The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2

by Douglas Kennedy

  Nothing except go to the cinema. The majority of my free time outside my chambre was spent haunting all those darkened rooms around town that cater to film junkies like myself. The geography of Paris was, for me, defined by its cinemas. Every Monday I’d spend sixteen euros on a carte orange hebdomadaire—a weekly travel card, which gave me access to all metros and buses within the Paris city limits. The card let me whizz around town at will—all the travels outside my quartier largely pertaining to my cinema habit. Once the five hundred words were down on the computer, I’d be free to leave the room and begin the movie-going day. The Fifth was my preferred terrain, as there were more than fifteen cinemas in a square mile. Most of them specialized in old stuff. At the Action Écoles, there was always a director’s festival in progress: Hitchcock this week, Kurosawa the next, alternating with a season of Anthony Mann Westerns. Down the road at Le Reflet Médicis, I spent a very happy three days watching every Ealing Comedy ever made, finding myself in floods of tears at the end of Whisky Galore . . . more an indication of my fragile state than of the film’s emotional headiness. A few streets away, at the Accattone, they were always showing one of Pasolini’s stranger explorations of the out-there frontiers of human behavior. I could make it from the Accattone to Le Quartier Latin in about three minutes for a Buñuel season. I could stroll over into the Sixth to nose around the film noir rarities at the Action Christine. Or, best of all, I could jump the metro to Bercy and hide out at the Cinémathèque until midnight.

  Every day, I’d spend at least six hours at the movies. But before heading out on this daily movie marathon, I’d check my email.

  The Internet café was located on the rue des Petites Écuries. It was a small storefront operation. There were a dozen computers positioned on unvarnished wooden cubicles, fronted by grubby orange plastic chairs. Behind this was a small bar that served coffee and booze. It cost one euro fifty an hour to check email and surf the Net. There was always a bearded guy in his thirties behind the bar. He looked Turkish, but spoke good French—though our conversations were always limited to a few basic pleasantries and the exchange of money for an Internet password or a coffee. Whenever I showed up, he was always on his cell phone, deep in some rapid-fire conversation—a conversation that turned into a low whisper as I bought my password and settled down in front of a computer. I could always see him studying me as I logged on—and wondered if he could gauge my disappointment as I opened my AOL mailbox and found no news from my daughter.

  I’d been writing Megan twice a week since arriving in Paris. In my emails I asked her to please try to understand that I never meant to hurt her; that she remained the most important person in my life. Even if she now hated me for what had happened, I would never cease to love her and hoped that communication could be somehow reestablished. At first, my emails all followed a similar line of argument. After three weeks, I switched tactics—writing to her about my life in Paris, about the room in which I was living, the way I passed my day, the movies I saw—and always ending with a simple statement:

  I will write again next week. Always know that you are in my thoughts every hour of the day—and that I miss you terribly. Love . . . Dad

  When no answer was forthcoming, I wondered if she was being blocked from writing to me by her mother—as I also knew that, by telling Megan details of my life in Paris, I was probably passing them on to my ex-wife as well. But I didn’t care if she learned about my diminished circumstances. What further harm could she do to someone who’d lost everything?

  But then, at the start of my sixth week in Paris, I opened my AOL account and saw—amid the usual detritus sent to me from loan sharks and penis-extension hucksters—an email marked: meganricks@aol.com.

  I hit the READ button nervously, preparing myself for a “Never write to me again” letter . . . given that, the one time I called her after everything blew up, she told me that, as far as she was concerned, I was dead. But now I read:

  Dear Dad

  Thanks for all your emails. Paris sounds cool. School is still hard—and I’m still getting a lot of crap from people in my class about what you did. And I still find it hard to understand how you could have done that with one of your students. Mom told me I was to tell her if you made contact with me—but I’ve been reading all your emails at school. Keep writing me—and I’ll make sure Mom doesn’t know we’re in contact.

  Your daughter

  Megan

  PS I’m still angry at you . . . but I miss you too.

  I put my face in my hands after reading this—and found myself sobbing. Your daughter. That said it all. After nearly three months of thinking that I had lost Megan forever, here was the response I had been hoping for. I’m still angry at you . . . but I miss you too.

  Hitting the REPLY button, I wrote:

  Dear Megan

  It was wonderful hearing from you. You’re right to be angry with me. I’m angry with me. I did something stupid—but by the time I realized I had made a terrible mistake, things started to spin out of my control and I found myself unable to stop bad things from happening. However, you do need to know that people took my mistake and used it for their own aims. I am not trying to make excuses for what I did. I accept responsibility—and will always feel terrible for hurting you. I am simply so pleased that we are now back in contact with each other—and promise to keep writing you every day.

  I’m sure that, very soon, things will get easier at school . . . and that you will be able to put so much of this behind you. I appreciate how difficult it is not telling your mother that we’re in touch. In time, I hope that your mom and I will be able to be on friendly terms with each other—because I’m sure that’s what you want too. Always know that I think the world of you and am here for you whenever you need me. Meanwhile I promise to write you every day.

