6
We stepped off the boat in wave-white sunshine. The gangway swayed beneath my feet. Marseilles was a port with zigzagging bodies, crates of figs, boxes of bananas, cartons of soap. Right-angled cranes performed their smooth robotics against the horizon as they hoisted and lowered their various cargoes: fish, steel, textiles, olive oil.
There was a car waiting for us by the harbor, a big black Mercedes with silver hubcaps, glinting chrome, thick tires, and coal-black windows. Silver Eyes stayed on the boat to keep watch while the rest of us strolled down into the port. I looked back and saw him standing there, as stiff as a soldier, and hoped I would never see him again.
I moved toward the back of the car and waited while Giorgio stepped ahead and pulled it open. I stooped inside and smelled the sun-warmed leather and the faint odor of Carlo’s cigars. As I shifted along the back seat, I saw something glinting in Giorgio’s hand. As he eased into the seat alongside me, I stared at the blade of his knife. A silent form of deterrent, one I knew well. Nobody would hear the gunshot, because there wouldn’t be one, though any contact would be messy, and require an accomplished cleaner after the act.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t use this. Not unless I have to.”
I saw the flash of silver as he slipped the knife back into a sheath inside his jacket pocket.
“Keep an eye on him,” said Carlo.
The car started snaking through the traffic. The sunlight was dimmed, failing to pierce the tinted glass. Perhaps they were taking me to a depot by the harbor, somewhere unlit and rundown, a dump smelling of dusty boxes, swarming with high-pitched rats. I wondered if Sonia, too, was being held captive in such a place? Was this a possibility, or mere fantasy?
“Where’s Sonia?” I asked.
Carlo laughed. “She’s being taken care of.”
“What kind of care?”
Giorgio and Carlo exchanged smirks. One for one.
“Never you mind,” said Carlo.
So, she was obviously in trouble, maybe even a steeper kind because of my arrival. I contemplated the grim prospect of playing the puppet in a criminal racket, some sort of favor or handover, or maybe even a hit. Just to set my sister free.
Perhaps I could try to escape first? I looked down at the L-shaped metal handle of the door. Hard to know if it was locked. I moved my arm stealthily, rested my elbow against the inside of the door, and laid my fingers on the metal. What kind of act was required here? A sharp pullback and twist and then a dive out into the incoming traffic. A kind of suicide, perhaps. I wondered if that was all that I deserved.
The traffic slowed down ahead and the cars started bunching up at the red light. I was encouraged by the absence of a gun in Giorgio’s hand. If he had been pointing the gun-barrel at my throat, I would not have dared to escape. But a knife…? Perhaps I could slip away first, before he had time to reach out and stab me.
I saw the red light some fifty feet ahead. Cars came to a standstill either side of our Mercedes. My heartbeat ticked in my ribcage, beating a fast rhythm under my skin. Perhaps it was a kind of suicide. Carlo would pull out a gun and shoot me through the window and then it would be all over. Forever midnight.
The blood pulsed through my veins. I was about to leap sideways through the door when I heard a cell’s ringtone. Carlo opened his jacket pocket and started speaking. I could see the back of his head nodding through the gap in the headrest. I heard the words “custody” and “Ferreira” and then a quick snort of laughter, as of a braying horse.
I was too nervous or too preoccupied to tie any meaning to the words. I took a deep breath, moved my fingers a tiny distance, and seized the handle. My temperature rose, inching up into the orange, into the red. I heard a shuffle next to me, as though Giorgio was shifting in his seat. I did not look back at him but jerked the handle and saw the light blast into the car along with the smell of exhaust fumes. As I threw myself out through the door I heard a ripping sound and immediately felt a scything pain in my gut. I screamed as I fell out into the road. I looked down at my waist and saw a rip in my clothes. The blood seeped out. I nearly fainted at the sight of it. It was a deep gash, yet I had no choice but to get up, press on, dodge through the traffic, past the parked cars, ducking my head, half-expecting to be struck or shot down at any moment. I reached out and laid my hand on the warm hood of one car as I stumbled past, and saw the face of the driver, his wide nose and astonished eyes, as he stared down at my bloody handprint. I could not run but hopped and scrambled forwards, moving in fear, terrified of looking back, of facing again the men I could no longer face.
