Radiant City

by Lauren B. Davis

  It is only the slight raising of Joseph’s eyebrow, the way he presses his lips together, as he has done since he was a little boy and something worried him, that shows feeling. A quick flick of his eyes back and forth. A feeling he does not want anyone to know he has, as though he is afraid they might catch him at something, might discover something. And Saida thinks that still, she knows her son, he is not such a stranger, yet.

  He opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again.

  “What?” says Matthew.

  Joseph pulls his misshapen lip between his teeth and chews it.

  “What?” Matthew says again.

  “You … you broke your mother’s heart?”

  “No, my father did.”

  It is clear from the look on Matthew’s face that he does not want them to ask any questions.

  They eat their soup. Saida has a little, too. “It needs more salt,” she says, but they assure her it is fine.

  When, not long after, Matthew says he is leaving, Joseph’s head droops on his chest.

  “Make up your bed,” she says to him.

  She walks Matthew to the stairwell.

  “You are a good friend to us,” she says.

  “Your family’s been good to me,” he says, and then he says, “Well.”

  “Thank you. I cannot thank you enough. I do not know what I would have done.”

  “He would have come home in a little while.”

  “But you found him. And to know someone was looking for him, it made a difference to me.”

  “Good night,” he says.

  She takes him by the shoulders and kisses him on one cheek and then the other. “You are like family now,” she says. “Like a brother to me.”

  His smile is uncertain and perhaps she has embarrassed him.

  He nods. “Thanks,” he says, and then he is gone.

  When she steps back in the apartment, Joseph is already asleep under the blanket, his back turned to her. His pants and shoes lie on the floor beside the couch, which he has not bothered to unfold. Here in the darkest part of winter it will not be morning for another hour or so. He sleeps with his neck on the armrest and she knows he will have a crick in it when he wakes.

  She does not get him a pillow. Serves him right, she thinks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Two days later Matthew goes back to the New Friends Hostel. A tree with flickering lights is in the lobby. It is topped with a beer can rather than an angel. There is grime in the corners of the room and the paint peels off the ceiling. This time he finds Jack sitting in his place behind the reception desk. A girl leans on the counter talking to him and when she turns to look at Matthew he sees it is the girl with the purple eyes. She has dyed her hair a bizarre shade of aubergine.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” says Jack, rising.

  “Thought we should have a talk.”

  Jack nods. “You want a coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll get ‘em. Karen, take off, okay, honey? I’ll catch you later.” Jack comes around the counter and pats the girl on the behind.

  “You’ll remember what I said?”

  “Yeah, sure I will.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” Purple Eyes reaches up and gives Jack a peck on the cheek. “You’re a sweetheart.”

  “That’s me.”

  Matthew waits while Jack gets the coffee from the bar. He hears voices, and a group of Spanish travellers, three boys and two girls, descend from the rooms above, ignore him and leave in a whirl of laughter and Gitanes smoke.

  Jack pushes the door from the bar open with his back, holding two coffees in plastic cups. He hands one to Matthew and motions for him to come back around the counter. He pulls out a chair beside a small wooden table. Matthew sits, but Jack remains standing at the counter.

  “So, have we got a problem?” Jack licks his thumb and leafs through a stack of paper.

  “I hope not,” says Matthew.

  “So do I. Joseph’s mom settled down?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Good. Look, Matthew. I consider you a friend. I don’t have many of those. You’re a good guy. You’ve got a lot of integrity. That means something.”

  “Jack—” He is in no mood to be conned.

  “No. I mean it. Guys like you and me, we’ve been through some shit, right? And we understand each other.”

  “I just want to be clear about Joseph.”

  “You made yourself clear.”

  “I hope so.”

  Jack turns his back to Matthew and seems fixated on the papers in front of him. Matthew wonders if he’s reading. Jack’s head twitches, and he lifts one shoulder and then the other, as though to loosen the muscles. Finally, he says, “He’s all yours, Dad. All yours.”

