by S. L. Grey
“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’accords” and “vraiments?”
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?”
He ignored me. “You think the Petits have done this before? Invited people to stay in their shithole of an apartment?”
“Why, though? What’s the motive? We’re not paying them.” Somewhat reluctantly, I explained my outlandish theory that the Petits were playing some sort of elaborate trick on us, hoping he would reject it. He didn’t.
“And why would she be so surprised that we have a child?”
Mark shrugged. “Maybe it’s because of our age difference.”
“You think?”
“Who cares. Come on, let’s get inside.”
While Mark showered, I tried to Skype Mom, but she wasn’t online, nor was she answering her cell phone. I left her a message and logged on to Facebook. I’d been avoiding it, and there were several messages from friends asking how our trip was going. Facebook was my only real link to my old crowd. Most of my college friends had drifted away shortly after I’d gotten pregnant and dropped out. I’d tried to keep in touch at
first, inviting them over several times, but our get-togethers were awkward and they never stayed long. They tended to treat Mark with cautious respect, as if he was a parent rather than my husband. I thought about sharing my news about the book agent but decided against it in case I jinxed it. In the end, I logged out without posting any updates.
After his shower, Mark disappeared into the kitchen and returned brandishing a knife. “Time to see what’s in the boxes.”
“You think we should?”
“Who’s going to stop us? The Petits—if they even exist—have lost the right to privacy as far as I’m concerned.” He stabbed the knife into the edge of the first box and ripped through the tape sealing the flaps down. Bemused, Mark dragged out a white wedding dress that stank of mildew and had been shoved in there with little care. It didn’t look expensive: an off-the-rack meringue-style dress made out of shiny polyester and acres of cheap net underskirt that looked dangerously flammable. Nothing else.
“Try the next one.”
The second contained nothing but a jumbled pile of French cookbooks from the seventies and rusty DIY tools. Mark chucked the knife on the table. “Shit.”
“We should be relieved they aren’t full of more of that horrible hair. Or worse, body parts or something.”
Dejected, Mark started shoving the books and tools back in the box and wandered to the bathroom.
My computer blipped, signaling that I’d received an email. Heart leaping—was it from the book agent?—I clicked on it immediately.
It wasn’t from the agent.
Chapter 11
Mark
The bruise in the small of my back I can explain—I may have bumped into something unaware—but not this cut on the inside of my lip. I peer at my face in the bathroom mirror, fingering my mouth where she bit me. The wisps of the incident cling to me like the remnants of a dream, but it was real; I press my nail into the raw sliver and it stings in confirmation. I shouldn’t dwell on it.
That girl was not Zoë, I repeat to myself for the umpteenth time, because that’s simply not possible. For one thing, Zoë didn’t speak French, an unconvincing and panicked voice wheedles in my mind. That girl was probably older than fourteen; perhaps she was drunk or high or something. That would make more sense, make me feel less branded.
She said I killed her. She’ll never forgive me. My rational brain reminds me that I made that up: I’ll never forgive myself, and I never should. The death of a child’s not something you forgive yourself for; forgiveness is not even offered for that.
“Mark?”
“Yes?” I call.
“You’ll never believe it,” Steph says from the living room.
I wash my hands and splash some water on my face, then go out to join her. “What’s the matter?”
She glances up from the iPad. “Nothing’s the matter. The Petits wrote back.”
“Oh, good. At last. What did they say?”
She points to the message on the screen. It’s just two lines in reply to the last of Steph’s urgent emails to them: We excuser for delay. We were set aside a minute. We hoping you are enjoying our jolie appartement.
“Weird, huh?” Steph says as she stands and goes to plug the iPad charger into the socket.
“Their English isn’t very good, remember? I suppose if I had to write to someone in French, I’d keep it short myself.”
“Yeah, but after all this time. Surely they can see we’ve been worried.”
I shrug. “Maybe it’s just Gallic laissez-faire. Who knows? But it’s great that they’re all right. We don’t have to worry anymore.”
“I don’t think you were ever that worried.”
“I knew it would be okay.”
“Do you think they still intend to stay at our place? The email is so vague.”
“Good point. Maybe you should ask them.”
“On it.” She’s already tapping at the screen. “I’ll also let Carla know that they’re okay and might turn up after all.”
I look at her as she bends over the computer, her sweater hanging low, revealing beautifully packed cleavage. I’m married to her, I think. The girl with that cleavage chose to be with me. She catches me looking, then smiles as she stands. “Let’s cook something nice for supper,” I say, embarrassed to be caught ogling. “The madwoman’s joining us, after all.”
“Mireille. She only invited herself for a drink.”
“But we can get some great fresh ingredients down the road for cheap. When have we ever had the chance to cook a French-market meal? We can celebrate your book news some more. It’ll be like we’re living on the Travel Channel.”
Steph nods. “Sure, okay.” Then she kisses me on the cheek and leans into me, and then we’re hugging each other, tight and warm. I don’t know when last we’ve held each other like this, and, God, it feels good.
