The Woman in the Fifth (5 page)

'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 mind 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
métro
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 regretting 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
.