The Woman in the Fifth (11 page)

'I see myself as French. But the French still see me as an
immigré
. You are always an outsider here unless you are French. It's not like London, where everyone is an outsider – the English included – so the city is a big stew. Here the French keep to the French, the North Africans to the North Africans, the Turks to the Turks.
Tant pis.
It doesn't bother me. It is just how things are.'

He didn't reveal too much information about himself. There was a wife, there were two young children, but he mentioned them in a passing sort of way, and when I asked their names, he steered off that subject immediately, turning it back to me, finding out what I did in the States, and discovering that my marriage had recently ended.

'Who was the other woman?' he asked.

'That's a long story.'

'And where is she now?'

'That's another long story.'

'You are being reticent.'

'Like yourself.'

A small smile from Kamal. Then: 'So what do you do now?'

'I'm trying to be a writer.'

'That pays?'

'No way.'

'So how do you live?'

'With great care. Six weeks from now, my money will run out.'

'And then?'

'I have no idea.'

'Are you looking for work?'

'I have no
carte de séjour
– and it's very difficult for Americans to get work permits here.'

'You could ask around at the various universities and colleges.'

No, I couldn't – because that would mean them checking up on my background, and demanding references from the college where I taught for ten years. And once they found out what happened . . .

'That would be difficult,' I said.

'I see,' he said quietly, then reached for his cigarettes. 'So you are in a bad place, yes?'

'That's one way of saying it.'

'So . . . might you be interested in a job?'

'Like I said, I'm illegal . . .'

'That wouldn't matter.'

'Why?'

'Because the job I'm proposing wouldn't be legal, that's why.'

T
HE 'JOB' WAS
an easy one.

'It is a night watchman's job,' Kamal said. 'You come into an office, you sit there, you read, you write, you can even bring a radio or television if you like. You show up at midnight, you leave at six. That's it.'

'That can't just be "it",' I said. 'There must be more to it than that . . .'

'There is nothing more to it except what I said.'

'So what kind of a business is it?'

'That is of no concern of yours.'

'So it's a completely illegal business then?'

'As I said, that is no concern of yours.'

'Is it drugs?'

'No.'

'Guns?'

'No.'

'Sex slaves?'

'No.'

'Weapons of mass destruction?'

'The business in question is nothing more than
a business
.

But in order to keep you free of questions about this
business
, it is far simpler that you are informed about nothing to do with it.'

'And if the cops bust it?'

'That will not happen. Because they are unaware of its existence.'

'Then why do you –
they
– need a night watchman?'

'Because
they
do. End of story. But listen, my friend, if you have any doubts, then you do not have to accept the offer – even though it does pay three hundred euros for a six-night week.'

'Fifty euros a night?'

'Your math skills are impressive. It works out at a little more than eight euros an hour – and there's nothing to the work except sitting at a desk and picking up a telephone on the rare occasion that someone shows up, and then clearing them for entry. That's it.'

Of course that wasn't
it
. I knew that there was something completely sinister about his proposition. I was certain that I might be landing myself in a situation which could be potentially dangerous, or could jeopardize my future freedom. But I found myself being won over by a bleak, but consoling thought:
Nothing matters.
When everything that once mattered to you has been taken away, what's the point in worrying about a further descent into shit?

Nothing matters.
What a liberating idea.
Nothing matters, so everything can be risked. Especially when you need the money.

'I'd prefer sixty-five euros a night,' I said.

A small smile from Kamal. He had me.

'I'm certain you would,' he said.

'I really couldn't do it for less.'

'You'll take the job no matter what,' he said.

'Don't be too sure about that.'

'You'll take it – because you're desperate.'

There was no hostility in his voice, no smug triumphalism.

Just a cool assertion of the truth. I said nothing. Kamal refilled my glass. The whisky went down without burning me – my throat having already been anesthetized by the half-bottle of Johnnie Walker that had preceded it.

'Do not fret so much,' Kamal said, lighting up a cigarette.

'I didn't realize I was fretting.'

'You are always fretting. Go home, sleep off the whisky, then be back here at six tomorrow evening. I will have news by then.'

I returned as requested the following night. When I arrived, Kamal was on the phone, but he motioned me toward a computer. There was one email awaiting me. It was from Adnan's wife. After hanging up, Kamal translated it for me.

Dear Mr Ricks

The money arrived this morning. I was stunned by the sum involved – and once again send you manifold thanks for sending it to me. It has, literally, saved our lives. May God bless you and those close to you.

I have no one close to me.

'You have done a good thing,' Kamal said. 'And a good deed is always rewarded.'

'Not always.'

'You are a very cynical man. But, in this instance, it is the truth. You have gotten your sixty-five euros a night.

The boss was reluctant at first.'

'Who's the boss?'

'That information is of no interest to you.'

'OK,' I said. 'When do I start?'

'Tonight, if that works for you.'

'Fine.'

'Be here at eleven thirty p.m. and I'll bring you over to the place.'

'Is it far from here?'

'No.'

'How will I get paid?'

'There will be an envelope waiting for you here every day after one p.m. You'll get off work at six a.m., so you can pick up your wages when you wake up. By the way, the boss said that you only need work six days, but if you want the seventh day—'

'I want the seventh day.'

'Done.'

