Radiant City

by Lauren B. Davis

  He tries to pray. It does not take long before he realizes that he has no idea how to go about it. The prayers of his childhood hardly seem appropriate. Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Or maybe it is appropriate. Snippets come to him from other places, places not his own… . Hail Mary, full of grace … God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Our Father, Who art in heaven. He settles on the Our Father and closes his eyes, thinking the words while he keeps a picture of Suzi in his mind.

  The images that rise, of breasts and thighs in black tights and soft wet places, are not suitable. He shakes his head and tries again. Gets needle marks and sores around her mouth. He starts again, this time with, This is for Suzi … but of course that’s not her real name and he doesn’t know her real name.

  He hears a sound, like a laugh, and opens his eyes.

  Suzi looks at him, and the expression on her face is of such terrible need that his breath is sucked out of him. He rises and walks to her, taking a seat, but leaving an empty one between them. Her eyes never leave his face.

  “I’m glad to see you,” he says. “I wanted … I wanted to say I was sorry.”

  “What for?” Her voice sounds rough, like her mouth is very dry.

  “I left you.” Her brows knit and her mouth opens. “I left you, when you OD’d. I didn’t stay.”

  She shuts her eyes. “Oh. That doesn’t matter.”

  “And about Jack.”

  Her eyes open again. Her hands are in her lap and she holds them very tight. “I am done with Jack.”

  “I’m sorry,” Matthew says.

  “Fuck him. I am done with all of you!” She spits the words out at him. “Tu comprends? Fini!”

  “Okay,” he says. “That’s probably best.”

  “My daughter is gone. Run away again and this time she does not come home. Her father washes his hands of her, but I will not. I will not give up on her. I will find her.”

  “Sure you will.”

  She glares at him. “I will stay clean. Five days I sweated and tore myself and screamed until my throat was raw. I shit myself. I lay in my own shit and my own vomit and my own sweat. Do you know what that is like? Among strangers? Can you imagine this?”

  “No.”

  “Anthony visited me. We talked. But I don’t want to talk anymore. This time will be different. I will find my daughter, hein? And we will be a family, her and me.” Her eyes are wild and desperate, as though she is watching a killer approach, something glinting in his hand. “I have to.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why did you come here? What do you want?”

  “Can I help?”

  “What are you going to do, Matthew? Take me home? Hold my hand. Give me money? Fuck me again?”

  “No, I mean, sure, if you need money …” He fumbles in his pocket.

  “Oh, mon Dieu, don’t give me money!” She recoils as though he has offered her a live snake.

  “Okay, okay.” And he wishes she would keep her voice down. She frightens him. The look in her eye. The savageness in her. “Anything …”

  “Nothing.” She whispers it, as though the strength is leaving her. “Go away.”

  “Suzi, I’m—”

  “Micheline.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Micheline.”

  “I’m sorry, Micheline. If you every need anything, call me.”

  “Go away, Matthew. No more of you, no more Bok-Bok, no more dope, no more of you, no more Bok-Bok, no more dope …” She closes her eyes, begins to rock back and forth, and presses her palms together, putting them against her forehead, chanting the words, making them a prayer.

  Matthew thinks about leaving her money, but knows she is right, knows what she would do with it. He gets up, and although the chair scrapes loudly on the floor, she does not open her eyes.

  As he walks up the aisle, he meets the eyes of a young woman. She stands below the Black Madonna. She wears a leather jacket and a short black skirt. Blue streaks her hair and heavy blue shadow on her eyes.

  “Qu’est-ce que tu veux ici?” she says, her voice ragged with too-many cigarettes. What do you want here? “You can’t even wait until we get outside? Con!” She turns on her heel and stalks out before Matthew can say anything, although of course there is nothing to say.

  Back out on the street there is no sign of the girl with the blue eyeshadow, but there are three other women standing near the door. None of them look at him as they file in. There are also two men slouching and rubbing their hands, commerce in their eyes, waiting for someone else to come out of the church.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Matthew looks out his window toward Chez Elias. There is no Elias at the front table anymore. Since Ramzi’s disappearance, the old man does not want to come to the restaurant. He stays in his apartment and watches television, and Matthew feels oddly bereft, not being able to watch him and Ramzi argue about the Next Great Move. If he feels that way, it is easy to imagine what Saida feels, what Elias feels.

