Several times a week there would be a knock at the apartment door. I never recognized the people who came by; a couple were Caucasian, but most were Sri Lankan. Lathy never introduced them or explained to me who they were. If I asked, he would become angry and tell me to mind my own business.
It turned out that Lathy’s roommate was a drug trafficker, and he hired people from the area to work for him. Lathy and Suddy never got involved because they were busy working at the printing company. Sometimes the drug-trafficking roommate and the people who came to the door would add white powder to shredded tobacco, then roll it up in a cigarette paper and smoke it. Other times they would put a little powder on a spoon and heat the bottom with a lighter. Once the powder was dissolved, they would use a hypodermic needle to inject the drug into their arms. It took effect very quickly. One minute they would be wide-eyed and animated, the next they would be on the floor, oblivious to the world, sometimes for hours. I would sit there, too, not knowing what to do. I’d had zero experience with drugs up to that point. A few times they asked me if I wanted to try it, but I said no.
If Lathy and Suddy came home and found the roommate and his associates in that state, they would become furious, so they only used drugs at the apartment while Lathy and Suddy were at work or out elsewhere. They were careful to put everything away before Lathy and Suddy returned home.
But they weren’t just doing drugs themselves. The roommate would bring home what looked like bricks of the white powder packed in sealed plastic bags. One of his friends would then run to the pharmacy to buy glucose. Using a credit card, they would make a mixture that was two parts powder, one part glucose, and package them into tiny plastic bags. Since I was often home and had nothing else to do, I would sometimes help pack. We used a small balance to weigh the powder, five grams per bag. They never paid me, but I never asked for money.
One day, I was out with a Sri Lankan who had just arrived in Paris from Morocco two days earlier. His name was Pavan, and he was staying with us at the apartment. We were just walking around when, all of a sudden, he asked me if everything was okay. He seemed very nervous.
“Sure,” I said. “Okay.”
As we neared the train station, I noticed he had a locker key around his neck. We went into the station and I followed him to a locker. He took the key from the chain and very quickly opened the locker and yanked out a suitcase.
“Let’s go!” He seemed in a hurry, and he was definitely agitated.
“Pavan, what’s inside?”
“I will show you when we get home. Let’s go.” Clearly he wanted me to shut up.
My mind started to race. Why did he leave the suitcase in the locker? Is there money inside? What if the police catch us? Am I going get caught along with him? Should I leave him and go in a different direction? If I were to leave, he might not trust me anymore. He might tell the other roommate and his friends. It could affect our friendship. So I stayed with him.
Once we’d walked a few blocks, he calmed down a bit. Back at the apartment, he tossed the suitcase on the table and flipped it open. He dumped the clothes on the floor and used a small knife to pry up a panel from the bottom of the suitcase. It was filled with packets of white powder.
“You okay?” he asked with a practised smiled.
I nodded. “I’m fine.” But I was terrified. My hands were shaking.
He emptied the packets into a large bag and weighed it on a scale. About two kilos.
Pavan continued living with us as a roommate. This kind of thing happened often, and before long I didn’t think much about it. Lathy’s roommates and I were hanging out all the time. Whenever I went out with them, they would pay. They even bought me new clothes. Money wasn’t an issue.
Often, while we were packing up the powder, the roommates and their friends would roll up a one-hundred franc note and snort the powder into their noses. They always seemed happy afterward. They would hug each other and sing Tamil songs. One day, curiosity got the better of me and I took a bit before mixing it with glucose, and I snorted it. At first, energy rushed through my entire body. I felt like I was floating in the air. Then my heart started to pound and I felt very hot and dizzy. I vomited. I became convinced that I was going to die. All I remember after that was sinking to the floor and lying down next to a pile of powder-filled bags. A few minutes later, I woke up with a terrible headache, my face wet. Pavan had slapped my cheeks and poured cold water on me to try to bring me around. That was the first and last time I tried cocaine.
I never saw either Lathy or Suddy taking drugs. It was like two separate worlds existed in our apartment. For the most part, everyone minded their own business. During the day, I often hung out with the drug-trafficking roommate and his friends. I suppose I was bored. What else was I supposed to do? I had no money. I could not speak French, could not work, and had no skills. Lathy was living his own life. The drug traffickers were Sri Lankans, so at least we had that in common.
One day our drug-trafficking roommate asked me to tag along with a white couple who were driving to downtown Paris in a white Mercedes-Benz. I couldn’t imagine why, but I had nothing else to do. Why not? I thought. They dropped me off in front of a hotel; an hour later they returned to pick me up and we headed home. The white guy parked the car and told me to keep watch while he went to get something.
“Keep watch for what?” I asked.
“Just do it.”
A few minutes later, he came back with a crowbar and wedged open the driver-side door casing. Inside were dozens of sealed bundles of cash. I pretended I hadn’t seen anything.
