The Wiltshire had two sections: Saint Tropez, where his father and his friends were, and Siberia, the patio. Daniel thought it was a good idea to stick to the patio. But each time he looked at the floor to avoid his father’s gaze, Tracy told him to concentrate on the room. When his father came to find him, Daniel tried to hide behind some greenery. He was so wasted that the plants were fizzing. He could hear air entering his lungs. His father said his name four or five times.
—Conrad? Is that lady your manager?
—Uh huh.
—It’s just that she said she was going to get Daniel to refill our water and then you came over and you refilled the water. Is everything okay, Conrad? No, you’re not okay. You’re ripped, aren’t you?
Out of ideas, Daniel stood to attention. His father’s hands fell to his side as if to say, Come on, enough.
—No, Daniel said.
This wasn’t his father’s first humiliation. At seventeen, Daniel liked to say he was the only son of a widowed school janitor from Louisiana. At nineteen, he moved onto being an English ‘scholar’, with a vowel-driven accent to match.
—No? Do you not have anything else to say for yourself? I’m listening.
Daniel was kissing the air in front of him. Tracy tilted her head from the garden’s entrance to say she had noticed. Daniel left a trail of sparks, and didn’t stop moving all night. In lulls he took to sweeping the sidewalk, almost polishing it. Misting and polishing glasses behind the bar.
Pa kept looking his way. And what a look he was giving off, full of kindness and decency and confusion. Later, Tracy came over to tell Daniel that the quiet man in the booth with all the rich idiots had left a tip for the hardworking busboy.
—Do you know him?
Daniel shook his head, sucking in his breath.
—Doesn’t matter, she said. You were exemplary. Stellar work.
Daniel thanked her with a tearful smile then went outside to look for his father, who was standing on Bank Street.
The friends had gone and alone under the streetlamp his father looked stooped and tired; someone who had just lost a very large bet. Daniel was still carrying an empty tray and he set it down to announce himself. He wanted to ask his father if he’d enjoyed his meal but Pa didn’t turn around. Daniel cleared his throat, attempting to eke out the cough over a second or two. He took long breaths, faced the street but when the car came his father got in it without looking back. Stoned Conrad of the yeasty dreadlocks and accents had gone too far. They did talk after that and his family’s fund continued to underwrite his existence, but over time his parents didn’t want much to do with him.
Daniel was alone and apart from his family. He didn’t believe that Eva should live alone and apart from hers.
The Picture in Saint Michel Métro
Exhausted but not from running, and energised but not from running, I made my excuses to Ghislaine with a promise that we would meet the next evening. It was raining warmly but I was for the first time too tired to walk home in it. I knew how to get into the métro without paying, that wasn’t the problem. But any journey to the north east of the city would involve changing at Châtelet, something I wanted not to do.
In Saint Michel station, another poster—placed over Liam Neeson’s face on a movie advertisement—made me shudder. I could see that someone had graffitied a tear rolling down my cheek. Passengers reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed past me. One strong shove, given my disrepair, would have sent me under a train.
The train arrived and I felt its roar.
Onboard there was no opportunity to recover from seeing my face on a poster. My sweaty hands kept slipping on the rail. Just as long as I could survive until Châtelet I could try walking again. Two stops, one more after this one. Whether it was the stale sweat or my stranglehold on the handrail or the forceful way in which I stood my ground as passengers disembarked at Cité, the other people standing in the carriage gave me plenty of room. Some tourists headed for the airport struggled on with their bags—I gave them no leeway although I did wonder upon seeing them if there was a way out of this city. There had to be ways.
Almost dancing off the train when it arrived at Châtelet, I felt a familiar uneasiness. It sent me to a bench for respite as the other passengers made their way towards their connections and the exits. There was no noise from any trains, no noise at all in the station but the voices from the stairwell—the laughter fading to a surprisingly tuneful murmur.
I could hardly begin to get myself up the escalator to the exit, through the stench of human waste, the sickliness of the lighting, past shiny, sticky walls and the withdrawn faces of the passengers on their way to the trains, past the never-ending battle amongst the station’s permanent residents for the best pitch to spend the night—and the sense that I had once been one of them.
Elias’ door was locked when I returned and attached to it was one of the posters. I didn’t take off, as earlier I might have done. My jaw was in my chest and I needed somewhere to sleep, even for an hour or two. The room housing the gardening equipment was locked and I did not want to insult Elias, who had been so kind, by drawing too much attention to myself.
My hair and skin were greasy from the run and the simmering threat of rain in the sky when I stepped onto Léon Frot came as a kind of relief. I stood under it and watched the water bounce off me.
I was haunting the street in search of a free doorway—a body was stirring at the entrance to the recruitment agency—when I saw the welcoming bundle outside the Monoprix. The cardboard was packed up so tightly that no matter how hard I pulled I was unable to release any. But I found that by pushing two bundles together I could construct a makeshift platform and, pleased by this, I settled down to rest.