  He picks up the phone. It is a call he’s been trying to make for a couple of days now. He did call once, but no one answered, sparing him.

  Today Jack answers on the second ring.

  “It’s me,” says Matthew.

  “Yeah,” says Jack. Matthew hears him inhale, but cannot tell if it is a cigarette he is smoking. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve been meaning to call.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I think I owe you an apology.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “I’m really sorry, Jack. About everything.”

  “Listen, everybody fucks up from time to time. You just caught me off guard, all right? Bad moment.”

  “I crossed over a line.”

  “She’s a fucking hooker. You think I’m the only guy she was sleeping with? You think you were?”

  “Well, no, but …” Matthew stammers. He had not expected Jack to let him off the hook. He remembers the look on Jack’s face that day in the courtyard.

  “But what? You and me, we’re all right. Let’s leave it there.”

  “If you say so. Just want you to know I feel bad about it.”

  “Well, don’t beat yourself up over it. Like I say, I didn’t own her. Besides, she’s history. Disappeared into thin air. Gone from the apartment, just gone.” Another inhalation. “Fucking junkies. Whack jobs every one. Death on a stick.” It does not matter what Jack says, Matthew can hear the regret in his voice. And something else. Anger. But at whom?

  “Sorry, Jack.”

  “Stop fucking saying that. Maybe she’ll get clean. Maybe it’ll be for the best. Maybe life with me scared her straight.” A laugh, low and tired. “So, how’s the book going?”

  “Good. I’m editing. How’s the photography?”

  “Haven’t done much the last week or so. But I’m talking to people. About that book I wanted to do—Subterranean Paris. You think you might still be interested in doing the words?”

  “Yes. Maybe, when I get through this.”

  “Fair enough. Listen, I’m going to see the late showing of Men in Black tonight. You should come. We can talk about it.”

  “Yeah, all right. What about Anthony?” Somehow, Matthew thinks it will be better if Anthony is there. Something between them in case they need a buffer.

  They agree to meet on the Champs Élysées and then go to the café on the top floor of the Virgin Megastore around nine-thirty, grab a coffee and then head to the theatre.

  It is nearly nine-thirty when Matthew and Anthony come up the steps at the Franklin D. Roosevelt metro. They walk toward the music store. It is a Wednesday night and the wide sidewalk is not as crowded as it will be later in the week. Young people hang about in small groups, smoking and flirting with one another.

  Well-dressed Parisian couples stroll along, waiting for friends, picking a movie to see from the dozen or so films available in a three-block strip. Little kids run among the pedestrians
, laughing. A never-ending roll of traffic lurches up the generous avenue. A man saunters toward them, a pit bull wearing a studded collar straining at the leash on his right side, a beautiful thin girl with long chestnut hair on his left.

  “There’s Jack,” says Anthony.

  Matthew looks and at first, all he can see is a group of young beurs. They stand in the entranceway to a small centre commercial. There are three of them, and then, yes, the big man is Jack, shaking hands with one of them, and tucking something into the inside of his jacket. Matthew frowns. “Is that Joseph?”

  They approach and as they do, two of the young men take a step back, nudge each other. The third turns to see what they are looking at. His eyebrows shoot up involuntarily as his eyes widen. He sucks in his misshapen lip. Jack turns more slowly and as he does he smiles, smiles before he even sees who is behind him, because of course he knows who it will be.

  “Hey,” says Jack. He lifts a cigarette to his lips, smiles lopsidedly through the smoke as he squints.

  “What’s this?” Matthew says. The ends of his fingers tingle. “Hello, Joseph. Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

  “And I did not know you’d be here.” He looks quickly at Jack and then at the ground in front of him.

  One of the boys has a bandana around his head and a gold tooth. The other is smaller, although neither is as big as Joseph. And their skin is darker. Algerians? The two take another step back. They take their hands out of their pockets.

  “Who are your friends?”