  There is bitterness in Jack’s voice and something suppressed, clenched between his teeth, but before Matthew can respond, he turns, smiles as though nothing is wrong and says, “Let me show you something.” Jack reaches under the counter and pulls out a portfolio case. “You never ask to see my work, you know that? I want to show you my work.”

  The mood shift is so swift, Matthew decides he was mistaken.

  Jack unzips the case and lays it on the table for Matthew to see. The photo is of a wino on the banks of the Seine. He sits with his back up against the stone wall, his feet straight out in front of him. He is a tatter of rags, newspaper stuffed beneath his open shirt. His hair sticks out and he grins at the camera like a lunatic. His hands are between his legs. His fly is open and his penis, surprisingly large, is in his hand. In the foreground the river carries the flotsam and jetsam of Paris. The next shot is a stone figure, the one from the Passy Cemetery. Her head is bowed under the weight of grief, the folds of her dress heavy as wet velvet, hair falling like a hood and hiding her face. Light filters through the branches of a nearby willow tree and combines with the lines of the draping fabric of her garment to create a mood of mourning.

  Matthew blinks and looks again. The photo emits a sense of chances lost, grief and decay. “Good light. Who does the developing?”

  “I do. At the squat. They have a darkroom. And yes, Joseph’s been around. He’s interested in this stuff, he says. But that’s all. And I hadn’t seen him for a while before the party. That was just a coincidence, all right?”

  Matthew concentrates on the photos. The next is of Anthony with Paweena and Jariya in a booth at a café. Anthony and Paweena sit on one side, Jariya on the other. The contrast is dark, making the booth, the wall and the table all look slightly unclean, sordid—and the girls’ faces look sinister, secretive. Anthony’s face is the one bright spot, paradoxically, given the darkness of his skin. It is as though he was in the presence of unknown entities. Matthew doesn’t want to look too closely.

  There are a series of shots of circus performers from one of the Romany circuses that set up from time to time on the outskirts of the city. A young girl wearing an outfit cobbled together from a bikini and a pair of tights. Her makeup is very thick and doesn’t hide her pimples. She stands in front of a trailer. A grinning man, his teeth broken, holds out a thick snake. The man wears a battered top hat. A circus horse, his legs splayed with age or fatigue, eyes the camera warily. A dwarf scowls, his stubby fingers under his nose.

  There are other photos, of cemeteries, funerals, prostitutes in white vans by the porte Dauphine, crack addicts in the metros and back alleys. Skulls lining the catacombs. A woman dancing in a church. All the lighting is at once dark and unforgiving—every mangled defect showing, merciless and frail. Reality peels away layers from the subjects, exposing them in all their unconscious vulnerability.

  There is one of Joseph. He is standing in a shop doorway. Slouching, his eyes half-closed. The room behind him is all darkness. In front of him the street is littered, with broken glass and dog shit in the gutter. A sign in the shop window says, “A louer.” For rent. Matthew winces.

  The last is a triptych of Jack himself. In the centre panel he stands k
nee-deep in black water, looking straight at the camera. Shirtless. Powerful and battered. There are scars on his chest. Old wounds from knives, at least one that may be a gunshot. To the left is a scorched landscape, still smouldering, strewn with bodies. To the right is a graveyard with three newly dug, as yet unoccupied, graves. There is no expression on Jack’s face, his mouth is open and slack-jawed, his hands droop at his sides.

  Matthew feels a great weight fall to the pit of his stomach, and at the same time he has the sensation of cold air around him. “Jesus,” he says.

  “So, what do you think?” Jack sits before him, his hands clasped so tight the knuckles are white.

  “I think they’re incredible. Hard to look at, to be honest, but impossible not to look at. Have you shown these to anybody else, like to a gallery?”

  “I’m doing the rounds. No takers yet.”

  “Won’t be long. You have real talent.”

  Jack’s face breaks into a huge grin, which he tries to suppress. “You think?”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I wanted to show them to you.”