I clutched my flank and felt a warm liquid dripping over my palm.
I reached the sidewalk, skirted around a building and ran on for a short while before all my breath ran out. My lungs ablaze, I stopped and bowed my head against a lamppost. I heard noises behind me—shouting voices and throttling engines—and I started off again, tottering along the sidewalk, nearly falling into the gutter, my eyes swimming. I put one foot out in the road and a taxi beeped a crazy welcome as it veered past. I swirled and swerved up the sidewalk, stumbling in pain like a drunkard.
I looked back, just once, after five or ten minutes of fearful hobbling. Men and women stopped and stared as I hurried past, yet nobody was chasing me, at least not that I could see. I kept looking around in panic but saw nobody on my tail. Perhaps they were keeping an eye on me from a distance?
Gasping for air, I shuffled along, clutching a hand to my stomach. I needed a quiet place, a shelter, somewhere out of sight where I could pull myself together and rest.
I came to a park.
It was evening now and the sun hung like a bright tangerine in the trees. I sat down, or rather sank down onto the grass behind a bush, trying to keep my head down, out of sight. I dropped my head onto my shoulder and some saliva leaked from my mouth. I soon nodded off, curled up like a hobo. I don’t know how or why but I had flashing thoughts, filmic rushes, dreams of Sonia again—the scene where she would fall down and scrape her knee. It was an image that came back in times of hurt, my subconscious pulling it close to me like a favorite comforter.
When I woke up I felt stark and faint. The right leg of my pants was red with blood. I had to do something about that injury or risk passing out for good. I scanned all angles of the park. It was dark now and the air smelled of a warm summer night. The breeze spread across my face. Could I go to hospital? A risk. They were bound to ask questions. Doctors were worse than policemen; they always wanted to know everything.
The best thing for me would be to go to a pharmacy and buy the necessary bandages, but I had no money.
I stood up and edged along the pathway between the lawns. I felt thirsty now, unsure why, perhaps it was the blood loss. I saw a rusty fountain with a trickling tap. I stooped forwards and bent my head beneath the gush. The chill made my brain spin.
I washed water over the wound, wetted my shirt and stomach, but was unable to do anything about the pain. A wave of nausea washed over me. It must have been the adrenalin that kept me going. I drank and drank.
Standing upright, I put my hands on my lower back like a pregnant lady and surveyed the park.
Where were Carlo’s men? Nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they had given up chase. After all, what had I ever done to them? Maybe they would let me get away. The only problem was Sonia.
My eyes flickered as I nearly fainted again. I needed to get myself sorted out, quick. Bandages, medicine, something. Due to the seclusion of some areas, and the cover of night, I thought of maybe trying to mug someone, though I wasn’t sure if I had the strength. It was a desperate move, something I would not normally have considered, but my mind, my situation was radically altered. Now was the time to gather my strength in anticipation of a struggle with a passing stranger. I wanted to try something quick and neat—a knock-down and snatch, anything for some fast cash. Carlo still had my passport and wallet, so I desperately needed some money in order to get by. What other choice did
I have?
I waited, crouching behind a wooden bench, my brain cool.
I saw a man approaching in the lamplight.
His footsteps were slow; he shambled along, an old man. I took some long deep breaths, sneaked farther down the pathway, hid behind a bush, ready to spring.
It was the look on the man’s face that almost stopped me. It was as though he’d seen a depraved dog. He raised his hands and his eyes shone like bright jewels. I grabbed his jacket, ripped off one of the lapels, hauled him to the ground, dragging him out of sight.
He yelped, slithering on the ground.