  “This is Maloud, and Jamal.” He turns to his friends. “This is Matthew. He is a friend of the family. And Anthony. He works for my mother.”

  Matthew nods at them, but neither one extends his hand.

  “What’s going on here?” asks Anthony. His voice is monotone, flat, controlled.

  “Just doing a little business. All done now,” says Jack.

  “Thought you weren’t doing that kind of business with Joseph anymore,” says Matthew. He cannot see it, cannot see why Jack has arranged things this way, for it is obvious he has arranged them. Why show him, why rub his nose in it? Anger rises up, rising like sour vomit, like black bile.

  Jack smiles. “Why? Have I crossed a line, Dad?”

  It makes sense then, and Matthew thinks, Oh, God, but I’ve been a fool.

  “Joseph, get the fuck out of here. Go home.” Matthew will not drop his eyes from Jack’s.

  “Now hold on,” says Anthony. “Everybody cool down.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” says Joseph.

  “No big deal here, Matthew. We’re all friends. Aren’t we all friends?” Jack holds his hands out, palms up.

  “I don’t know, Jack. You tell me. What the fuck is going on here?” Matthew’s voice has risen. “Are you crazy? You pissed off at me, you tell me, you don’t drag a kid into it.”

  “I’m not a kid,” says Joseph. He steps between Matthew and Jack. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Easy,” says Anthony.

  People on the street are beginning to move away. Maloud and Jamal look around nervously.

  “Stay out of this,” says Jack. His eyes are riveted on Matthew now, and he throws the cigarette to the ground. “This is between Matthew and me.”

  “What, all this because I slept with Suzi? You’d get Joseph fucked up because of that?” It is not making sense, is not adding up.

  Jack pushes Joseph out of the way and pokes his finger in Matthew’s chest. “Mr. Hero, right? Mr. Do-Right. Taking care of young Joseph here. Taking care of Joseph’s mom. Getting Anthony a job. Writing the big fucking book. Where’d you get the time to fuck Suzi? That’s what I want to know.” He spits the words, his face inches from Matthew. Jack keeps poking him in the chest, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to leave bruises. “But you see, I know you, I’ve seen you. Seen you crawling around on the ground, looking for a place to get out of the gunfire when there wasn’t any fucking gunfire. I know you. You’re not such a fucking big man, Matt, not so fucking brave as you’d like young Joseph to believe, now are you?” Matthew knows he should step back, but he does not. He pushes Jack. Just to get him out of his face.

  It happens very quickly. The two boys take off running into the maze of shops and disappear. Joseph lunges at Jack just as he goes for Matthew. Jack’s arm shoots out and he connects with Joseph’s cheek, and Joseph goes down, his cheek spilling blood. For one stupid moment Matthew thinks it will all be over, just like that. The insanity purged by Joseph’s blood. Matthew turns to Joseph and in that moment Jack grabs him. He has his hands around Matthew’s throat and his hands tighten. Matthew chokes, clawing at Jack, trying to get purchase on his thumbs, his fingers, anything.

  “Jack! Stop. Now! You’ll kill him!”

  It is Anthony’s voice. Then there is another bellow. Matthew does not see exactly what Anthony does; his eyes are fixed only on Jack’s face, which is suddenly purple with pain. Anthony has his thumb behind Jack’s ear. Whatever he does makes Jack let go, and Matthew thinks, Oh, this will be the end of it now. And then Jack groans, and he and Anthony struggle. Anthony tries to calm Jack down. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he keeps saying, looking into Jack’s eyes, as Jack had once looked into Matthew’s. But it is clear. Jack does not see him. Matthew, coughing and choking still, makes a lunge for Jack, but he is not quick enough.

  It is just one punch. The hand at the end of Jack’s arm is an anvil. Anthony comes off his feet. Goes backward. Stumbling. Crumpling. Legs buckling. But his arms are limp. His eyes. They are all white. And then there is the sound. His head against the concrete wall. And blood. As though a blood spring has opened in the rock. Anthony lies with his legs in a diamond shape, the soles of his feet nearly touching, his knees bent wide. His arms are wilted at his sides. His head is raised slightly, leaning against the concrete wall. Blood runs down his neck, his shoulders, pools like a cape along his arms. His mouth hangs open in a foolish and ugly expression. His eyes are no longer all whites. They are half-open, unfocused, slightly crossed. They are dull as mud.