Because I had a temporary visitor visa, I was allowed to attend a government-sponsored language school that had been set up for refugees. Classes were in the evenings, and not all the students attended the class regularly. The teacher didn’t ask for any documents. Since I was Tamil, I am sure he assumed I was a refugee. The teacher, a native French speaker, spoke five other languages: Tamil, Hindi, German, English, and Spanish. I later found out that he was actually working as a spy for the French government. His mission was to infiltrate the immigrant drug-trafficking community within the area.
I spent about three months learning to read and speak French. Later, I found a job in Paris, working under the table. My boss was a distributer of model toys. I ran errands and did odd jobs for him, which included washing his black Jaguar, and I occasionally helped to assemble toys. I made about one hundred French francs (eleven U.S. dollars) a day.
He had a secretary named Katherine, who was from Korea. He and Katherine would often go to lunch and not come back to the store for two or three hours. When they did return, their hair and clothes would always be messed up. Though I was young and naive, I had a pretty clear idea what they were up to.
It was good to earn some extra cash, but I still wasn’t getting any closer to my goal. I had the same problem in France that I had faced in Germany: I could not apply for a decent job because I didn’t have my residency. I might as well have stayed in Germany.
One night at dinner, Suddy said, “Rajan, why don’t you go to Canada and study there? You are wasting your life here.”
“I don’t know anybody in Canada,” I replied. To be honest, at the time, I didn’t even know where Canada was.
In Canada, Suddy told me, I could study for free and receive permanent residency in less than two years. Once I had that, he said, I could work freely and sponsor my family.
I was currently between a rock and a hard place. I couldn’t go back to Germany; that option had died the moment I allowed myself to be smuggled into France. Besides, in Germany people like me were living as refugees for years. And at the time, unemployment was high in the country, so finding a well-paying job — especially for a foreigner — was unlikely. The chances of sponsoring my family to move to Germany were slim to none.
What about staying in France?
In addition to the problem of getting decent work, there was another reason I was thinking about leaving Paris. When
I had first talked with Lathy, he had seemed very excited by the idea of my living with him. We could be brothers together! And for a while, I, too, had hopes that he and I could help to bring our family to Europe. That we could all be together as a family in France. It soon became obvious to me, however, that Lathy wanted me to leave. I wasn’t sure that I could blame him. He had his residency already. He had a job. He had a life. His life. Plus, we had fought about my hanging out with the drug traffickers. I think, in his mind, being far away from home had relieved him of the burden of being the eldest son, the provider. But this meant that I had to be the one to get our family out of Sri Lanka. I had to do something!
Suddy told me he had a childhood friend who lived in Montreal. “You can stay with him,” he suggested. He asked Lathy what he thought; Lathy said it was a great idea. He said he remembered Suddy’s friend from Sri Lanka.
And that was that. The next day, Pavan took me to the metro station and I had my picture taken in a photo booth. We then waited at the station for a while, until we were approached by a man with one arm. He took the photos and told us to meet him at the same time in the same place the next day.
The next day, Pavan and I anxiously waited at the station. The one-armed man arrived with an envelope and gave it to Pavan, who gave him another envelope — I figured it contained cash. I don’t know how much Pavan paid, but he told me it was all taken care of. I also don’t know if Lathy gave him the money or if Pavan was being generous because I helped them with the drugs sometimes. He never asked me to pay him back, and I was broke anyway.
Back in the apartment, I opened the envelope to find a French passport. Below my picture was a very French name: Nicholas Bouchard. A semicircular government seal was stamped on my picture. At first, the thought of leaving Paris to travel to Canada scared me. But as the fear faded, I became excited about the possibility of a better future.
A couple of days later, Lathy, Suddy, and two of our roommates drove me to Charles de Gaulle Airport. Lathy handed me a plane ticket along with my French passport. The destination printed on the ticket was Toronto, Canada. From there I would take another flight to Montreal where Suddy’s friend lived.
I had left most of my belongings and my Sri Lankan passport with Lathy and carried only a small bag containing some clothing. I said goodbye to everyone. I was sad to be leaving my brother. He still had Suddy, but I would be alone again. At the same time, I felt relief at the prospect of leaving Paris. Now I would be able to focus on my end goal, to rebuild the life that I had before and see my mother and siblings again. If I stayed in Paris, I would probably end up in prison for being involved with drugs. As I entered the airport, I reassured myself that, all things considered, it was better for me to leave.
On my way to the check-in counter, I was approached by a young man. He started to ask me questions in Tamil.
“Neenkal Tamila?” he asked. Are you Tamil?
“Oom. Unkada perr enna?” Yes. What is your name?
“Naan Ganesh. Unkada perr enna?” I am Ganesh. What is your name?
“Naan Logathasan.” I am Logathasan.
“Enkai porial?” Where are you going?
“Canada,” I said. “Neer?” You?
He smiled, beaming. “Canadavukku!” To Canada. “French theriuma?” Do you know French?
“Oom. Oru alavu therium.” Yes. I know a bit.
He was from Sri Lanka, he explained, and he didn’t speak French. I said I had to be going, apologized, and walked away. At the counter, I checked in and received my boarding pass. Having cleared security, I was walking to my gate when I heard my name being called from behind me.
“Logathasan, please help!”
