The Apartment (9 page)

Zoë. Fourteen years old. As if she'd never died.

And now she's smiling. I step closer. She opens her mouth…

“Oh, monsieur! Pardonnez!”
An usher hurries through the door and directs me toward the exit, which is set neatly in the velvet wall. I glance back over my shoulder as the woman assists me, back up at the pedestal, but the figure isn't even a girl; it's a dancing man with a tuxedo and a monocle.
Jesus, Mark, get a grip.

Now there's Elton John at the piano, the young couple taking a selfie with Michael Jackson, a woman in a burqa posing with a peace sign next to Barack Obama for her husband's camera, a comedian in a garish golfing outfit, and I can't wrap my mind around the disjuncture between the smiling visitors and the creepiness of these not-quite-dead effigies. I'm sure it's just a post-traumatic effect of the darkness and the strangeness—perhaps the flashing lights have triggered some sort of recall—but I can't help feeling that their glass eyes are watching me as I meander through the intricate succession of rooms trying to relax, forcing my heart back to its place and my breathing back to normal.

In the theater set, a famous French actress sits on a red velvet seat. Her crisp black bob has been pushed askew by one of the visitors, and as I pass, one of her false eyelashes detaches itself and flutters down into her lap. I can't help thinking that the hair they've used is still alive. Although I'm alone at the moment, the room still thrums with presence.

Zoë was six, grown up into a smart, gorgeous, funny little girl, and Odette and I had started sleeping properly, and our lives seemed settled and happy, and we were just beginning to dream, to make plans as a family, something you can do only once the crisis years of baby care and toddlerhood are past. Then Odette started getting the pains. The doctor found that she was already in stage two and she had to have an immediate hysterectomy and start chemotherapy.

Zoë was so patient when her mommy was tired and listless and nauseous. She'd help Odette with her makeup and come up with quiet games to play while Odette lay on the new couch in the sun. She learned to make sandwiches and tea. But it was the hair loss that frightened Zoë most—and me, to be honest. If someone's looking pale and weak, it's bad enough, but everyone's seen ill people before, and they usually get better. But when clumps of hair fall from their heads, it's like they're dead already. It's like their bodies are giving up on their souls.

It was during Odette's third course of chemotherapy that Zoë's behavior started to become more worrying. It was one night when I was bathing her while we were alone and Odette was overnighting at the hospital that I noticed the purplish weals on Zoë's hands. It wasn't the first time; the first two times, even though I knew better, I'd just written them off as scratches any active kid might get. But this time there were two sets of deep puncture wounds, the skin around them puckered and blue.

“What happened here, sweetie?”

Zoë shrugged. “A dog bit me.”

“What? When? What dog?”

“That ice-cream dog from across the road.”

“The collie?”

“Yes.” Zoë was splashing with her plastic sharks as if nothing had happened.

“Why? What were you doing there?” And when? When the
fuck
had my daughter wandered across the road by herself? Or perhaps Odette had taken her for a walk…but she'd surely tell me if Zoë'd been bitten.

“Princess Ariel says the hair has to be living; that's why Mommy's not getting better. The ice-cream dog has nice hair.”

I should have taken Zoë to the clinic for tetanus and rabies shots, I should have asked Zoë what else she'd been chatting to Princess Ariel about, but instead I put her to bed and drank myself to sleep beside her.

I've got to get a grip on myself; the past is past. You can't change it by thinking about it. Think about now, here.
Deliberately rechanneling my thoughts, as I've learned to do, I inspect the models unemotionally, try to see them as craft works, and I can start to enjoy the care the museum's taken with each of the sets and the outfits and the figures themselves. They are incredibly realistic—the only thing that gives them away is the static sheen over their wax skin, but you have to look closely to notice that. In each new room, figures are posed in dynamic ways—a rock concert, a theater show, a nightclub bustling with French celebrities, a photo call with sports heroes, and a bar with writers and actors sharing a drink. I use my phone to take a self-portrait with Hemingway, embarrassed when one of the figures I took for a venerable author stands up from the banquette next to me: the grandfather taking a break.

