Half an hour later, coffee in hand, he sits at his desk. He picks up a pen. Begin where today? Try Srebrenica. Try Herzegovina. But his mind is on women. Ghost women. And as he tries to write they haunt him… .
There was a girl in Herzegovina. No more than sixteen or seventeen. She had a small wound on the side of her temple. So small it was astonishing to think it had killed her. By then I’d seen bodies ripped up so many times that it felt as though that was the way death should be. But this small spot, so little blood, seemed impossible. Her mother or grandmother (ages were hard to guess) knelt beside her, doubled over with arthritis, her thin grey strings of hair pulled up in an untidy knot, wearing a man’s jacket and several layers of skirts. The old woman touched the girl’s arm over and over again, as though trying to wake her. That girl was so beautiful. Death had made her beautiful. Pale and peaceful, completely lovely. Drained of all tension, all fear. So unspeakably frail and still and undefended. I wanted to touch her but when I put my hand out, the old woman grabbed me and bit the fleshy part beneath my thumb until she drew blood, and I hit her on the back of her head, hard enough to make her let go. I walked away, nursing my hand, weeping for this girl, whom I had never seen alive, whom I loved and who was dead. For days I dreamed of her and for weeks could not get her image out of my mind. I think she lives there still.
Later, when I came back to Kate from that time away, there was a moment when she lay sleeping on the couch. We had gone for a walk that afternoon, to see the cherry blossoms, pink and white, like a young girl’s skin, the colour of a nipple, of a lip, of an earlobe. A man bumped into Kate on the sidewalk, and I was instantly enraged, pushing the man, challenging him, stupefied by the look of astonishment on his face as he apologized and said it was an accident. Kate stepped in front of me and made me look at her, her hands on the sides of my face, smiling as though smiles were a charm against bullies. “I’m fine,” she said. “Look, no harm, no harm.” And I saw that this was true and held out my hand to the man to shake, to say I was sorry, but the man scuttled away, muttering. We went home, Kate and I, and made love and I lost myself for a moment in her butterscotch skin. Then she’d dozed off with a book on her stomach, and her head tilted toward the sun coming in the window. It made her face look pale, too pale, pale as a phantom in the afternoon light. It was sudden, the way I couldn’t stand to look at her and how I had to get out of the apartment right then, immediately, or I would choke. When I returned, drunk as Davy’s sow, in the wee smalls, Kate was mad as hell and how could I explain?
Sack of skulls.
Matthew sits back, his fingers cramped around the plastic shaft of the ballpoint pen. Don’t read it back; don’t read it back. He opens the drawer, grabs an envelope, scribbles a note to Brent and stuffs it, and the pages he’s just written, inside. Licks the seal. Flattens it with a pound of his fist. Let’s see what you make of that. Matthew laughs out loud, addresses the envelope, and then sticks a stamp on the letter and grabs his jacket. He will mail the damn thing. He will. Still laughing, he heads for the door.
After mailing his pages to Brent, Matthew strolls back to his apartment, but realizes he does not want to go in. He stands at the heavy wooden door with his hands in his pockets. He has nowhere else to go, at least not until tonight and dinner at Anthony’s. He wonders how this can be. How can a person live in Paris and have nowhere to go?
On previous visits to Paris over the years he had always been contemptuous of a certain type of expatriate and how the city supported their illusions. All the beachcombers, and soon-to-be novelists, painters, dancers, jazz musicians. They teach English or work as babysitters or moving men or at some other bad-paying job, or else they live off their trust funds or savings or, yes, disability cheques, and don’t actually do any writing, painting, dancing, whatever. They sit in cafés and smoke Gitanes and they bolster each other’s lies and they tell each other they are all Hemingways, or Josephine Bakers, or Picassos. Back in some place like New York, say, they would have to make it quick or be chewed up and spat out in record time and be back on a bus to Minnesota and the Mama’s lutefisk. But not here. Here they slink along café to café. Now, he fears he is becoming one of them.