  Love

  Dad

  I read through the email several times before sending it, wanting to double-check that it was devoid of self-pity, that it didn’t come across as a self-justification, and that—most of all—it communicated to my daughter how much I loved and missed her.

  As I stood up to leave, the man behind the desk looked up from his newspaper and said, “Bad news?”

  This threw me—and made me realize he’d been studying me while I was reading Megan’s email.

  “Not at all.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because it’s good news.”

  “I hope there will be some more for you tomorrow.”

  There was no further word from Megan for the next few days—even though I emailed her every afternoon, keeping the tone anecdotal, filling her in on life in my quartier. After three days, I received the following:

  Dear Dad

  Thanks for the last couple of emails. I was on a school trip to Cleveland . . . b-o-r-i-n-g . . . and only got back yesterday. I went into your office at home last night, and found an old map of Paris, and looked up where you are. Rue de Paradis—I like the name. I had to be very careful about going into your office, as Mom told me it was off-limits, and Gardner hasn’t taken it over yet . . .

  Gardner. As in: Gardner Robson. The man who helped engineer my catastrophe and had also taken my wife away from me. The very sight of his name on the computer screen made me grip the sides of the plastic chair and try to control the rage that I still felt.

  Gardner hasn’t taken it over yet . . .

  Why not take over my office when he’s taken over everything else?

  I read on:

  I find Gardner very hard to live with. You know he used to be in the Air Force and he keeps telling me that he likes things “ship shape.” If I leave a jacket on the staircase when I come home from school, or if I’ve forgotten to make my bed, that’s not “ship shape.” He can be all right as long as you do things his way, and Mom seems totally in lurve with him . . . but I’m still not totally sold on him as a stepdad. I keep thinking it would be cool to visit you in Paris, but I know that Mom would never let me . .
. and, anyway, I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about what you’ve done. Mom said you wanted to end the marriage . . .

  She said what? Given that she had taken up with Robson well before my scandal hit the front pages—and given that I begged her repeatedly for a second chance—how dare she twist the truth and then feed our daughter this lie . . . a lie that Megan understandably interpreted as, in part, a rejection of herself.

  I read on:

  . . . and that’s why you cheated on Mom with that student and then fled overseas when everything got too hot. Is this true? I hope not.

  Your daughter

  Megan

  I slammed my fist so hard on the desk that the guy behind the counter looked up in surprise.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said.

  “Bad news today?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Very bad.”

  I turned back to the computer, hit the REPLY button, and wrote:

  Dearest Megan

  I have made many mistakes in my life, and have been guilty of all sorts of wrong calls. But I never—repeat: never —wanted to end the marriage to your mom. That was her decision—and one which I tried to talk her out of. If I had my way, I’d still be living at home with you and your mom. Please understand that your mom ended the marriage because she was angry with me for what I had done . . . but she wasn’t exactly blameless for the way things turned out. But, once again, let me reemphasize the fact that being away from you—and being unable to see you on a daily basis—is so terribly hard. And my one great hope is that I’ll be seeing you very soon indeed.

  Love

  Dad

  PS It’s very important that you don’t raise any of this with your mother. If you start asking her questions about whether she wanted to divorce me, she might get suspicious and wonder if we’re in touch. The last thing I want is to lose contact with you.

  After hitting the SEND button, I turned to the guy behind the counter and said, “Apologies again for punching the desk.”

  “You’re not the first. A lot of bad news gets read here every day. But maybe there’ll be good news for you tomorrow.”

  The guy was right. When I returned the next afternoon, there was a reply from Megan.

  Hi Dad

  Thanks for writing what you did. I’m still confused by it all. Like who’s telling the truth here? But it’s good to know that you didn’t want to leave us. That means a lot. And don’t worry about Mom. She’ll never know we’ve been writing each other. But do keep the emails coming. I really like them.

  Love

  Megan

  The fact that she signed the email with “Love” . . . that was not simply “good news.” That was the best news I had received since this whole nightmare started. And I immediately wrote back:

  Dearest Megan

  It really doesn’t matter who is telling the truth here. What does matter is that we stay close. And as I said yesterday, I’m sure that we will be seeing each other again very soon.

  Love

  Dad

  It was a Friday when I sent that email—so it didn’t surprise me that I didn’t hear from her over the weekend. As she had a computer in her room at home, I knew it might be dangerous if I emailed her on Saturday or Sunday . . . just on the off chance that her mother or Robson might walk into her room when she was opening her mailbox (yes, this was overly cautious on my part—but I wanted nothing to jeopardize our correspondence, let alone land Megan in trouble at home). So I resisted the temptation to write her—and just continued on with my usual routine. Wake up at eight, the morning shop, the morning write, lunch, out the door by 1:30 PM at the latest, movies, home by midnight, a Zopiclone sleeping tablet chased with herbal tea, sleep . . . and the inevitable 2:00 AM wake-up call when Omar came rolling in drunk (he did this nightly without fail) and proceeded to pee loudly. Though his loud bodily functions would always snap me into consciousness, the Zopiclone ensured that I’d pass out a few minutes after this wake-up call. As such, I gave daily thanks to that hotel doctor who had overprescribed me one hundred and twenty tabs of this knockout drug.