Now the trail leads through the museum shop and I studiously avoid looking at the shelves, considering myself too canny to be taken in by tourist rip-off centers, but as I go to the far door, I'm caught by the glint of a rough-hewn, chunky emerald ring I just know Steph would love. It's tasteful, not emblazoned with any logos, and I idly flick over the price tag. It's really not all that expensive, not for something that will be a wonderful surprise for her. If I could just unblock my card. I check my watch; the bank supervisor should be back by now and there's free wi-fi in the museum, so I smile at the woman behind the shop's counter and retreat to a corner to make the call to Jeandra's direct line.

“Yes, Dr. Sebastian, Kurt's here. I've filled him in. Let me put you through.”

Twenty seconds of the waiting music. “Hello, sir. Hang on, please.” This man's bored tone is more what I expected from the bank. For half a minute, I hear the rattle of computer keys, a sigh, and then, “No, I'm afraid we're not able to authorize your card.”

“But Jeandra said there was a way she could help.”

“Uh, right…She's not entitled to. There are procedures.”

“But she explained it quite clearly. You can just mark me down as having arrived today; then there's no problem.”

“Yeah, even if we could, uh, we couldn't. There are already two foreign transactions from yesterday.”

“But they didn't go through. They were declined.”

“Uh, yes, sir,” he says, enunciating like he's talking to an idiot. “But the system has logged the declines as originating from France, so there's no way to predate the authorization.”

“What does that mean? That you won't help?”

“We'd love to help you, sir. But it's clear in the Ts and Cs that you should pre-authorize your card when you go outside the borders. You signed the Ts and Cs. You could use another card.”

“I don't have another card. What do you…” I realize my voice is too loud for the low-ceilinged room and the cashier is looking at me. “Okay, never mind.” I cut the call, seething. But there's no point raging against the machine. This is my fuckup; I have only myself to blame.

I stalk out of the shop, trying to find the quickest route to the exit. How am I going to explain this to Steph? When she finds out how much I've wasted getting in here…I storm past Brad Pitt and Madonna and a set full of fashion models and an apocalyptic TV-watching couple and into a kids' fiction section, past Obélix and some creature from a Disney movie, swearing under my breath. But when I see the little red-haired boy standing next to the Little Prince, his grandmother aiming a camera at him, I force myself to calm down. These French people are so elegant, so contained. That civility and urbanity is precisely what I've been enjoying about this trip, how different it is from the angry rush at home. Civil, urbane people don't march though museums cursing under their breath.

Besides, I'm here now and it's going to be the last luxury I have, so I'd better enjoy it. I take a deep breath and slow down in the French history and literature section, gleaning from the signs what each scene is about: papist and revolutionary history, great moments in art and science—and quite a lot of bloodshed: Joan of Arc and Marat, the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, a Medici massacre, and here, after I've trailed through an asylum accompanied by a soundtrack of moaning and clanking chains, the plague. I'm shocked to see a dark-coated figure bearing away a plainly dead blue-gray baby from a snow-clogged sewer. Hayden would be terrified by these scenes, and understandably so. Will the little boy's guardians hustle him past this section with his eyes closed?

And look at this horse in the middle of this dark room, its flaring nostrils and terrified eyes wide and glaring, a knight on its back. I round the beast and see that the knight is a skeleton, slashing with a sword. Bizarre: Mickey Mouse in one room, a horseman of the apocalypse and a plague baby in the next.

Something smells odd in this room, and the air is stagnant. I haven't seen anyone coming past me for a while. Despite myself, I'm drawn to the holes in the skull's eyes. There's a soft glow of light inside them. Wondering how they achieve this startling effect, I stand on my tiptoes and crane up to the horseman, trying to avoid touching the horse, and the light sputters inside, glowing from pale white to orange to red, when there's a glancing yellow motion in my peripheral vision, like some of the flame has dislodged and become whole in the shadows of the room.

I turn my head slowly, as if the air has stalled and thickened. A frigid breeze blows from the fake snow in the sewer, and a stench of rot from deep in the horse's throat. I don't want to look at the glowing shape.

At her. Because I know.

I lock eyes with her. It's Zoë, and she's tall and beautiful like her mother. As if she never died.

She opens her mouth, and before she can speak, I use all my energy to wrench my eyes away from her and drag myself though the last hallway, feeling her following me. I can't walk fast enough.

