Radiant City

by Lauren B. Davis

  The shutters on his windows had remained closed for the past three.

  “Maybe he has gone away,” says Saida.

  “I don’t think so,” says Anthony. “I just don’t.”

  “No, neither do I. He would have said.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Can you go over? See if you can get him to come to the phone, at least?”

  “Oh, Anthony. I don’t think I can.”

  “I think you might be the best person for it. He won’t answer Jack’s calls either.”

  Well, good for him, she thinks.

  “Jack says he’ll break down the door if he has to.”

  It is Wednesday afternoon when there is no school in France, and so Joseph is in the restaurant. Saida has bullied him into helping her. Now he stands, listening to her, cocking his head, and trying to make out what Anthony says as well.

  “I’ll go over,” says Joseph. “I’ll go see him.”

  “No.” Saida puts her hand on his arm to stop him. The look of those shutters, so tightly closed, so resolutely locked, hiding God knows what. No, it will not be Joseph who goes. “All right, Anthony. I will call you if I speak to him. What is the door code?”

  She crosses the street briskly, with her shoulders back, pretending she is a woman capable of handling Difficult Situations. When she stands in front of his door her breathing is shallow, not because of the stairs, but because of the unwelcoming air that emanates from the other side. There is no sign saying “Keep Away,” but there might as well be. The quality of silence that has seeped, even past the door, out here onto the landing, unsettles her. She fantasizes that something hungry and parasitic has hold of Matthew, and now sits smugly on his chest sensing her through the door.

  A noise from within, a soft thump, startles her and her hand goes involuntarily to the scar on her neck. Quickly, before she loses her nerve, she knocks.

  “Matthew, are you in there? I know you are. Please open.”

  She taps softly at first, and then louder.

  “Matthew? I heard a noise. I know you are in there. Please. Open the door, just for a moment.”

  She pleads for several more minutes, and when he opens the door at last, it is all she can do not to step back in shock. His hair is greasy and flat against his skull. He is unshaven and so thin that his bones are visible under the fabric of his shirt.

  “Are you all right?”

  He blinks as though the red of her sweater hurts his eyes.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Come in,” he says.

  He looks embarrassed and she realizes she has wrinkled her nose at the smell of him, which is sweetish and thick. She blushes.

  The room, too, is grimy and cluttered, the floor scattered with discarded pieces of clothing, shoes, sheets of paper, a spoon, a piece of hardened and crumbling toast. Sheets drape over the radiators and over the mirror, like in the house of a Jew in mourning. The air is musty and the odour of something unpleasant wafts from the kitchen. Her eyes follow her nose, and there on the table sits a half-eaten bowl of tomato soup and an open can of sardines mutating into a science project.

  Saida stands in the centre of the room and slowly turns until she faces Matthew again. He steps past her and opens a window and then the shutter beyond. Although the day is overcast and gloomy, still the light spills in, invading the room, claiming territory.

  “You want to sit down?” he says, shielding his eyes.

  She clears herself a place on the worn brown leather couch and perches there. She tries to take stock of him. His voice, his way of moving is slower even than usual. He seems stunned, or drugged.

  “You sit down, too, Matthew.”

  He picks up several sheets of paper lying on the floor and then opens the desk drawer, tossing the pages in as though he does not want her to get a good look at them.

  “Please don’t fuss because of me. Sit.” Her voice is softer and he obeys. “Are you sick? Do you have a migraine? Do you need a doctor?”

  She is shocked to see tears well up in his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

  “What are you doing here?” he says when he has regained control of himself.

  “Anthony said he hasn’t seen you and was worried. He came here. You did not answer. Apparently he called, and, sorry, but you were rather rude, and—how did he put it—muzzly. I understood you were not well.”

  “Anthony? He called here?”

  “Yes, and Jack, but you didn’t answer.” She looks around for a phone, sees it, on top of an answering machine with a blinking red light. “Joseph wanted to come over, but I thought I should.” She lowers her eyes to her hands resting in her lap.

  “Maybe I forgot they called. Is that possible?” he says, more to himself than to her. “I’ve been in sort of a fog, I guess. I think I talked to Anthony, sure. Sure, I remember. A day or so ago, right? I don’t know. Time seems to have taken on an elastic quality. The bombs. Have there been any more?”

  “No. There is a lot of security. But no more bombs, Matthew.”

  He smiles, unconvincingly. “Do you want coffee or something?”

  “Yes. That would be nice. Do you want me to make it?”

  “No. I want to do it.”

  Saida watches him through the open kitchen door as he looks for the things necessary to make coffee. It seems like a very complicated process. Coffee maker. Filters. Coffee. Water. Cups. Sugar. He opens the refrigerator, pulls out a plastic bottle of milk, smells it and immediately drops it in the trash. He blows dust out of the mugs. He moves as though everything is stiff, from the taps to his wrist joints. He puts his finger up to his mouth and smacks his lips. Saida turns away as he comes back into the living room and she pretends to pick a hair off her skirt.

  “Excuse me,” he says as he walks into the hall. “Brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like somebody crept in there while I slept and put small woollen socks on my teeth.”