—
Within an hour, we’ve managed to point our fingers and smile through the language barrier and collect a chorizo, some fat black olives, a pack of pasta, some of those amazing giant ribbed tomatoes they call oxheart, a head of garlic, a bunch of parsley that smells sandy, like it came off the farm this morning, a baguette and some Comté cheese, some fresh pears and mandarins, and, of course, four bottles of wine, all for not much more than we’d pay for the same selection at home.
We push through the street-side door into the building’s courtyard, Steph chatting about the leather jacket she saw a pug dog wearing, and I want the mood to last. Passing the ragged door of the ground-floor storeroom, I willfully push away any dark residue from my mind—of ghosts, of victims, of death. This, right now, having a happy time with my wife, is more important than any gloomy fancy, and they’re not going to mess it up.
Who’re “they,” Mark?
All of them, all of the dead.
We stump up the inky stairwell in the shallow wash of my phone’s light, familiar now, and unlock and push through the heavy door. I work open the small kitchen window while Steph sets up some music—happy lounge grooves that conjure up images of hip, carefree young girls dancing on some dawn-lit beach; that’s who Steph was to me when I met her, so exotic in her youth and lightness. I would never have imagined I stood a chance, that I deserved a chance, that I could walk the same dream-beach as her, that with all my scars and regrets and sadness I could inhabit the same planet as she did. But here she is, in a Parisian kitchen with me, swaying her hips as she unpacks the shopping bag.
Steph gasps. “Oh shit.”
A stab of ice. “What’s wrong, Steph?”
“We didn’t get olive oil.”
“Christ, you gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry. Should I go back down?”
“Nah. We’ll just slice up some of this sausage and we can rub it on the hot pan. That’ll lube it up enough.”
“Ooh, good idea. I like it when you get all MasterChef.”
I uncork a bottle of wine—an Argentinean Malbec was more affordable in the capital of France—and pour a glass for each of us. Steph takes a swig and hums along to the tune as she rinses a dinner plate and starts chopping the tomatoes. I cozy in next to her and start mincing the massive, fresh cloves of garlic.
“Listen, Steph. I want to say sorry.”
She doesn’t say anything, just slows her knife.
“You know, just being here these last few days has really made me see some things. About myself. I’ve really struggled after the burglary. I haven’t known how to react, how to provide what you and Hayden need. I don’t think I’ve been behaving like the person I was when you met me. Like the person you…” I trail off.
She stops and turns to face me. “Like the man I fell in love with,” she says. “You can say it.” “Love” and “man”—two words I’ve had difficulty applying to myself since the home invasion. “I do love you, Mark. And I know you’ve had a hard time lately.”
I nod and smile, because it takes a while to find my voice. “Thank you. Well, I’m sorry. You and Carla were right that w
e needed this.”
She flinches minutely at Carla’s name and I wish I could stuff it back in my mouth. But she surprises me by flashing me a cheeky smile. “Now that we’re on that subject, what is it between you and Carla? I’ve tried to get to the bottom of it ever since I’ve known you. That first time we went out together to that concert at Kirstenbosch, I honestly thought you two were going out. I was so interested in you and I felt like you were flirting with me, but Carla was always there, mirroring you so blatantly. I went home and told my roommate you were swingers.”
“Swingers?” I blurt. “Jesus. If I had known that, I would never have brought her. She’s always just been part of the group.” Not strictly true. There was the one-night stand just after Odette left. A mistake; I was drunk and in pain and Carla was there. Afterward, we agreed to pretend it never happened, and I’ve left it too late to come clean with Steph. She won’t understand.
“So what is it? Is she in love with you? Is she jealous of us?”
“No!” I’ve never been asked these exact questions so directly. I’ve never had to consider them. They just haven’t been relevant. “No. She knows how much I love you. You rescued me. You’re the second chance I never thought I’d have. I’ve had some…” I stop speaking. She knows enough about Zoë, my heaviest baggage, and Zoë doesn’t belong here, tonight.
“That’s good to hear. I always feel like I’m— like Hayden and I are competing with everyone else in your life, that we’re never as real, never as important.”
“Well, then, I’m glad that you know how I feel. I love Hayden. She gives me a reason to, you know, do everything I do. To keep trying. And you’re the most important person in my life.”
I kiss her on the cheek and she leans into it, a sign that everything is good, so I work my hand up the back of her shirt. Again, she presses into me and murmurs, “Hold that thought,” into my ear before turning back to the tomatoes. Trying to repress my excitement—I feel like a teenage boy—I top up our wine and move on to the parsley, and Steph scrapes out tomato seeds beside me.
“I’m sorry too,” she says after a while. “I wasn’t happy to leave Hayden, you know that. But she’s totally fine at Mom’s—having a ball, in fact—and I’m not sure she would’ve enjoyed it here. It’s been a bit of a disaster, hasn’t it?”