At last, thank God, I see the exit sign. I push through the door, into a room that's suddenly bright and clinically tiled. There's a red vending machine and a rack of pamphlets. No ghosts can come out here, surely. In there, with horror and death and illusions perhaps, but not out here in the real, mundane, dutiful world.

I scrabble at the handle of the final exit, painted white, normal, thinking if I see the grandparents, the lovers, the Italians, Parisian people going about their day, I'll be free, but the door behind me slams. And she has followed me here.

She's as tall as me now, and the Scooby-Doo sneakers squeak against the tiles on the floor as she approaches. She smiles and her eyes haven't changed. I open my arms and she comes to me and I hold her and she smells like she always did, and like her mother too. And I put my hand into her yellow hair and hold her against me, breathing her in.

She pushes me against the vending machine with a clatter that surely means this is real. I feel the jab of the coin slot in my spine. She grabs my fingers in hers and, like we used to do, she rubs the tip of her nose on mine. She opens her mouth and talks. “You killed me, Papa.
Tu m'as tué. Pourquoi, Papa?
” she says, her breath like sweet rot. And then she kisses me; like Odette used to, she sucks my bottom lip into her mouth and bites down.

“Uh-huh. Thanks for doing that, Carla.” Mark paced up and down the living room, the phone glued to his ear.

Worried that he'd use up all the Skype credit calling Carla's cell, I mouthed, “Hurry up,” but he pretended not to notice. At least he'd recovered from whatever had spooked him during his outing to call the bank—he'd perked up the second I shared the news that we now had wi-fi in the apartment, and immediately decided to Skype Carla, probably as an excuse to prevent me from questioning him further.

“And the cops said they couldn't help? Uh-huh. Right, I understand.”

From the one-way conversation it was clear that Carla still hadn't heard anything from the Petits and my assumption that the police wouldn't get involved was correct. With no indication of foul play, the Petits' no-show would be low on the cops' list of priorities. I listened, my irritation growing, as Mark filled Carla in on the disappointing state of the apartment before launching into a description of the hair in the closet. He made it sound like a lark, an amusing eccentricity he'd stumbled upon, rather than the gruesome discovery that had him sniping at me and fleeing for the trash cans. She said something that made him laugh. That was it.

“
Enough,
Mark. Fucking hang up already.” I didn't care if Carla could hear me. He frowned at me and held up a hand, as if I were a naughty child who needed admonishing for interrupting the adults.

“Mark!”

“Got to go. Uh-huh, I know. She's just stressed. Thanks again.” He hung up. “Happy now, Steph? What the hell was that about?”

“We need to conserve the Skype credit. What if we can't recharge the account from here?”

“You don't need credit to talk to Hayden. It's free from computer to computer.”

“I know that, but what if Mom's out and I need to call her cell?”

“You're blowing this out of proportion, Steph.”

“Oh right, so I shouldn't worry that I might not be able to talk to my daughter now? That I won't be able to because you've wasted all our airtime talking to that bloody woman?”

“Carla's trying to help us, Steph.”

“Whatever.”

He put his hands up in mock defeat. “Okay, okay. I'm sorry, okay?” He stalked into the kitchen.

Shaky from the fight, I checked my emails, desperate to distract myself. The house swap site had sent a tepid message saying that they were looking into the situation, and I was about to respond to it when another, wholly unexpected, email pinged into my in-box.

Months ago, and without telling Mark, I'd sent query letters to several overseas literary agents, asking them if they'd be interested in representing the young-adult novel I'd written for an online writing course I'd taken last year. I hadn't heard back from any of them, and after a couple of weeks of obsessively checking their Twitter feeds, I'd pushed it out of my mind. The email was from one of the agents, a Canadian woman who specialized in children's fiction, and she'd asked to see the full manuscript.

I had to read it several times before it sank in. “Oh my God. Mark!”

“What is it now?” He emerged from the kitchen, still irritated. Taking my amazed expression for shock, he softened his tone. “What is it?”

I showed him the email, watching him carefully. His face clouded for a second, and then he let out a bark of joy. “Christ, Steph, this is fantastic. Why didn't you tell me you were submitting to agents?”

