One Star Awake

by Andrew Meehan

  —How can I be a disruptive influence if I’m not here?

  Ségo laughed and kissed me on the forehead and said ohdearohdear and whispered something lovely to welcome me back.

  —It’s a strange path that’s led you here, I’ll grant you that. You’re a funny one, I’ll grant you that too.

  We sailed along for a while, wordlessly moving onto the preparation of the lamb. Butchering had, in the months I had worked there, become my favourite form of relaxation. A whole animal was too much work for me on my own. I had tried it once or twice and made a mess of it.

  The head, skin and feet of this beast had already been removed and the first job was to deal with the innards. Hooks, a saw and a cleaver. The equipment was clean and standing by. Whether she was doing pastry or finding a lamb’s pelvic bone, or counting off the ribs with her eyes closed, Ségo operated by touch—it always seemed as if she could work blindfolded had it been required. And when she sawed through the top of the spine, this was a thrill. Sometimes I was allowed to remove the neck but usually I wasn’t allowed to do anything more than scrape the membrane from the ribs. It went without saying that the trimmings became mince for the staff meal.

  —The smart thing to do would be for me to leave here, I said.

  Ségo craned her neck for a moment then returned to removing the animal’s shoulder blade.

  —If any of us was really smart we wouldn’t be here at all. You working today or not?

  —Dunno.

  —It’s your decision.

  —I don’t want to let you down again.

  —There, you’ve made a decision.

  —I didn’t say that.

  Now that I was somehow getting closer to Eagleback, I failed to see how I could stay at Gravy. Would I survive without Ségo? It would certainly take nerve to live without her—but she was just a socket, and sockets allowed other things to work. Pots boiled that way. But you didn’t think about sockets if you didn’t need to use one.

  —Did you pause there because you wanted me to contradict you? she said.

  Normally I’d have been itching to get the lamb’s shoulder braising as soon as she was finished with it, but I was skulking around it without actually doing anything useful.

  —I’ll be straight with you, Ségo said. You can’t leave here. It’s not advisable, anyway.

  —Why not?

  —You and Amadou are going to cook lunch and then we’re going to have a talk. You and me and Daniel.

  —What about?

  —Work. Life. You. Normal stuff.

  —What’s normal stuff?

  —Stuff we should have spoken about a long time ago.

  I ran. I had to. Besides.

  I would have preferred to imagine a world where people ran away from me—as things stood, I ran away from people and things and situations and, above all, information that could have led me somewhere other than Eagleback. Perhaps I should have stayed to listen, but it was too frightening to think of what Ségo might say to me. It wasn’t my intention to be so ungrateful. I only wished I could have said so instead of running along Saint Maur while counting one, two, three, fifteen, hundreds, none.

  I went to my apartment but it was impossible to settle. I had no idea if Elias would let me stay with him, so I made the most of the bathroom, standing under the cold shower for as long as I could bear. There was some Fairy liquid left and I washed my hair and found myself wishing I took better care of myself.

  I did my best to make the place presentable but there wasn’t much I could do other than flip the mattress. Rather than pace the floor any more, I packed what I could into a supermarket bag and counted out my money—eighty euro plus change. I was about to go out the door when I heard Daniel outside. The door was so flimsy that the rattling was no more than someone shaking a box of crackers. I didn’t wait—I dragged the mattress towards the window and dumped it outside to cushion my fall. My legs were already over the side of the windowsill of their own accord. I fidgeted myself sideways and pushed myself off just as I heard Daniel call out. I couldn’t see anything when I landed—and I didn’t feel much beside elation and a stinging wrist. It didn’t matter that I had bitten my tongue and my mouth was bleeding. I ricocheted to my feet and ran through the courtyard, past the rotten pine towards a spooky passageway and out to the street.