“Mr. Matthew!” The teenager from Chez Elias stands in the doorway of the café. He is dressed like any American teenager: baggy black track pants slung low on his hips, oversized jean jacket hanging almost to his knees. Trainers. He fills up the doorway. Matthew considers that if it were not for the ear-to-ear grin he would be a pretty intimidating kid, the kind old French ladies move away from in the metro, clutching their pocketbooks. That lower lip is strange. When Matthew first met Joseph he thought someone had given him a swollen lip, but it is clearly some sort of birth defect, as though someone has pulled down that side of flesh, turning it slightly inside out.
“Hello! My uncle says hello,” he calls.
“Hello. It’s Joseph, right?”
“Yes. Joseph. You busy?”
“Nope.”
“Then you come. Have coffee.”
Another café, another coffee. Matthew shrugs. “Sure,” he says.
Ramzi greets him warmly and pulls out a chair at a table where the old man already sits.
“Sit with us. Joseph, you get the coffee.”
Saida is behind the counter. She looks tired, with hollows under her eyes. Smiling at Matthew, she adjusts the scarf around her neck, and Matthew senses that this hiding of her scars is an automatic gesture. He has noticed that when she is not using her right hand, which is also badly scarred, she keeps it behind her back. When Saida smiles, the brightness of her teeth makes her skin look darker and the smudges under her eyes more pronounced. She says something to Joseph, and the boy comes back with a tray of tiny cups, a pot of Turkish coffee, a plate of dates, oranges and baklava.
Joseph sits and pours the coffee. Matthew looks at these three generations of men and can’t help but wonder what it would be like to sit like this, with men of his own blood, of his own stories. To be known in that way. Where you come from. Who your people are. I know my people, he thinks, and I am not proud.
They ask him how he is and he says he is fine. They talk about the weather and about the sans-papiers and the recent strike by public employees, which brought the country to a near halt for one day, closing schools and grounding flights. Saida does not enter the conversation, but watches them and serves the occasional customer, wrapping packages of preserved lemons in jars, haloumi cheese, olives and pita. Matthew sips the coffee, rich and smoky, alive on his tongue after the sweetness of the date, the sparkle of the orange.
Joseph asks him questions about being a reporter, and at first he answers in monosyllables, not wanting to bring the dark memories into this place. Then he looks at the boy, who runs his hand self-consciously over his shaved head, his heavy eyebrows raised in eagerness, a smile of encouragement on that bruised-looking mouth—and Matthew sees himself as he never was, but would like to think he might have been: hopeful for the world, for tales of adventure, for someone to open a hand and show him a treasure from a far-off place. He sees how Joseph tries to be tough, dressing like that, with the swagger and the pout, but how he is, after all, just a boy champing at the bit and restless in this, the world of his family. Matthew finds he does not want to disappoint him and so he tells a tale or two—harmless stories of exotic places—the Khyber Pass, Beijing, New Guinea, Borneo. He tells of eating slugs with the Australian Aborigines, and snake meat in China. He tells of entering the bowl of a Hawaiian volcano with a film crew from National Geographic and of travelling with storm-chasers across the dust bowl of America on the trail of tornadoes big as mountains, moving at the speed of freight trains.
Matthew discovers he likes telling tales to Joseph, and when he looks at his watch he is surprised to find that three hours have passed.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Stay for dinner,” Elias says, his leathery face a mass of wrinkles when he smiles. “We make lemon chicken and spinach.
Very good. Tell him, Saida.”
“I’d love to but I can’t.” He is shy, suddenly, at the comfort he feels here, does not entirely trust it, and is therefore happy to have dinner at Anthony’s to use as an excuse.
“You come back, then?” says Joseph.
“Sure.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Joseph, do not be rude. Mr. Matthew is very busy,” says Ramzi.
“I’ll come back soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Good,” says Joseph, rubbing his head. “I’ll be here.”
As Matthew leaves, Saida calls out, “Thank you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Anthony lives in a rented house on a tiny road known as Villa des Tulipes, in the upper 18th arrondissement, at the porte de Clignancourt. From the metro, Matthew crosses rue Belliard, at the edge of the great flea market, Les Puces, through the throng of North Africans and Arabs selling everything from roasted corn on the cob to carpets from the back of vans. He finds Villa des Tulipes and as he turns onto it, is taken by the sense of calm on the tiny street. It is very old, and cobblestoned, the surface beneath his feet curving in an aged hump. Too narrow, really, for cars. If he reaches his arms out he can probably touch the iron fences and concrete steps on either side. The lane is a comfortably shabby assortment of small attached cottages, mostly one storey, but some with two, and is lit by the buttery light from old-fashioned street lamps.
