”
“How much is it a month?”
“Four hundred euros. But I know the man who manages the building, and I might be able to get him to drop the price by thirty or forty euros.”
“I’d like to see it.”
Adnan smiled a shy smile.
“Good. I will arrange it.”
The next morning, when Brasseur came in with breakfast, I announced that I would be checking out tomorrow. While arranging the tray on the bed, he casually asked, “So Adnan is taking you home with him?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just what I heard from the chef, who lives down the corridor in the same building as Adnan: ‘He has a new boyfriend—the American who has been so sick.’ ”
“You can think what you like.”
“It is not my affair.”
“That’s right, it’s not your affair—as there is no affair here.”
“Monsieur, there is no need to reassure me. I am not your priest—or your wife.”
That’s when I threw the orange juice at him: without a pause for reflection, I made a grab for the glass and hurled the contents at him. It scored a direct hit on his face. There was a moment of stunned silence—as the juice dripped down his cheeks and pulpish bits lodged in his eyebrows. But then his shock turned into cold rage.
“Get out,” he said.
“Fine,” I said, jumping out of the bed.
“I’m calling the police,” he said.
“For what? Baptism by fruit juice?”
“Believe me, I’ll think of something unpleasant and damaging.”
“You do that, I’ll tell them about all the illegal workers you have here—and how you’re paying them slave wages.”
That stopped him cold. He pulled out a handkerchief and started mopping his face.
“Maybe I’ll just fire Adnan.”
“Then I’ll make an anonymous call to the cops and tell them how you use illegal—”
“This conversation is finished. I’ll call your ‘petit ami’ Adnan, and tell him to take you off to his place.”
“You are a sick little bastard.”
But he didn’t hear the final three words of the sentence, as he was already out the door. When it slammed behind him, I slumped against a wall, stunned by what had just taken place and the crazed fury of it all.
But he started it, right?
I got dressed. I started packing. I fell into a guilty fugue, thinking how unnecessarily kind Adnan had been to me, and how I’d now put him in a difficult situation with his asshole boss. I wanted to leave him one hundred euros as a thank-you, but sensed that Brasseur would pocket it. Once I found another hotel, I’d come back here one evening and give it to him.
The phone rang. I answered it. It was Brasseur.
“I have spoken with Adnan at his other job. He will be here in half an hour.”
Click.
I dialed reception right back. Brasseur answered.
“Please tell Adnan that I’ll find a place on my own, that—”
“Too late,” Brasseur said. “He’s already en route.”
“Then call him on his portable.”
“He doesn’t have one.”
Click.
I thought, Grab your bag and leave now. Adnan might have been all nice and attentive while you were infirm (a little too attentive, if truth be told), but who knows what ulterior motive underscores his offer of a chambre de bonne down the corridor from his own. As soon as he gets you there, probably four of his friends will jump you, grab all your traveler’s checks and what few valuables you have (your computer, your fountain pen, your dad’s old Rolex), then cut your throat and dump your body in some large poubelle, where it will end up being incinerated along with half of Paris’s rubbish. And yeah, this scenario might just sound a little paranoid. But why believe that this guy has any decent motives at all? If the last few months had taught me anything, it was that hardly anyone does anything out of sheer, simple decency.
I finished packing. I hoisted my bag and went downstairs. As I approached the reception desk, I noticed that Brasseur had changed into a fresh shirt, but that his tie was still dappled with juice stains. He said, “I’ve decided I’m keeping the twenty euros to cover my dry-cleaning costs.”
I said nothing. I just headed to the door.
“Aren’t you waiting for Adnan?” he asked.
“Tell him I’ll be in touch.”
“Lovers’ tiff?”
That stopped me in my tracks. I wheeled around, my right hand raised. Brasseur took a step backward. But then, like
any bully who realized that his provocation wouldn’t result in instant retaliation, he looked at me with contempt.
“With any luck, I will never see you again,” I said.
“Et moi non plus,” he replied. The same to you.
I showed him my back and hit the street, where I ran straight into Adnan. It was hard to hide my surprise—and discomfort—in meeting him.
“Didn’t Brasseur tell you I was coming?” he asked.
“I just decided to wait outside,” I lied. “I couldn’t stand being in there anymore.”
Then I told him what had transpired in the room—after Brasseur had made his charming insinuations.
“He thinks all Turks are pédés,” he said, using French slang for homosexuals.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said, also mentioning what he’d said about catching the homme à tout faire with the chef.
“I know the chef—Omar. He lives in the same building as me. He is bad.”
And he quickly changed the subject, saying that Sezer—the manager of the building where he lived—would be expecting us within the hour. Then, taking the handle of my roll-bag (and refusing my protestations that I could wheel it along myself), he guided us a sharp right up the rue Ribera.
“Brasseur said he called you at your other job,” I said as we headed toward the metro.
“Yes, I do a six-hour shift every day at a clothes importer near to where I live.”
“Six hours on top of the eight at the hotel? That’s insane.”
“And necessary. All the money from the hotel job goes home to Turkey. The morning job . . .”
“What time does it start?”
“Seven thirty.”
“But you only get off work here at one AM. By the time you get home . . .”
“It’s about a half hour by bicycle. All the metros stop just before one. Anyway, I don’t need much sleep, so . . .”
He let the sentence die, hinting he didn’t want to keep talking about all this. Rue Ribera had a slight incline—and though it was one lane wide and lined with apartment buildings, the morning sun still found a way of beaming down on this narrow thoroughfare. In the near distance, a father—fortyish, well dressed, well heeled—walked out of some venerable building with his teenage daughter. Unlike most adolescent girls she wasn’t in the midst of a vast, perpetual sulk. Rather, she laughed at something her dad said to her, and then made a comment that caused him to smile. The rapport between them was evident—and I could not help but feel a crippling sadness.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 37