  But every morning I awoke to the charming discovery that Omar had left the toilet a mess. After weeks of having to clean up after him, I finally hit the wall. It was the day after I had received my last email from Megan—and the large pool of urine on the floor sent me to his door. I banged on it loudly. He answered after a minute, dressed in stained boxer shorts and an AC Milan T-shirt that strained to make it over his vast gut.

  “What?” he asked, looking half asleep.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  “You talk to me? Why?”

  “It’s about how you leave the toilet.”

  “How I leave toilet?” he said, getting a certain edge to his voice. I tried to adopt a reasonable tone.

  “Look, we both have to share the toilet—”

  “We share toilet?” he said, sounding outraged.

  “We both use the same toilet at different times.”

  “You want we use it together?”

  “I want you to lift up the seat when you pee, please. And I always want you to flush the toilet and use the scrubbing brush when—”

  “Fuck you,” he said and slammed the door.

  So much for my attempts at diplomacy. The next morning I found Omar had pissed everywhere . . . not just on the toilet seat and its adjoining walls, but on my front door as well. For the first time since moving in, I ventured back to the offices of Sezer Confection. Mr. Tough Guy let me in with a scowl. Monsieur looked away as I spoke. In other words, business as usual.

  “There is a problem?” Sezer asked.

  I explained what had happened.

  “Maybe it was a cat,” he said.

  “Yeah—and he happened to arrive on a magic carpet with a full bladder. It was Omar.”

  “You have proof?”

  “Who else would piss on my door?”

  “I am not Sherlock Holmes.”

  “You need to talk to Omar,” I said.

  “If I do not have proof that it was his piss on your door . . .”

  “Can you at least get someone to clean it off?”

  “No.”

  “Surely as the building manager—”

  “We clean the corridors. We make certain that the éboueurs pick up the rubbish every day. But if you piss on a door—”

  “I didn’t piss on the door.”

  “That’s your story. But as I said: since you have no proof, I must assume—”

  “Forget it,” I said and started walking out.

  “One small thing,” Sezer said. “I have had word about Adnan.”

  I stopped and turned around.

  “And?” I asked.

  “As predicted, he was arrested as soon as he stepped off the plane in Istanbul last month. They brought him to Ankara for formal sentencing—as he had been found guilty in his absence. He got fifteen years.”

  I heard myself say, “That’s not my fault.” I regretted the comment immediately. Sezer put his fingertips together and smiled.

  “Who said it was your fault?” he asked.

  I washed down the door myself that day. And the toilet walls. And scrubbed the bowl clean yet again. That night, after Omar had had his late-night piss, I found I couldn’t get back to sleep. Though I did my best to rationalize what had happened—to tell myself that Adnan had been on the run for years and had simply been lucky to escape being controlled until that morning when he came to fetch me—I couldn’t pardon myself. Another ruined life, courtesy of yours truly.

  There is only one cure for a sleepless night: work. I wrote like a maniac: five pages before dawn. It was early days yet—page thirty-five of what would be a very big book—but already, my protagonist, Bill, was nine years old and listening to his parents tear each other apart while drinking highballs in their New Jersey kitchen.

  I was writing this scene—and feeling very pleased with it—when I noticed the leak. It was coming from the little cabinet below th
e sink. A small pool of water had gathered on the scuffed linoleum. I stood up from the desk, went over, and opened the cabinet. The cause of the leak was immediately evident. A piece of tape, fastened to the waste pipe, had come loose. There were a few loose tiles at the bottom of the cabinet. An old roll of black duct tape was positioned on one of them. I picked it up. In doing so, the tile beneath it came away. There was a small piece of plastic protruding. I pulled at it—and discovered a little carrier bag hidden in a hole that had been dug crudely into the floor. Inside were tightly rolled wads of banknotes, around twenty of them—each individually secured with a rubber band. I undid the first wad. The currency contained within was a mishmash of five-, ten-, and twenty-euro notes. I counted out the twenty notes contained in the bundle. It came to a total of two hundred euros exactly. I unrolled a second wad. Another thirty notes totaling almost exactly one thousand euros. Another roll. The same setup. By the time all the wads were open and spread flat on the linoleum, I saw that I was staring at four thousand euros.

  Outside, light was smudging the night sky. I carefully re-rolled all the banknotes and put them back into the bag. Then I pushed it back down into the hole and covered it with the loose tile before tearing off a piece of duct tape to plug up the leaking pipe. That done, I stood up and made coffee and sat at my desk, staring out at the dirty window and realizing that I had a major moral dilemma on my hands. Four thousand euros. At my current rate of expenditure, it would buy me almost another four months in Paris. And I knew how easy it would be to say nothing about my find. Especially with Adnan locked away in Ankara.

  But if I said nothing—and I got my additional four months—then what?

  Guilt, guilt, and more guilt. Though I’d probably get away with it, I wouldn’t let myself get away with it.

  I finished the coffee. I grabbed my notepad and scribbled the following note:

  Dear M. Sezer

  I would like to make contact with Adnan’s wife to inquire directly about his situation. Might you please have a postal or email address for her?

  Amicalement

  And I signed my name.