I had been out for the count and was taking no notice of the person shoving me—until I was being rocked back and forth so violently that my forehead cracked against the supermarket’s locked door. When I turned around, the young woman’s eyes spoke before she did. I was in her spot and I was going to have to move.
She was expressionless and spoke neither French nor English—was there barbed-wire in her throat?—although there was nothing much to misinterpret.
I heard her shout, —Ti qij rrobt.
I’m still not sure what that means, but she might have been saying she would fuck everything I owned.
Now I was being dragged across a wet pavement by my hair. I tried to explain that I meant no harm, that I could be on my way, but I was silenced by the crack of a knee against my cheekbone. The dehydrating taste of blood, familiar from my leap from my apartment window, returned to my mouth. The girl feigned walking away then brought the sole of her dirty running shoe to within centimetres of my face, a neat trick. I had survived that at least. Then a good idea—I thought I could divert her by crossing the road but as soon as I moved the girl had me by the hair again and then I was on the ground where she kicked me, just once but very heavily into my chest.
This wasn’t the end of it—each time I tried to get to my feet I received a blow, either to my ribs or my head. Columns of snot merged with the blood from my nose. The girl was shouting but after a point I couldn’t hear a thing, which served to emphasize everything else. I thought I might be imagining the tearing sensation, as if she was pulling out some of my hair, but I didn’t think to touch it to find out.
I tried to tell the girl I’d had enough long before the notion occurred to her. Again she said, —Ti qij rrobt.
She had an industrious way about her, frowning with concentration as she continued to kick me. I curled myself into the size of a pillow and for no good reason I yawned—because I felt this is not happening to me I could actually yawn, as though I had all the time in the world to reflect that I was incapable of making myself vanish, which was all I wanted to happen. I wasn’t there. It felt like I wasn’t there. Everything, even th
e creaking sky, became translucent and for a moment I just drifted off—which was some feat, considering what was going on.
The morning heat was making vague, nasty statements. I was sitting on the kerb outside Gravy—exhausted and feeling as old as coal—when Ségo arrived.
I had not gone up in the world since we had seen each other last. There was crusted blood around my mouth and on my cheeks. My hair—some of it had been torn out—was thick with dried puddle water. My hands and fingernails were blackened. I couldn’t do anything about the flies circling my head.
Ségo saw fit to address me warmly. —Did you get in a fight?
—Someone got in a fight with me.
The naughty step.
—Arms up, Ségo said. Give me a cuddle.
We hugged without saying much more. My petulance was related to shame—that in running away from the restaurant when they needed me I had behaved terribly, that I had refused Ségo’s kindness and I had collected everything she had done for me and thrown it in her face.
An extended silence as she took me in. My various farmyard aromas thickened the air. But the smell was the least of it.
—Did you know how worried you made us? And you look gross. You look like you have something. Have you washed since you left?
—What’s that got to do with anything?
—You don’t look good.
—Can we make this a little faster? There’s some things I need to do.
—Like what. Do please tell me what it is exactly you need to do in a state like that.
—I could do with some money actually. Does the vegetable store need looking at? Bet Amadou has left it in a mess.
—I don’t think we need to concern ourselves with that right now. We’ve been looking for you. Poor Daniel’s been out of his mind.
—The posters? I said.
—You saw them?
—Here and there.
—Where here and there?
—Where have I been? Where am I living?
—You want to tell me that?
—No.
—Maybe you’re happy living the way you’re living.
—I am.
—But there are some things I think you should know.
—There’s nothing I need to know.
—In that case, let me put it this way. There is some simple information I feel I should share with you and you are free disregard it if you wish. Do you know what you were wearing when I first met you? Do you know where you were? What you were doing? Can you remember anything?
—Not a thing.
—Okay, I believe you. I’ve asked you before and you said you didn’t know. If you don’t know you don’t know. So, let’s go to my place and get you cleaned up. Then we’ll start with what I know.
Ségo’s idea to go to her apartment was not phrased as a question. That we travelled there by taxi suggested some kind of emergency—how unusual and unpleasant to view the streets from that angle and at that speed.
She hung around in the bathroom until she was satisfied that I was going to wash instead of smashing the window and throwing myself out onto the street. Not having one of my own anymore, I had a fascination with other people’s bathrooms. Of course, another flick through the notebook would be appropriate. I would read it in the bath—that’s what people did, even though this was the first time I had taken one. Until now it had been the watering-can trickle of the shower in the apartment or nothing at all.
The rising steam freed me from having to look at myself in the mirror. The water pressure was so strong that the rapidly filling bath resembled a basin of milk. I knew I was in there somewhere. Dirty and naked but mostly obscured by steam like an anguished portraitist had changed his mind and was trying to paint over me at the last minute. My ribs were sending out the signals normally emitted by my forehead. I had to admire the girl who had given me the beating—she was thorough. And there was no way that was a fair fight. The bruises shone brighter than fresh liver and some part of my face was singed. Actually getting into the bath was another matter altogether. I heard myself protest as I dropped stiffly into the water—little expressions of shock, one after another, as if I was eavesdropping on a salacious conversation but was being simultaneously sworn to secrecy.