I turned and saw one of the officers smack Ganesh with the palm of his hand.
Then three officers immediately surrounded me. One of them demanded to see my boarding pass and passport. I handed them over, and he grabbed me by the arm and ordered me to accompany him.
While I was being led away, I saw that Ganesh was surrounded by another group of police officers. He must have been caught using an illegal passport, and when he called for my help, the police guessed that I was also illegal.
I was led through a door and down a hall in the security section of the airport. In a small room, two officers instructed me to sit down, and they immediately began pummelling me with questions.
“Why did you turn back when the other man called out ‘Logathasan’?”
“What is your real name?”
“Where are you from? You are not a French citizen.”
If I were to tell them the truth, I knew, I would be deported back to Sri Lanka. I had no choice but to lie.
“My name is … Nicholas … Bouchard. I am from Paris, France.”
I could tell, however, that they did not believe me. Their manner was very aggressive.
“You are going to prison. Do you understand that? You are going to prison!”
I gave up and confessed my name and my nationality.
“Stand up,” the officer said. I was handcuffed and led to a holding cell inside the airport.
What a disaster! I was terrified. The cell was small, and like the one in Berlin, it had a sink, a toilet, and a cement sleeping bench cantilevered from the wall. I had no idea what time it was, but I figured it must have been late. I was given a blanket and told to go to sleep. I curled up on the bench and tried to rest, but all I could think about was how miserable I was, and how — once again — my dreams of a better life had suddenly been derailed. I was angry, too, that a kinsman — also once again — had betrayed me. I didn’t eat or drink that night. I used the toilet in the cell to pee. It felt like the lowest point of my life.
This was it, I realized. This was where I was destined to be time and time again. I was home.
CHAPTER 20
Banging noises startled me awake. I rubbed my eyes and looked groggily around the room. My shoulders slumped in misery when I realized I had not been dreaming. I was in a cell and guards were banging on the bars.
“Let’s have that blanket back.”
A few minutes later a guard brought me a modest breakfast of orange juice, a baguette, and some cheese. I was immensely grateful and thanked him. Despite my despondent mood, the food was welcome. I ate as slowly as I could; somehow, being able to eat made my situation seem less dire. I finished the last crumbs of my baguette and waited. For what, I had no idea.
Perhaps an hour or so later, I was led out of the cell to have my fingerprints taken. Another few hours were occupied with filling out forms and being processed, none of which I understood. Then I was handcuffed and put into a van. Its windows were covered with wire mesh. There were five other prisoners inside the vehicle, all wearing handcuffs. They looked Arab or African. No one told us where we were going.
The drive lasted about two hours, but it felt like two days. No one spoke. Occasionally one of the men would look up and shake his head sadly. Everyone looked miserable. There is nothing more frightening than the look of complete defeat — the dead eyes of a man without hope, a man beyond redemption. I had no idea what lay in store for me. I didn’t even know where we were. It was dark as we passed through what sounded like police checkpoints.
When the van finally came to a stop, the back door swung open and yet another faceless officer instructed us to step out. One by one, we filed out of the van and reassembled in a straight line for processing.
A guard removed my handcuffs and handed me a plastic bag and a folded grey inmate uniform. In a communal room, we disrobed and put on the prison uniforms. I put my clothes into the plastic bag and returned it to the guard.
“Follow me,” he said.
Every ten steps we encountered a heavy metal door that had to be unlocked remotely. The guard would bark into his walkie-talkie, there would be a loud buzz, and the door would suddenly release.
I was led up a cement stairwell to the third floor. When we came to a hallway lined with a row of doors, the guard ordered me to stop. He b
arked into his walkie-talkie and a cell door coughed open. “Inside,” he said. The door buzzed as it closed and locked behind me.
My new prison cell was more spacious than my brother’s apartment in Paris and housed only two people. There was a bunk bed, a toilet, a sink, and even a small window. Photos of nude girls had been glued to the wall by the toilet and sink. The walls on three sides were cement; the fourth side had a door constructed of metal bars. The doors didn’t have padlocks but deadbolts, operated remotely from the central guard station. There was a narrow opening near the foot of the door where a food tray could be slid in. The only light came from the window, also covered with iron bars, opposite the door.
When I entered the cell, an older man with a hangdog face was sitting on the top bunk, watching me. I nodded meekly. My plan was the same as always: have as little contact as possible with other detainees and hope for the best.
The bed had been made up with clean sheets and a pillow. Exhausted by my ordeal, I lay down right away and fell into a deep sleep. At one point I woke up to the sound of my cellmate sobbing. At first, I ignored his weeping and tried to fall back to sleep. This happened several times. I finally asked him, in primitive French, what the matter was.
He was from Mauritius, I managed to gather, and apparently he was very worried about his wife and children. I couldn’t figure out exactly what the problem was and, in all honesty, I wasn’t all that interested in finding out. He had a strange way about him, and he mumbled his words, barely articulate. I wasn’t even sure he was aware I was in the room with him. After we talked, though, he seemed appeased and we both drifted off to sleep.
The Sadness of Geography Page 13