  Matthew isn’t certain, but it’s just possible that Jack is blushing. “I’m glad you did.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  They are in the trough, past the longest night of winter, but not yet broken through to a new year. The sky looks like a drawing taken from the pages of a child’s bedtime story. Something about Dream Weavers perhaps, with cloud ships, their sails billows of ether-silk, ready to set out for the Land of Nod. The full midwinter moon is so bright it gives the impression the clouds are backlit and outlined in orange as the city lights bounce off their underbellies. The vast space beyond is nearly purple, and the stars, the airplanes twinkling red and green, the satellites moving across the heavens, are ludicrously crisp and clear. On such a night it is easy to see why poets have long flocked to live in Paris.

  Matthew and Jack stroll across the city—the Eiffel Tower, the Trocadéro, the grey-and-gold lantern-bedecked bridges spanning the Seine—it all looks as though it has been staged by the world’s best cinematographer. The air is cold, but the vision of the white platinum moon has drawn many people out on this night between Christmas and New Year’s. Bundled up in scarves and hats, they meander about, slightly drunk on beauty.

  Matthew and Jack have finished off a dinner of steaks, frites and salad topped off with a fine red wine and a tarte fine at a good, cheap bistro on boulevard de Grenelle. Now, with a flask safely snuggled against Jack’s belly in the pocket of an army surplus jacket that was a Christmas gift from Suzi, they head off in the direction of what Jack has described as his in-country cave.

  Matthew doesn’t know what he means by that, but the spell of the night is upon him and he surrenders to Jack’s lead.

  “I talked to my ex over the holidays,” says Jack.

  “How’s your son?”

  Jack looks disgusted. “Felony-stupid.”

  “Something happen?”

  “Aw, he broke into his school, trashed some computers and stuff. The thing is, the kid’s so dumb he decided it wasn’t enough to just screw around, right? He had to have a little something to show for it, so he steals the security video camera—while the camera’s recording to a remote. I mean, he doesn’t steal the videotape of him and his buddies jacking the camera—no, that’s someplace in the basement. He steals the actual camera, leaving the videotape so the cops have a real good shot of him, close up, hands reaching for the goddamn thing. Jesus.” He glares at Matthew. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Sorry, Jack. But you gotta admit—”

  “Yeah, I guess. He got expelled but they’re not going to press charges apparently.”

  “Well, there’s that at least.”

  “What the fuck’s he going to do with no education? Go into the army for Christ’s sake? He’s talking about it and just hangs up the phone when I tell him he’s crazy.”

  “Sorry, Jack.”

  “I don’t want him to end up like me, you know? Not that I’m doing so bad, but this kid’s got a world of possibility and no draft to fuck him up. Why does he want to risk ending up in Yemen or Somalia or something? I thought I’d see him be somebody, you know?” He looks sideways at Matthew. “Same way Joseph’s mother feels about him, I guess.”

  From what Matthew understands, Jack has been keeping his distance from Saida’s son and there is no point in picking at a scab. “Jack, Junior’s just a kid,” Matthew says. “Kids get in trouble. He’ll probably pull himself out.”

  “Last time I called, his mother couldn’t even get him to talk to me. Said he was just going someplace. I said I’d come back and kick the crap out of him but she said no, that’s the last thing he needed. She’s got him believing I’m some whack job. I gotta get back there sometime soon. Real soon.”

  “So why don’t you go back? Maybe she’ll change her mind if you make the effort to go all that way.”

  “Well, there’s other reasons. I shouldn’t probably go back right now.”

  They walk toward la porte de la Muette, handing Jack’s flask back and forth.

  “What about you?” Jack asks. “Any yuletide greetings?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing from the woman in the photo?”

  “Nope.” In fact, Matthew has put the photo away. He has not thrown it out, but it is no longer on his shelf. It is in a box, along with a photo of his mother, a collection of coins from various lands, a Swiss Army knife he got as a kid, and a yellowed copy of the first story he ever published. It had taken him a whole night to put that photo away. A whole night, three almost-dialled phone calls and a bottle of scotch.

  “That okay with you?” Jack says.