'Can I bring my laptop and books to work?'

'And a radio and anything else to keep you occupied. Trust me, there won't be much to do.'

When I left Kamal, I walked down to the Faubourg Saint-Martin and dropped thirty euros on a small transistor radio. I returned to my room. I opened a can of soup and cut up some cheese and a few slices of bread, and ate a simple dinner while listening to a concert of Berg and Beethoven on France Musique. Then I made myself a pot of coffee and drank it all. It was going to be a long night.

When I arrived back at the Internet café, I was carrying a small day pack containing my laptop, my radio, a pad and a pen, and a copy of a Simenon novel,
Trois chambres à Manhattan
, which I was reading in French. Kamal was closing up the place as I entered. He reached behind the bar and dug out two large bottles of Evian.

'You'll need these for the night ahead,' he said.

He walked among the computers, making certain they were all shut down. Then he turned off all the lights. We stepped outside. He rolled down the large steel shutter, dug out his keys, sealed them with a formidable padlock, and motioned for me to follow him down the rue des Petites Écuries.

'We don't have far to walk,' he said.

At the end of the street, we turned into the rue du Faubourg Poissonnière. We crossed it and passed a showroom for some line of men's fashions. I knew this small stretch of street well, as it was right around the corner from where I lived. I'd bought a sandwich once from the local greasy souvlaki bar (and lived to eat again). I'd even treated myself to the set seven-euro dinner at the little
traiteur asiatique
next door. But I hadn't noticed the tiny doorway just beyond this four-table joint – a doorway that was set back off the street by around ten feet. The alley leading to the door was so narrow that a man with a forty-inch waistline would have had trouble negotiating it. There was a steel door at the end of it. There was a small camera above the door and a spotlight trained on the area below the doorway. There was a keypad with a speakerphone beside it. Kamal punched in six numbers. As he did so, he told me, 'The code is 163226. Memorize it, but don't write it down.'

'Why don't you want me to write it down?'

'Because I don't want you to write it down. 1-6-3-2-2-6. You got that?'

I repeated it out loud, then said it a second time, just to make certain that it had adhered to my brain.

'Good,' he said as the door clicked open. We entered a hallway lit by a single naked lightbulb. The walls were unpainted concrete. Ditto the floor. There was a stairway in front of us. Around twelve feet away there was another steel door. Behind it I could hear the low hum of . . . was it something mechanical? . . . machinery perhaps? . . . and the occasional raised voice? But the sound was muffled. As I strained to hear it, Kamal put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'Up the stairs.'

The staircase led to another steel door. This was opened by two keys. Kamal had to put his weight on the door to finish the job and gain us access to a small room. Like the hallway, it had unpainted concrete walls. It was ten by ten, furnished with a beat-up metal desk, a straight-back chair, and nothing else. A closed-circuit television monitor sat on one corner of the desk. It was broadcasting a grainy image of the doorway outside. By the monitor was a speaker and a keypad. There were two doorways off this room. One was opened, showing the interior of an old-fashioned stand-up French toilet. You had to face front and squat as you took a dump. The toilet was also unpainted and seemed to lack a light. The other door was wooden and locked with a sliding bolt. There were no windows in the room – and the one radiator wasn't throwing off much in the way of heat.

'You expect me to work here?' I asked.

'That is up to you.'

'This place is a shit hole – a cold shit hole with no light.'

'The radiator can be turned up higher.'

'I'll need some sort of other heat.'

'OK, you can buy an electrical heater for the room—'

'And a desk lamp.'

'Fine. Will you start tonight?'

I looked around, thinking,
He's looking for a deadbeat to do a deadbeat's job – and he's sized you up as the perfect candidate.

'All right, I'll start tonight – but I want some cash to buy paint and stuff tomorrow.'

'If you want to paint the place, you will have to do it during your work hours.'

'Fine by me. But doesn't anyone use the room by day? Don't you have a sentry for the morning hours?'

'That is no concern of yours,' he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a substantial wad of cash. He peeled off three fifty-euro notes and handed them to me.

'This should be sufficient for the paint, the brushes, the heater, the lamp. But provide receipts, please. The boss is finicky about expenses.'

Kamal lit up a cigarette, then said, 'So here is how the job works. You arrive here every night at midnight. You let yourself in. Once inside this room, you bolt the door behind you and padlock it shut. Then you sit down and do whatever you want to do for the next six hours, always keeping an eye on the monitor. If you see anyone in the alley who is loitering, you press the number 2-2 on the keypad. This will send a signal to someone that there is an unwanted stranger outside. They will take care of the problem. If a visitor approaches the doorway, he will ring a button which will sound up here on the desk speaker. You press 1-1 on the keypad and say one word, "
Oui?
" If he is legitimate, he will answer, "
I am here to see Monsieur Monde.
" Once you have received this answer, you press the
Enter
button on the keypad which will activate the door. You then press 2-3 on the keypad which will inform the people downstairs that a legitimate visitor is on his way to them.'

'And what will "the people downstairs" do?'

'They will "greet" this legitimate visitor. Now if the person who rings the door doesn't say, "
I am here to see Monsieur Monde
," you press 2-4 on the keypad. This will send a signal that there is an unwanted presence in the alley. Once again, the people downstairs will take care of the problem.'