“Shut up,” I said, “or I’ll kill you.”
He lay still, cadaver-like, eyes wide-open. I fingered all his pockets while he stared up at me.
“I…” he started.
“Shut it,” I snapped.
I searched his body but found only small change, some tissue paper and a set of keys.
Exasperated, I bowed over him and waved the keys in front of his nose.
“Your house?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Is it far?”
He shook, then nodded his head.
“Where the fuck do you live?”
“N-not far.”
“Listen, don’t fuck with me. I want you to start walking and I’ll be right behind you, you understand? I’ll be watching your every step.”
He had crow’s feet at the outer corners of his eyes. His appearance was that of a retired teacher, a man who had encountered all kinds of juvenile delinquents in his time, and now found himself face to face with the adult model.
I stared at him hard. “I want you to take me to your house and get me some money. You must have some for Chrissake. Don’t disappoint me or else.”
I realized I had no weapon. I was trying to scare him through sheer menace. He was much older than me and my youth was in my favor, but if at some point he ceased to be scared and stood up to me, I might feel underarmed.
“Go then,” I said. “Get up and start walking.”
He scrambled to his feet and brushed himself down.
“Did I ask you to stop? I told you to get moving. Remember, I’ve got your keys, I’m right behind you. Take me to…”
I heard footsteps behind me. They grew louder and I stopped in my tracks. The old man stood before me, eyes still, waiting for my signal. I couldn’t say anything because I was afraid it would give the game away. I turned and saw a female form approaching along the concrete path. If the man in front of me so much as looked at her I knew I was going to have to run for it. He kept his eyes fixed on me as she passed. If he said a single word I would turn and run. My pulse quickened, the side of my stomach throbbing. The air was too close. The woman was nearly past him when he turned his head in her direction. I took a deep breath, feeling tense, as though about to dive underwater.
“Help me,” said the man.
For a moment all was silent. Just the distant drone of traffic.
I saw, in the lamplight, the woman’s head turning round, her face appearing like a moon from behind a cloud. She looked not at the man but at me. I waited, he watched, she stared. I felt half-sick, fairground-giddy, the blood streaming through my body. I felt as though I was toppling forwards into an abyss. It was like one of Sonia’s moments of “getting happy”, of passing into an ecstatic state, except that instead of getting happiness, I was getting fear. Pure, uncut.
“What is it?” said the lady. (I can still remember her French: “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”)
She had a succulent red mouth. Her hair was parted above her left eyebrow and fell down in a brown wave over one side of her face. She had a cool, ironic look, like Lauren Bacall. In her palm she clasped a little green purse without a strap. I eyed the purse and wondered if I could reach out and grab it. I needed some money, somehow.
I turned to look at the man who stood, rather bullish now, by her side. The two of them were drawn together by a sense of solidarity. The man grinned, the wrinkles spreading around his eyes.
Shit.
I turned and walked and then jogged and then ran as fast as I could. Not for the first time, I had the feeling that I was running for my life, that I was running out of gas, that all this disorder was catching up with me, that I was dangling by a thread, that Sonia was lost and I was lost, that my lungs were contracting because there was hardly any air left to breathe, because my life was skidding to a halt, because the red lights were flashing in my skull, because I was coming to the end of the tunnel and seeing no light, only the beginning of another tunnel, and yet another, like an underground warren with crisscross depths and no fucking exit.
Out of breath, I stopped, coughed, and hawked into the gutter.
The heartbeats rocketed between my ears. I hadn’t run so much in years. I looked back: no one. The man and woman had perhaps sealed their complicity by going to the police. My description: my death warrant. I really had to get out of there. Feeling all the fear of a hunted man, I staggered through the streets and tried to appear normal while gasping for air. The shirt on my back was stuck to my skin. The breeze cooled my spine. I entered a parking lot, crouched beside a parked van, and tried to breathe calmly. I put my hand under my shirt, touched my flank, and raised my hand to see the blood lacing my fingers. I felt woozy and had to lean against the van, trying to summon my forces. My idea was to lie in wait for someone returning to their car—I would creep up on them, slam their head against the car window and swipe their keys. I wouldn’t get far in a stolen car, but at least by the time the police were searching for the vehicle, I could be in a different part of the city, maybe even on the highway to Paris.