Unstory
December 6th 2011, La Pure Café. I’ve had a full bottle of wine already. I should go home but it’ll be cold there. Unless I’ve left the heat on, then it’ll be too hot. Anyway—things don’t look good. They’re coming. It must be that Dad is dying and they’re coming to say goodbye. They’re really coming. After Christmas, ‘when the sales might be on.’ As if they need to wait for the sales, even though Mum’ll come with ten empty suitcases. I remember the first time we went away. This was before Dad made his money. Malta, the three of us living out of a cheap suitcase in a destroyed hotel—refugees waiting to be evacuated. I was nervous about getting lost in the airport, clearing customs, whether there were bandits in Malta. We played hangman and ate cheese sandwiches, and I was scared Mum would drown in the sea or get bitten by a scorpion or be burned through the enormous hole in the ozone layer. I needn’t have worried about any of that. Things aren’t great with Jerome but they’re going to change. He’s leaving her. From the sounds of things she mightn’t even notice. My place would work for two. We’re always there anyway. Don’t even think he’s been in all the rooms. Have I? We’ve been talking about this. But I haven’t told him what I really want. A little place in the country. It has a ring to it. Near Arles. Yes, there. If I’m organised I can do my work from there, too. Imagine that. That’s always been my dream, a garden or, better still, a shining conservatory with old metal chairs like these ones. There’ll be pots of sweet peas—juice-coloured and barely scented like skin. In the garden I’ll have a bench where I can go to read and work if the mood takes me. My God, that’s lovely. Better stop dreaming. Better get on with it. I put the rent on the credit card again.
December 18th 2011, La Pure Café. Some things that are guaranteed to happen on my parents’ visit. Dad will drink the duty free in a oner and then it’ll start. Dying and Tony Blair and St Kevin and all that. They’ll go on about what I’m wearing. I’ll buy a twin set. Some pearls would keep them quiet. They’ll want to know why I don’t cook at home. They’ll want to know if I go to Mass. No churches in Paris, I’ll say. They’ll want to know why my mugs don’t have handles. Because they’re bowls. They’ll ask me why I have wallpaper with sparrows on it. Because I do. They’ll ask me if I’m on drugs. Course I’m not on drugs. I’ve run out. What’ll they say when they see all the weight I’ve lost? Nothing, because they won’t see it. I haven’t kept it in the freezer or anything.
December 23rd 2011, Café la Perle. I could do with going home for Christmas. I could do with going somewhere for Christmas but no invitations as of yet. Jerome said we could spend at least some of Christmas Eve together. A few hours. An hour or two. An hour. Half an hour. Let’s see how it goes. I should be spending it with my lover but Christmas dinner will probably consist of Picard chicken nuggets defrosted on the warm pillow. Jerome suggested we meet at BHV and do our Christmas shopping together. He expected me to take it seriously, too. What would have happened—would he have asked my opinion on a gift for his wife? And then he would tell me I was in a funny mood. I wouldn’t have put it past him to ask me to hold up knickers in her size. And the thing is, I would have done it.
Shampooed and Scrubbed to Within an Inch of My Life, Listening Face On
The notebook was an SOS. Whoever she was, its author—me—was an expert in self-delusion and by the sounds of it very little else. To become that messed up, I guessed, had to involve some bad luck.
And I was barely able to walk after the bath. The water had been so hot and my bones were tired from all the running and walking and not eating and worrying and the sleepin
g on Elias’ floor and the not sleeping at all. I didn’t count on this being easy but climbing onto Ségo’s sofa was a stay of execution. There was definitely something off-duty and intimate about it. I asked for a glass of water, in order to appear respectable and to buy some more time.
—You want me to get you water? she said. Shall we follow that with the moules marinière and a glass of Muscadet?
—Water please.
Ségo returned with the glass and some pastries in a grease-slicked bag. Not wanting to do anything out of line, I ate mine above a plate. The whole thing about comfort was beyond me—I had noticed that at the party. A mezzanine of poetry and a ladder to reach it, candles that smelled like cakes and plants that appeared to grow out of her floor, even some contraption—a sculpture on a plinth—that could have been a giant vagina.
Ségo’s back was sore, so she wanted to lie on the ground.
—Does this feel strange, if I talk to you from down here?
—A little.
—Too bad. So do we have everything we need?
—For what?
—So we can begin. One day, not long before Christmas, I came to work to find someone had broken a window and had taken up residence in our kitchen, eating whatever she could get her hands on. I had set out an enormous leg of boiled beef the night before and she ate the entire thing. Not to mention downing a litre or two of soup. Not to mention throwing it all up over herself when she was done.
I listened as you would to a ghost story. I had wandered into their lives—no, broken in through a window—without a word on where I’d been. It didn’t take me long to set up residence.
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