  When he returns, the coffee has brewed.

  “What do you take?” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I should know. But it’s always you getting me coffee, isn’t it?”

  “Just black.”

  Matthew hands her the coffee and she puts it to her mouth, blows on the steaming liquid and sips without checking the rim for dirt.

  Matthew sits down across from her and keeps his hands wrapped around the mug. She notices that, left to their own devices, they shake ever so slightly.

  “We are worried about you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  It takes some courage to speak. “Sometimes I think you are someone who is drifting. Not in a good way—but as though you will drift too far from shore. Look at my father. He has drifted. It is not very safe, always worrying these memories. Not good for you.” She sips her coffee again. “Maybe I should stop talking. It is not my place.”

  “Look, I’m all right, okay?”

  “I’m sorry. I am intruding.”

  “No, look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bark at you. I appreciate it. The concern and all, really I do.”

  “I think … well, it is only that I think I know a little of what you are remembering. We have been through very much, my family. Joseph’s father, my mother, my grandparents, my brother, his wife, their son … very many people. Terrible massacres. I know how bad dreams can be, sometimes not even when you sleep.”

  “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you do not have to be sorry, Matthew. I only say this to show I understand, maybe a little, yes? I have nightmares, sometimes, of things that have happened.” Her left hand strokes her right, running her thumb along the burn-lines. “Sometimes it is good to talk about these things. I just say this, to tell you, if you want …”

  “I think I want to leave it be, Saida.”

  “Ghosts do not like to be ignored.” She wonders if she has gone too far. The only sound in the room is his ragged breathing and the angry bleating of car horns in the street. “How is your work going? This book you’re writing?�
�� she says, because the weight in the room is too much and she must cut through it with the only thing she has.

  “I don’t know. I mean, what’s the point?”

  “Can I use your phone? I said I would let Anthony know you were all right. And Joseph. He was worried, too.”

  “Jesus. Fine.”

  She makes the calls and keeps them brief, because it is embarrassing to say, “Yes, yes, he is fine. We are just having a cup of coffee,” when the subject is in the room. She realizes her back is to him, and she turns, a smile of reassurance on her lips, but Matthew has put his cup down on the floor and his head in his hands, rubbing at the temples as though he has a headache. Hanging up, she can think of nothing to say and gazes around the room, trying to find a safe topic of conversation.

  Matthew speaks first. “I don’t know. I got an advance from a publisher. I start things. I can’t seem to finish them.”

  “It must be very hard, writing.” She sits down and leans toward him.

  He speaks with his head hanging. “No. Sulphur mining, or coal mining, that’s hard. Tarring a road when it’s a hundred and twenty degrees out is hard. Working in a sawmill is hard. Being a ship breaker in Indonesia—now that’s hard.”

  “Yes. Of course—”

  “You know what Katherine Anne Porter said? I’m paraphrasing, but basically she said that human life is pure chaos, and the job of the artist—the only thing he’s good for, incidentally—is to work that confusion into order. No one understands what’s happening to them as it’s happening, right? So writers have to remember for other people. We have to sift through experience until our disparate selves are reconciled, and by sharing it, offer the same opportunity for reconciliation to others. It’s our duty. What do you think of that?”

  “I think you should eat something.”

  “I think it’s bullshit.” He blinks. “What did you say?”

  “I said that I think you should eat something.”

  Matthew laughs then and, even if it is not a very good laugh, but only something that scrapes the surface of sound, Saida feels better.

  “Why not come over and have some food? I will cook for you.”

  “I don’t think I can handle being around too many people just yet, Saida. Thanks, though.”

  “I do not want to be too pushy, but I think maybe you would feel better if you went out. Being around people you do not know is sometimes easier than being around people you do. There is a crêpe place around the corner if you do not want to go to my restaurant. I will not be offended. Sometimes I have had enough of my own cooking, too. It will do me good. It will be a break for me.”

  “You are rather pushy, you know that?”

  “So Joseph tells me. And Ramzi. And my father, too.”

  “They usually do what you tell them?”

  “Eventually. I am usually right.”

  He laughs again, a better laugh.

  Encouraged, she says, “Yes, I think we should go for a walk, and then you should eat.”

  “I’m not much up for it. Honestly, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. I just tied one on and need some sleep.”

  “You are a worse liar than Joseph. Besides, I want to talk to you about him.”

  “About Joseph?”

  “I am a mother. My son is very important to me. I worry about him, too. And he likes you. I want your advice.”

  “You are not only pushy. You are stubborn.”

  “Yes, this is also true.”

  “Oh, fuck it,” he says and shuffles off to the shower, muttering all the way about meddlesome women. His voice is not harsh, however, and it makes her smile.

  After a moment Saida hears the water running, hears him blowing his nose. The walls are very thin and the intimate proximity to a man she is not related to distresses her. She takes a small pad and pencil out of her purse and makes a list of things she must buy for her father. Dish detergent. Toilet paper. Oranges. The noise from the bathroom continues—wet noises of skin and soap. She cannot concentrate and would feel better doing something, but fears if she begins to tidy that it will offend him. And besides, this too, is personal. The things of a man, the sounds of a man, so near, and naked in the shower. She adds to the list for her father. Milk. Kasha.