Anthony lives on the bottom floor of one of the cottages, which is painted sky blue with dark green trim. A fig tree and a lilac bush grow in the postage-stamp garden. From an open window drift laughter, the smell of roasting meat, and Etta James’s barrelhouse voice singing “At Last.” Matthew flips the latch on the gate, crosses the tiny garden and knocks.
Suzi opens the door and kisses him on both cheeks. She smells of roses and, beneath that, something tangy, like lemons. She wears no wig and her hair is dark, cut in the short gamine style of Paris. She looks at least five years younger than usual, and Matthew realizes she is wearing almost no makeup other than a little lipstick. Her skin is pale and she has a few blemishes.
“Come on in. You are the last.”
Matthew can’t help but notice her eyes. The pupils are extremely small.
“Sorry I’m late. Hey, Jack.”
“Hey. Good to see you. Suzi, get out of the way and let him in.”
The entranceway is indeed so small that there is no room for the two of them. Suzi smiles and steps back. “Anthony is in the kitchen,” she says. “So are we.” Matthew follows her.
The walls in the hall are painted midnight blue and decorated with gold-foil stars. The kitchen, which Matthew can see at the end of the hall, is warm, pale terra cotta. The floor throughout is wooden. To the right is a small bedroom, the walls painted a serene shade of mossy green. Peeking in, he sees a large wooden cross hanging on the far wall over the futon bed, a bronze Buddha in the corner and stacks and stacks of books.
The kitchen is really part kitchen and part everything else. The back wall is made up almost entirely of paned glass and looks out onto a garden, only slightly larger than the one at the front, in which an ancient-looking olive tree grows. A low wall, topped with metal fencing, backs the garden; beyond that are apartments, but at some distance. Matthew assumes the rail tracks run between the apartments and the house, and that the house is built on the side of the drop. At the right side of the back wall is a fair-sized alcove that houses the refrigerator, the stove, the sink and the door that leads to the outside.
Anthony stands at the pot-cluttered stove, wearing a large white apron. The room itself is furnished with a low table, surrounded by cushions, at which sit two Asian girls. There is also a futon sofa covered in a colourful blanket and more cushions. Jack has taken possession of a big, battered leather chair near the back window, next to yet another pile of books and a reading lamp. Suzi dangles herself on the arm of the chair. In fact, all of her dangles, her legs, her arms, as though her spine is liquid. An intricately carved Moroccan lantern hangs from the ceiling.
“Matthew! Great to have you here!” Anthony comes toward him, waving a wooden spoon. “Let me introduce you. You know Suzi and Jack, and this is Paweena.” He squats down next to a dainty girl sitting on a cushion at the table and dressed in a turquoise sweater with a high collar that frames her face. She is in her early twenties, perhaps twenty-five, her skin a mix of saffron and toffee. “Paweena, this is Matthew, the guy I told you about. He’s a journalist, right? He was in Rwanda and Bosnia—just about every place.”
“Nice to meet you,” Matthew says, shaking her extended hand.
“Hi,” Paweena says. Her hand is soft and cool and limp. “This is Jariya.”
“Hello, Jariya. Pretty name.”
“Thank you,” says the girl, as she spits an olive pit into her palm before dropping it into the ashtray on the table. She has slightly bucked teeth. They give her an overly eager quality that doesn’t blend with her eyes, which are as hard as black tacks. She makes no move to extend her hand and neither does Matthew. Jariya lights a cigarette and plays with a cheap pink lighter, twirling it on the top of the table.
“We are just now talking about Paweena’s new apartment,” says Suzi.
Matthew notices that Jack has his hand along Suzi’s thigh, covering her knee. He notices, too, that there is something tricky in Suzi’s voice. He looks at Anthony, who has his arm around Paweena, and he can’t help but notice that Paweena is leaning slightly away from him, with a strange smile on her face.
“There is a new set of dishes I saw. I want them, and Anthony, he’s going to buy them for me. And curtains. I need curtains.”