  Matthew stands in a stasis of heaving disbelief. A membrane between worlds has been rent, a sliver of icy paralysis through which the soul cries, Make it not so, MAKE IT NOT SO! A great wall of sound comes from behind Matthew. A roar, like a lion being torn apart. A disembowelling. Matthew also screams. People call for the police. People yell. Some run. Matthew stands at the centre of his own twisting universe. He is at the core again and it is quiet here, even with the screaming, as it had been quiet in another square, near another concrete wall. Everything on the outside of this nucleus looks the way it does on a merry-go-round, fast, blurred, indistinct, turning. It is as though a centrifugal force—call it refusal—pushes the outside farther away, leaving the inner hub empty and still.

  He kneels beside Anthony. He looks into his eyes, trying to see some fading light, some flicker receding. Anything. But there is nothing bright and nothing even dark. His eyes hold no secrets. They just are not Anthony anymore.

  Matthew stands up. He looks around, abruptly and acutely aware that Jack might attack again.

  Where is Jack?

  He is not where he had been. Joseph is on all fours on the sidewalk, staring like a wild animal at Anthony. Jack is not with him. Matthew scans the street. Nothing. And everyone is looking at

  Anthony and Joseph and Matthew. Jack has vanished into the crowd, into the metro, maybe. Into the shadows.

  Matthew goes to Joseph and hauls him to his feet. “Joseph. Go home. Go home now. Run.” There will be police. A young Arab man cannot be here. “Run,” Matthew says, shaking him, pushing him, and then he too is gone.

  Matthew is freezing cold all of a sudden and he begins to shake. A man comes near and puts his coat over Anthony, trying to keep him warm. As though that would help. A surge of guilt goes through Matthew. He should have taken off his coat.

  “The flics will be here in a minute,” says the man.

  Matthew’s stomach roils. “I’m going to be s
ick,” he says. With his hand over his mouth, he heads for the alley. No one stops him.

  In the alley, it occurs to him that he might kill Jack. That he might find him and kill him. The thought pulls him up and slams him against the wall. There is horror in leaving Anthony, his friend, there on the sidewalk. Anthony, who came to look for him when he wandered in the emotional wastelands, who cooked daube and sang Leadbelly songs to him through the door. Anthony, who believed in redemption.

  Anthony, who would not want him to kill Jack, and would not want Jack to kill himself. For that is the other possibility. Matthew still hears the sound that rose behind him as he stood over Anthony’s body. The sound of someone being disembowelled. The sound of Jack’s howl. Death sang in that voice. Anthony’s. Maybe Jack’s. Maybe Matthew’s. That too, is possible. Matthew considers this. Yes, it is possible, also, it is acceptable. An acceptable solution.

  He ducks through the Galerie Rond Point and back along Franklin D. Roosevelt to the taxi stand. When the driver asks him where he wants to go, he is not sure what to tell him. Jack will not go back to his own apartment; Matthew knows this. Suzi has vanished, apparently, and so he will not go there.

  “Belleville,” he says.

  The driver looks unhappy. Taxi drivers do not like to dawdle in areas like Belleville too late at night. Matthew gives him the address and turns away. Let him be unhappy. He tries to think, but his thoughts scatter like marbles on a tombstone. Glancing around, he catches the driver looking at him in the rear-view. Matthew is thumping the door with the side of his fist. “Pardon,” he mutters. He wonders if he has been talking to himself. It is possible.

  In his head, he plays out what he will do when he finds Jack. He pictures his hands around Jack’s throat. He pictures his fist in his face. He pictures making his eyes roll back in his head the way Anthony’s had. He pictures arriving too late, finding Jack hanging from a street lamp, with a bullet in his brain, with a needle in his arm. He pictures Jack gone mad. He pictures Jack broken, crushed under grief, the sack of skulls now, finally, one skull too many. He does not know which scenario frightens him more. He does not know which one satisfies him more.