Yes, why hadn't I? “I don't know. I suppose I didn't want you to see me fail. She might still turn it down.”

“Nonsense. She'll love it. It's a great little book. We need to celebrate.”

Fingers shaking, I replied to the agent, attaching the full manuscript. A flush of warmth was growing inside me. The news could be the answer to the guilt I felt for not earning my keep. After Hayden's difficult early months, Mark and I decided it was best if I stayed home with her until she turned two and could go to playgroup, but when her second birthday came and went, I let the weeks roll by without so much as looking on the internet for work. Was it fear that held me back? Fear of getting into a rut like Mark had with his career? Or was it a simple lack of ambition? Sure, I was bored to death of staying home—which was why I'd signed up for the cheap course in the first place—but it was easier that way. I knew I was a good mother; I wasn't failing at that. And to be fair to Mark, he'd never once nagged me about it.

Mark handed me my coat and ushered me out of the building—his spirits were restored, either by my news or his chat with Carla. Right then, I didn't care which.

It hurts now to think about the rest of that day. We headed to Notre-Dame, and while we mingled with the tourists flocking around the entrance, all I could think was,
I am good enough, after all.
I barely felt the bite of the air or cared that the skies were gray and drizzly. Everything was charming and beautiful, from the architecture to the slow-moving crowds, which I would normally have found irritating and oppressive. We squeezed into the Shakespeare and Company bookstore and browsed for an hour or so, then bought crêpes from a vendor and ate them as we strolled across the Seine and on toward the Pompidou Centre. Mindful of our budget, we decided not to splurge on tickets for the art galleries that day. On the way home we bought a couple of bottles of cheap wine from the Monoprix and some more bread and cold meat.

We stayed up talking until midnight—I drunkenly confessed my foray into the neighboring apartment—then lazily padded off to bed.

We didn't make love that night—we were too tired, I suppose—but for the first time since those men had broken into our house, I was almost happy.

I woke around ten from a dreamless sleep with a mild hangover. Mark wasn't next to me, nor was he anywhere in the apartment. I was scouring the kitchen to see if he'd left me a note, when he burst through the front door.

“Steph?”

“Where have you been?”

“In the apartment across the hallway. Christ, you were right about it being creepy. Look.” He thrust a battered business card into my hand. His cheeks were flushed and he kept tugging at his bottom lip. I was beginning to regret telling him about my spot of breaking and entering; I should have known he'd want to see the apartment for himself.

“What's this?”

“A business card for a real estate agent, Le Ciel Bleu.
Agence immobilière.
That's what it means, right? It was in one of the kitchen drawers. Could be a lead. For all we know, they might represent the place and be in touch with the Petits.”

“You searched through their stuff?”

“Whose stuff? Whoever lived there is long gone. There wasn't much there. A few old clothes in the closet, not much else. It's no big deal. It's a lead, Steph,” he said again.

“So we're going to be detectives now?”

“Yes. It's worth talking to them, isn't it?”

“The card looks pretty old.”

Ignoring me, he turned on the iPad and asked me to read out the address printed in faded script on the card. “Let's see if they're still around.”

I did as he asked, spelling it out letter by letter, and he typed it into Google. “Bingo! It still exists. And it looks like it's not too far from here—we can walk it.”

Following the directions Mark had downloaded, we found the Ciel Bleu agency easily, nestled on a side street between a Moroccan restaurant and a high-end unisex hairdresser's.

A smart-suited man of about my age greeted us warmly as we stepped through the door. His blond hair was slicked back, his skin was flawless, and his blue tie was the exact shade of his eyes. He was as well put together as a store mannequin, and I squirmed with self-consciousness at my own disheveled state. I hadn't showered, my hair was all over the place, and I hadn't bothered with makeup.

“Parlez-vous anglais?”
Mark asked.

“Yes. How may I help you?” His English was as polished as his appearance.

I waited for Mark to explain our errand. He showed the man the business card, told him the building's address, and said that we were desperate to get in touch with the owners of our apartment. I expected the agent to lose interest the second he learned we weren't potential customers, but instead he listened politely and then said, “We do not represent this building, but it is possible that my boss might know something. He has owned the agency for many, many years. You want me to call him and see what it is he has to say?”