“Sure, baby,” says Anthony. He gets up and goes back to the stove.
Matthew notices that the doors have been taken off the kitchen cabinets, so that all one has to do is scan the shelves to see what’s available.
“What’s cooking?” Matthew’s nose is practically twitching with the smells. Spices of some sort under the meat. Thyme? Nutmeg?
“Thought I’d do something for the hunting season. Sanglier. Wild boar. Marinated in wine and spices for two days. Potatoes gratin. Salad. Recipes from the Haute Savoie region.”
“Sanglier? Really? Damn. I’m starving just thinking about it,” Matthew says, and Anthony beams.
“Grab a seat, Matthew. Help yourself to some wine.” Anthony points to an open bottle on the table.
“Thanks. So, where you girls from?” Matthew says.
“Thailand,” says Paweena.
“Thailand?” says Jack. “That’s not what Anthony said.”
“Where he say we from?”
Anthony comes over and joins them at the table, folding his long legs easily.
“Someplace else,” Jack mutters.
Suzi gets up and sits next to Matthew.
“Where’d I say?”
Paweena takes Anthony’s jaw in her hand and brings his lips to hers. Then she turns to Matthew and says, “You ever been to Bangkok?”
Suzi snorts.
“Yup. I’ve been there.”
“Lots of Americans, they think Thailand nothing but sex trade and cheap drugs.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Uh-huh,” she says.
“You married?” says Jariya.
“Married? Uh, no.”
“Everybody hungry?” says Anthony, rising, and they all agree they are.
The food is splendid. The boar is served with a gravy deglacé and “les herbes,” greens baked with currants, lemon juice and a breadcrumb crust. The potatoes are thickly layered with cream. The salad has walnuts in it.
As dinner goes on and the wine flows, Matthew enjoys himself. Suzi sits between him and Jack and graces them with equal attention, a smile here, a nudge of the thigh there, a hand on the shoulder, a whisper. She asks Jack what it is like working at the hostel and where he goes to take photos. She asks Matthew where he is from and what Nova Scotia is like. Anthony sits on the other side of the table, book
ended by the Asian girls. Jariya looks sullen and tries, unsuccessfully, to catch Matthew’s attention more than once. They all compliment Anthony, who radiates pleasure and keeps up a running commentary on where the best butchers are and how to properly treat wild meats and why a light red wine is best with this meal. From time to time, Matthew catches Paweena staring thoughtfully at him.
As they move on to the dessert course, Matthew excuses himself to use the toilet. He walks up the hall and cannot resist peeking into Anthony’s bedroom. As well as the Buddha and the wooden cross, Ganesh, smiling and elephant-headed, sits on a small table next to a pair of candles in gold altar sticks. A Thai spirit house with oranges, incense and a shallow bowl of water in front of it perches on the windowsill. He picks up one of the books that lie scattered about. Thomas Merton: Spiritual Master. He notices the Bible, and a book called Of Water and Spirit, by someone called Malidoma Patrice Somé about the life of an African shaman. The Koran. The Upanishads. The Mishomis Book, which, he learns from scanning the cover, is about the Midewiwin religion of the Ojibway people. There are works by Tagore, Chuang Tzu, Martin Burber and Loren Eisley. So many books. The room feels like sacred space. Matthew backs out, and hopes no one has seen him invade it.
On the wall in the hallway is a black-and-white photo. He stops to take a closer look. It is of the tango dancers in the park by the Seine. Matthew remembers the dancers. The man holds the woman in the small of her back, their hands high over their heads. The woman is bent backward. The dress she wears has a tear under the arm through which a patch of dark hair is visible. The cords in her neck stand out even though her face is passive. The man looks as if he might sink his teeth into her. The light is filtered through the awning overhead, and at the same time reflects from the Seine below, making the faces both clear and softened.
When Matthew comes back to the main room it is evident that if Suzi had played no favourites early, she has now made her decision. She reclines between Jack’s legs, leaning against his chest. His arms are folded around her and he smiles lazily at Matthew. Matthew raises his glass in a toast to them both and Suzi giggles. Other changes have taken place as well. Paweena has moved and now sits between Jariya and Anthony.
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