These were bad choices, no doubt. But I only had bad choices left. I’d blown all the good ones.
I waited. A woman returned alone to her car. The friction of her heels on the concrete sounded like someone striking one match after another. The lights on her car flashed as she unlocked the doors. I moved toward her, padding softly as a jaguar. Her strawberry perfume wafted past my nose and I froze. What kind of blow was required—a shove or a strike? Something that precluded a scream. I grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her to the ground. Her scream was loathsome, attention-grabbing, unfortunate, for her. I bent down and slapped her tanned cheek. Her eyes were black and luminous. They swelled with imminent tears.
“Don’t fucking scream,” I said, pushing both hands down on her chest. Some spit dripped from my mouth in a long white thread. She kicked her legs beneath me like a fish struggling on the deck of a boat. I slapped her other tanned cheek. This time she lay still.
“Don’t fucking move. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She had an Arabian face and purple lips. I could see in her eyes that she really wanted to struggle and run.
I snatched her purse from her clenched, pink-nailed fingers, picked up the car keys from the concrete, climbed into her car—a green Renault Clio—and kicked her away so that I could slam the door.
She banged her pink-nailed fists on the side window. She hurled insults at me: connard, asshole. Her spittle flecked the glass. The engine howled as I overrevved through the gears and sent the car lurching through the lot. I saw the screaming woman in the rear-view mirror, standing arms outstretched, cruciform. After a minute or so of headless, adrenalin-charged driving through clogged streets, I stilled my nerves, slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road, the hazard lights flashing. I pulled her bag from the co-driver’s seat and spilled its contents: lipstick, keys, cell phone, cash. Thank God, this woman had some dough.
I knew what I had to do now: I slipped the car into first gear and pulled out into the stream of traffic, following the signs for centre-gare. I found my way after a lot of swearing and skittish driving, and eventually parked on the corner of a backstreet near the station.
I climbed out of the car and tried the phone—Sonia’s number. It did not ring. I just got a dead tone, as though the number no longer existed. I tried again, tapping the numbers one
by one with care—the same result. Sonia was unreachable. Another reason to worry? Or perhaps she had changed her number to get away from Carlo. Was she now out of harm’s way?
I tossed the cell phone into a garbage can and strode toward the sign of a green cross that glowed in the night. I needed to tape myself up. I entered the white-tiled, carton-filled, medicine-smelling pharmacy and caught a glimpse of myself scuttling past the glass cabinets. One leg of my pants was darker than the other one. The neon lights in the shop were too bright and I took a pair of shades from a plastic display and tried them on. It was a pair of lady’s sunglasses that looked rather like Audrey Hepburn’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“Que puis-je faire pour vous?” said a lady in a white coat, with end-of-day impatience. She had not dyed her hair but kept it natural and gray. I admired her braveness. Who would want to show such an ash color nowadays? Her hands reminded me of my father’s: they were rippled with blue veins.
“I need bandages, disinfectant.”
“What size bandages?”
I pointed to my hip and raised my shirt. “This size.”
Her hand rose to her mouth. “It must be painful, no?”
I nodded.
She disappeared behind a partition and soon returned carrying boxes and bandages which she spilled onto the counter.
I felt a sharp pain in my side, placed my hand there, and groaned.
“You should go to the hospital,” she said.
I shook my head. “Can you please just hurry up? I have a train to catch. How much is it?”
The turquoise digits flickered on the cash register.
“I’ll take these too,” I said, pointing to my sunglasses.
I paid her with neatly folded bills from the woman’s purse.
The Skin Room Page 11