“That would be incredible of you,” I said, blushing as he smiled back at me. I glanced at Mark to see if he'd noticed—he hadn't, or if he had, he didn't care.

“
D'accord.
He is
en vacances
at the moment, but he will not mind if I call him, I think. Perhaps he can help you.”

While he rang his boss, I gazed at the photographs of the properties available for rent and sale. The prices of the tiniest apartments were astounding.

The conversation appeared to be getting quite involved, and his tone had turned serious, but all I could understand were the agent's frequent “
d'accord
s” and “
vraiment
s
?
”

After five minutes or so he hung up and folded his manicured hands together. “This is a very interesting situation. Monsieur le Croix says that he used to represent the building for many years but stopped doing so sometime in the nineties.”

“Did he say why?”

“It became too much trouble. The people who would rent there did not stay. They would move in and then leave and would be reluctant to pay. He says many of the agencies have the same problem, so no one is willing to take it on.”

“Did he say why they didn't want to stay?”

“
Non.
He was unclear on this matter.”

“Did he say who owns the building or anything about the Petits?”

“
Non.
He did not know that name.”

Mark's feverish expression was back. “Could we talk to him?”

“
Oui.
I will give you his email address. But I can't guarantee that he will choose to help you. He will be
en vacances
for two more weeks.”

We thanked him profusely and headed out into the chill morning.

Mark led the way up to Montmartre, where we stopped for a snack and a cup of coffee at the cheapest place we could find. His growing excitement about getting to the bottom of the Petits' whereabouts and the reason behind the building's abandonment was contagious. Perhaps I should have known then that something was beginning to warp inside him. The overly enthusiastic behavior was at odds with his usual considered approach to life, but I was still lit up by yesterday's book news, so I let it go. As we sipped at lukewarm cappuccinos, we bounced ideas back and forth. For a couple of hours the mystery enthralled us. It would be a story we'd be able to tell people when we got home.
You'll never guess what…
It was invigorating.

When we arrived back, Mireille was waiting for us outside our apartment, slumped on a step. The light on the landing was working for a change and we could see the hideous woolen cape she was wearing that day billowing around her like a filthy parachute. There was a smudge of blue paint on her cheek, and she stank of body odor and nicotine.

She ignored Mark and acknowledged me with a nod. “You are still here?”

“Looks that way,” I said as lightly as I could manage.

She gave me a pitying look. “The others did not stay as long here.”

Mark and I exchanged glances.

“What others?” he asked. “The Petits?”

She finally deigned to look in his direction. “I tell you I do not know those people.
Non.
I am speaking of
les autres visiteurs.
Like you. One family from England or America—they only stay for one night. I see them as they are leaving. They are very angry. You must go too. It is better here after they go, but it is still bad.”

“Hang on. When was this?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I am not good with time.”

“Why did they leave? Why were they angry?” Mark was staring at her with as much intensity as she usually exuded, and I couldn't help but think,
If only he'd been this forceful when those men invaded our home,
which made me feel both disloyal and guilty. We'd escaped unscathed; if we'd fought back, who knows what might have happened?

She sighed. “You have my money for wi-fi?” She pronounced it
wee-fee.

“Why did they leave? Were they staying in this apartment?” His voice was getting more strident.

“Calm down, Mark,” I whispered.

Mireille held out a hand, palm upward. “Money.”

Mark opened his wallet and fumbled for a ten-euro note.

Mireille gasped, shot to her feet, and grabbed the wallet out of his hand.

“Hey!” Mark tried to snatch it back, but she held it out of his reach.

She was staring intently at the photograph of Hayden in the wallet's see-through pouch. Behind it, I knew, were two folded photographs of Zoë. “Why you not tell me before?”

“Give it back.”

She said something to herself in French. Her hand went limp and she almost dropped the wallet. Mark retrieved it from her.

She nodded to herself, then looked straight at me once more. “I see you tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

“I see you tonight. We have a drink. I will come here.” She whirled around to thunk her way up the stairs.

We should have called after her, told her no, but we were both too blindsided.

“Has she really just invited herself over?” I said to Mark when she was out of earshot.

“Looks like it.”

“Shall we pretend to be out if she shows up?”