  I ran past Daniel’s parked bike uphill towards Buttes Chaumont. At first it felt as if I was running underwater—but once through the gates of the park I started to feel better, accelerating up the hill past big breathing sequoias and a simple blue sky from a runner’s tilting perspective. There was the smell of ripening summer as well as drying earth and the sweetness of frying waffles. It had been some days since I had run anywhere—I had been so preoccupied—so the firm strike of my clogs on the path and the stretch of my legs under me made me feel plainly alive, as if I had taken fuel onboard and would have a full day of easy running ahead of me. The heat of exertion under my ribs faded as I gathered speed, the undertow of guilt and adrenalin from evading Daniel propelling me through the eastern exit of the park and towards Place Des Fêtes. Puzzled looks met the young woman running in the chef’s gear and, as was my habit, I was careful to avoid anyone’s eye.

  Unstory

  November 15th 2011, Le Bal Café. I wonder what it would happen if Jerome met Mum and Dad. I mentioned it to him and he quickly said, What’s the point in meeting them if this isn’t going to last? Then he apologised almost as quickly. Whatever was wrong with meeting my parents, we could talk about it another time. At least Jerome is Australian. It’s too long ago to get worked up about now, but no doubt that introducing them to Caesar was a bad idea. It wasn’t Caesar’s fault to be from Ghana and my boyfriend at the same time. It could have been his colour, it could have been his charm—he was very charming—or it could have been his religion, which wasn’t theirs. Or it could have been something else. They hated the way Caesar spoke—so slowly—as well as most of what he said. The gold tooth that could have been a shiny raisin. They hated his eyes because they seemed yellow. Yellow eyes, I heard them whispering. At least Mum kept her distance, fascinated by Caesar and scared of him. And it’s uncanny the way Dad decides on his subjects when talking to people he doesn’t know. Uncanny his gift for distorting a perfectly ordinary moment. He could startle a murder victim’s parents by inquiring if their child hadn’t been asking for it. Dad chose to talk to Caesar about African debt cancellation, as if they were cancelling his debts. Caesar was in his final year of dentistry. His only debts were student loans. At least none of that will happen when they meet Jerome.

  Love = 8 + .5Y - .2P + .9Hm + .3Mf + J - .3G - .5(Sm - Sf)2 + I + 1.5C

  My strength faded as soon as I entered Elias’ room and saw him asleep with his mouth open. A smell unlike anything other than I had experienced—rancid milk stirred into seaweed—and I thought he was dead.

  My dumb luck.

  When he awoke and saw me there, Elias stood to greet me and kicked the contents of a brimming bowl all over our feet. We began to quarrel unintelligibly for a moment, our feet sticky with broth, until I was moved by the pathetic sight of him mopping it up.

  I tried to explain myself enthusiastically. The day before had been so much fun that I wanted to be his friend, I said. And, since we were friends, was there any way he could help me out with a roof over my head for a few nights? Either Elias refused to believe me or he couldn’t understand. When I told him I wanted to help him reconnect with his daughter, Elias brought a particular sense of tenderness to the words ‘pas possible’.

  He produced another thumbed photo of Yasmine—folded unfortunately at the eyeline—from the front pocket of his overalls.

  —Habibi Albi, he said.

  I was lost in Yasmine’s sad face when I saw them through the mesh of Elias’ window—Eagleback and his wife in th
e courtyard.

  The room went dark. Elias himself and all our talk of his daughter and their shared future retreated into the shadows.

  I had not set eyes on Eagleback since the pâtisserie and the jolt was more intense this time, as though a match head was scratching against the courtyard wall; and the air was filling with the bite of sulphur and the burst of pale flame. And I understood what I didn’t before, what I should have before, that love was assessable, as in an experiment. What I needed to happen, and what wasn’t going to happen, was a pale scientist to walk in and on a blackboard write an equation for love.

  —Là, là! Elias said.