  “It’s the way it needs to be.” Matthew sees no reason to tell Jack he spent Christmas Eve with Saida and her family. They took him to midnight mass at the Lebanese church, where they sat not on pews but on straight-backed chairs, and the pictures around the walls of saints were all black-haired and bearded and far more biblical-looking than the blond blue-eyed Jesus of Matthew’s Protestant youth. Then they went back to Saida’s little apartment, the five of them, and ate stuffed crêpes called attayef and S-shaped shortbread cookies called ghrybeh. They gave him a navy-blue-and-green plaid scarf, which he now wears tucked up inside his coat. Matthew gave Joseph a Buddy Guy CD and a book of American Roadside Attractions that kept them all laughing.

  He gave Saida a cedar-scented candle in a glass holder. The next day he went back with Anthony, they ate lamb, vine leaves and the sweet-potato pie Anthony had made. They sang songs and ended the evening playing, of all things, Monopoly. Matthew lost his shirt even though he owned the three green properties and all the railroads. Saida’s father won.

  The main traffic artery separating that-which-is-Paris from that-which-is-not-Paris is called the périphérique, and even at this late hour it is a rush of rubber and metal below them as Matthew and Jack cross the footbridge to the outer boundary of the great Boulogne woods. During the day the forest is mostly joggers and dog walkers and pram pushers, spattered here and there with white vans along the roadsides in which burly, silicone-breasted prostitutes ply their trade. There are pockets of land where men stand next to trees and shrubs, allowing themselves to be perused by other men, who wander the pathways like gourmets through a truffle market.

  As twilight falls, however, the fresh-air fanatics and families disappear. The homeless, who move into the city during the day, return at nightfall and creep into the dark recesses of the wood, where smoke can sometimes be seen rising from their campfires. They shy away from the paths and roads—these are strictly the domain of the prostitutes who are dropped off by pimps in cars, vans and minibuses, and the sexual adventurers who often arrive in Jaguars and Mercedes. A fleet of flesh that, until this night, Matthew had only heard about in stories.

  They are not a hundred metres inside the woods when the first figure steps into their path. She is tall, wide in the shoulders and slim in the hips, and she w
ears a fake fur coat open to show long legs encased in high black boots and black stockings hooked to the garters of a red-and-black corset. A tiny scrap of lace covers her sex. She purrs at them and reaches for them and Matthew thinks this is why Jack has led them here, and he doesn’t want it. The wood is full of such forms—wearing dog collars and leather, leopard skin and tiny skirts—and some look like men beneath the makeup. Matthew swarms with contradictions. He is repulsed and yet intrigued, embarrassed and yet emboldened. He is also, he realizes, slightly afraid, for the woods are dark even with the shining moon, and the voices call out like perverse mermaids, singing from the shoals of his self-loathing.

  Jack puts his hands up to ward them off, like beggars in a market, and is harsh with them and they sense something in him and back off. The two men continue and at a certain distance Matthew looks over his shoulder and is amazed at the carnival of sexual possibility. The sirens sway and touch themselves, cup their breasts in their palms, put their hands between their legs and touch themselves, and the feminine ways are often too delicate, too practised to be true so that Matthew wonders what is beneath those tiny skirts and scraps of lace. He thinks how cold they must be.

  “This is your favourite place?” he says.

  Jack laughs. “Wild, ain’t it? But no, not here.”

  As they near one of the main roads Matthew sees that cars move slowly, crawling, as the men and sometimes couples choose and shop and compare. Now and then a door opens and someone gets in, someone gets out. It is a bustling, bursting place and Matthew’s head spins. He looks around at the sad-eyed, weary, slightly desperate faces, pro and john alike; he wishes they looked as though they were having a better time. Several women appear to be ill, with track marks and bruises on their legs and arms, sores on their faces. Wads of tissues and used condoms shine white and wet on the hard earth. Without the cover of summer foliage, couplings are only semihidden by the shadows. A figure on her knees, in front of a man wearing jodhpurs and riding boots, and there, another pair, one with her face pressed to tree bark. In his pants, against his will, his penis flickers, twitches, stirs, and he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away.