  When Matthew reappears, he wears a clean white shirt and black jeans. His skin is pale against the snowy cotton, but he looks scrubbed, if not pressed.

  “Good,” she says, relieved to see him back in an acceptable shell. “Now that is better, yes?”

  Grumpily, he agrees.

  When they are out on the street, she says, “I will just tell my father and Joseph. Wait.”

  Elias sits at the counter, and she is surprised to see Ramzi serving customers. They are not too busy. Three tables.

  “How is he?” says Joseph.

  “Sad. Fragile.”

  “Is he coming in?” says Ramzi.

  “No. I am going for a walk with him. He needs fresh air.”

  “Now?” says Ramzi.

  “You can handle the place by yourself. I manage by myself when you are not here. It is your turn.”

  “Fine. No need to raise your voice,” says Ramzi, as he slices chicken off the cone of meat slowing turning on the grill.

  “And besides, Joseph can help.”

  “I’m going out.”

  “Where out?”

  “Out-out. Now that Uncle Ramzi’s here. You don’t need me.”

  “I want you here when I get back.”

  Joseph merely shrugs.

  “You are going out with him?” Her father looks first to Saida

  and then to Matthew, who waits outside on the street, on the far sidewalk, with his back to them. “He is not coming here?”

  “I will be back soon,” she says, kissing him.

  “He’s okay, though?” says Joseph.

  “I will try and bring him back later,” she says and she kisses him, too.

  As they walk, she can see the movement is doing Matthew good. His blood seems to be flowing again.

  “Hear that? My stomach. I am hungry,” he says.

  His eyes still blink as though they hurt, probably from so much time spent in the dark, and, even though the day is dull, he pulls sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on. They have to dodge people, as the sidewalk is narrow, and now and then he guides her with his hand on her arm.

  The tiny restaurant is warm and steamy, and they get a spot in the corner near the window. The tables are rough-hewn wood and on the ceiling the old beams are exposed and have taken on a patina from years of steam and cooking grease. Matthew orders a crêpe with ham and cheese and tomatoes; Saida orders one with tuna and olives; they both ask for warm cider and a small salad. In a few short minutes, they are tucking in.

  “So, what is it about Joseph?” he says.

  “I do not know him anymore. I do not know where he goes, or who he sees. I do not know where he gets this money.”

  “He’s a teenager. You’re not supposed to know him. As I understand it, your job as the parent of a teenager is merely to embarrass him.”

  “I think he is spending time with your friend, Jack. I am sure I saw him the other day, in Barbès, when Joseph said he was going to play soccer. But there was no soccer.”

  “Have you talked to Joseph?”

  “He does not talk to me anymore. I ask him where he is going; all he says is ‘Out.’ “ Saida is afraid that now she might be the one who cries. She puts down her fork and smoothes the napkin across her lap. When she looks up again, their eyes meet.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to him. Jack, I mean. I can talk to Joseph too, if you want.”

  “I would appreciate it.” She picks an olive up in her fingers and nibbles at it, depositing the pit on her plate. “Now, your turn. If you want to tell me what bothers you. I will listen.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Have you ever noticed how much time you spend with your hand up in front of your mouth?” says Saida. She mimics him, three
fingers curled over her mouth, the index finger held straight under her nose—like someone afraid of what she might say, and afraid of what she might breathe in.

  Matthew puts his hand on the table and wills it to stay there; then he runs his fingers through his hair and tucks his hand under his left arm. “Seems to have a mind of its own,” he says.

  A look passes over his face then, as if he is considering something. “I feel better, though,” he says, and still the look on his face is difficult to read. “That’s down to you, I think.”

  Saida waits, hoping he might yet confide in her.

  “Maybe I could do with a little more than listening; maybe we both could.”

  Matthew reaches out and runs his fingers along the side of her face. Saida jerks back in her chair.

  “No. You have misunderstood,” she says, somewhat more loudly than she had intended.

  He draws his hand back as though her cheek were flame.

  “Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She thinks she will get up then, and leave him there. Leave him to his dark moods.

  “Saida, forgive me. I’m an ass. I’m not myself. It’s a guy reflex. There’s no excuse … I’m really sorry.”

  He looks devastated, blasted with shame. He looks as though he is as shocked by his behaviour as she is. It is almost funny. Almost.

  “Perhaps it does have a mind of its own,” she says.

  Then they laugh a little; she does not get up and leave him there. They drink coffee and talk about whether or not Ramzi will actually leave one day, and whether he has a girlfriend and about how grey the days in Paris can be, and how the tourists still flock there, filling the sidewalks and the cafés of Saint-Germain, lining up outside the museums in their sensible shoes and baseball caps, insisting on going up to the windy Eiffel Tower when everyone else is huddled over cups of chocolat chaud in the humid cafés.

  When she leaves him an hour later in front of his door, she believes him when he says he feels better and that he will stop by and see Joseph tomorrow. She believes him when he says again how sorry he is.

  “Never mind,” she says. “We will not talk about it.”

  And that is how she intends to handle it, this thing that did not happen.