  I stared hard at Ghislaine, a slight woman who was nearly toppled by a condor’s nose. Her colouring was obviously dark but her face was an unfortunate mess of khaki freckles. Her jogging gear aged her at the same time as lending her youth. The bouncy hairdo did nothing for her either, but that wasn’t the point—she was not supposed to exist, not here. Besides.

  At the window Eagleback and wife were leaning forwards. Their jaws were rotating and their mouths gaping in disbelief, as if they were pantomiming the closing of a deal in a street bazaar. Eagleback was raising his arms and letting them fall by his side. They were exhausted-looking, each of them—I was building a blooming picture of a relationship in deterioration when he disappeared from view. I stepped out into the courtyard just as they reached the street, kissing briskly before he stepped into a car—a Smart car—and drove off.

  Until I followed his wife along the street and into a supermarket and closely along the aisles, finding Eagleback had been a simple matter of necessity—but this was a first, just as today had been my first time jobless, homeless, first time fugitive, of sorts. It may have been an attractive idea, at one point, when I didn’t exist—and didn’t understand—but now I couldn’t have feared anything more than being homeless. I was used to living with very little, but now that I understood what it meant to be in the world—the small world that I knew—it felt strange to have nothing.

  Ghislaine was not making an orderly circuit of the aisles. I had to zigzag in order to keep up with her. Here it became difficult because she stopped in front of the crisp-breads to take a call. I shrunk into my chef’s clothing. By checking my breathing and creeping sideways, I was able to listen—important to make it seem as though I was fascinated by biscuits. There was nothing in her trolley apart from a single grapefruit. My own basket contained sponge fingers and set of plastic cutlery.

  She was getting pretty hot at someone on the phone—I had to assume it was him. Yes, she was calling him Jerome. It shocked me to hear him being called that.

  She was saying something about the car and the call ended abruptly. She looked sorry and sore at the world and I was beginning to regret my initial impression of her. Now Ghislaine had returned to the shop’s entrance where, without much intent, she was examining apples. There was a security guard around somewhere—a sleepy looking African—and I wondered if he was watching me watching her. I got rid of my shopping and I walked to the door, where it would be easier to mind my own business. It wasn’t difficult to adopt my absent demeanour—practiced in my hours on patrol at Bertrand Rose—as I kept an eye on Ghislaine as she waited to pay.

  The electronic doors parted and Ghislaine exited, none the wiser to my existence. She held herself more gracefully, more poised than I had first decided—thick in the waist but as light up top as I was. Such was the dismay on her face as she tossed the fruit in her hand that I wanted to offer her some supermarket tulips.

  Seeing her pass the entrance to their building and turn left onto Charonne caught me unawares. She had nearly reached the café on the corner at Voltaire by the time I had caught up with her.

  Le Rouge Limé was the same as any other café in the area—one of those places that resembled movie sets. I had to urge myself to follow her inside, taking a seat as she acknowledged me with an absent smile. Saying hello didn’t feel like recklessness, more that Ghislaine would rumble me if I didn’t strike up a conversation soon.

  I asked for a glass of hot milk from the waiter who had just delivered her coffee. In the event that I would be nursing it for some time, I stressed that the milk should be frothed and piping hot.

  In the end, it was Ghislaine who spoke to me. She had heard my odd French when I addressed the waiter.

  —Do we meet again? she said.

  —Sorry?

  —Your face is something I know. May I ask which is it you’re from?

  —Ireland, I said.

  The first time I had given a straight answer to the question.

  —You live on the potato mashings, yes? And the Irish are somewhere addicted to milk.

  —I like froth.

  Ghislaine laughed then removed a book from her handbag, a science textbook of some kind.

  —Do you run? I said.

  She panted to suggest fatigue then continued.

  —Paris is so permanently very grey. If you are American I have ask to you to make a description of the smog.

  The milk arrived and I drank it too fast, burning the roof of my mouth.

  —Are you occupied in your life? I imagine already you are brigand in Ireland. I have been there almost one time.

  —It’s so beautiful, I said.

  —Your family. They are in Paris with you?

  —No, I said.

  —You are not a chocolate pizza.

  —What?

  —You can’t make everyone happy. And you are staying at?

  —Buttes Chaumont, I said. The hills are good for your thighs. If ever you need a running partner.

  —Why not? Why not? Why not?

  The vulgar lighting made Ghislaine’s freckles dance as she repeated these words. Her nose, moving in and out of the light, was certainly striking. Apart from the slick curls, it was as if she has been sculpted in a hurry.

  We talked some more and before I knew it we were making an arrangement to meet on that corner the following evening. I was staring at my empty glass when she asked my name. I considered the question, my muscle tone vaporising and my joints constricting—tiny spiders in my veins.

  Staring at the contents of my glass, I nearly said my name was Hot Milk. Then, despite doing my best to avoid it, I couldn’t resist saying I too was called Ghislaine.

  I left the café at the right moment, dipping into Charonne métro just in time to see Eagleback approach with his face downcast. I crouched on the stairs until I was sure he had gone inside, making sure to return to Léon Frot by a route that avoided the café.

  It was late when I got back and Elias was asleep in his chair. Same room—but a new silence. I slept restlessly on the bare floor, needless to say. I woke to see him gravely making coffee and accompanying it with a cough that lasted longer than a news bulletin. It was four in the morning and he was wearing winter socks that had successfully collected most of the dirt on his floor. It was intriguing to think what he had gathered there, and I found myself thinking of it for the first time—whether he was in his right mind at all. The way he looked at you like you had caused him an injury.

  Over a breakfast of burned coffee and the previous day’s bread, Elias explained himself—sitting at a certain angle so that I had a good view of his testicles sliding out of the bottom of his shorts. In a week he would be going to Tunisia to see his family by which time I would have to find alternative accommodation. Elias’ reasons for going home were private, he said, drawing his finger across his neck for emphasis, the way you would when threatening murder.

  Early the Following Morning

  I positioned myself near the entrance to Eagleback’s building—a neat perch on the kerb between a bin and the back of a van from where I could observe the morning exodus. There wasn’t a second when I was off high alert.

  I stared without wavering a
t the glass doors and saw every kind of whacked-out character—serious faces, sad faces, puzzled ones—but no one resembling Eagleback or even Ghislaine. I needed to be careful as far as she was concerned. Someone could hop in the van and drive away quickly and I would be exposed. Being found sitting on the street as Ghislaine left for work would not stand up to much questioning. I was ready to roll away onto my stomach and run for cover if the moment called for it.

  There they were—it was difficult not to erupt to my feet and bow from the waist. But I had forgotten about their car so it was a shock when I saw Ghislaine crossing towards my side of the street, where it had been parked three or four spaces along. I bounced around on my haunches with my bum scraping the ground before taking off in the beginning of a clumsy sprint. To cross the road I had to risk being seen by Eagleback, who was taking his time following her. I moved so fast that I couldn’t have been more than a pale blur.

  I was now crouched on the apartment side of the street and they were opposite me, in a world of their own. Eagleback said something and whatever it was Ghislaine nodded and slipped into the car without a reply. Now he was alone on the street, his face creasing and straightening, creasing and straightening, as he fought tears. His eyes were as wild as you would see in a mug shot. Thus I found myself following him along the street to school.

  Following someone—or following them undetected—is not a skill easily acquired. There Eagleback was and there was I ten feet behind.

  I’d never seen Saint Maur so busy. The pavement was mercifully thick with children, even an old man with a cane offered cover. He slowed me down too much though, so jaywalking was called for—an arm aloft as I stepped into busy traffic. Eagleback accelerated. His outfit was easy to track and when I caught up I used another huddle of children as a shield. But they were dragging their feet and Eagleback was accelerating away. It would have been much easier if I had known where he was going. I could have drifted back a little, been less eager. As it was, I got close enough to synchronise footsteps.