The Woman in the Fifth

Three

FIVE MINUTES AFTER the doctor left, the desk clerk came into the room. He was holding a piece of paper in one hand. With a flourish, he presented to me — as if it were a legal writ.

‘La facture du medecin.’ The doctor’s bill.

‘I’ll settle it later.’

‘He wants to be paid now.’

‘He’s coming back in three days. Can’t he wait … ?’

‘He should have been paid last night. But you were so ill, he decided to hold off until today.’

I looked at the bill. It was on hotel letterhead. It was also for an astonishing amount of money: two hundred and sixty-four euros.

‘You are joking,’ I said.

His face remained impassive.

‘It is the cost of his services — and of the medicine.’

‘The cost of his services? The bill’s been written up on your stationery.’

‘All medical bills are processed by us.’

‘And the doctor charges one hundred euros per house-call?’

‘The figure includes our administrative fee.’

‘Which is what?’

He looked right at me.

‘Fifty euros per visit.’

‘That’s robbery.’

‘All hotels have administrative charges.’

‘But not one hundred percent of the price.’

‘It is our policy.’

‘And you charged me one hundred percent markup on the prescriptions?’

‘Tout a fait. I had to send Adnan to the pharmacy to get them. This took an hour. Naturally, as he was not dealing with hotel business, his time must be compensated for …’

‘Not dealing with hotel business? I am a guest here. And don’t tell me you’re paying your night guy thirty-two euros an hour.’

He tried to conceal an amused smile. He failed.

‘The wages of our employees are not divulged to …’

I crumpled up the bill and threw it on the floor.

‘Well, I’m not paying it.’

‘Then you can leave the hotel now.’

‘You can’t make me leave.’

‘Au contraire, I can have you on the street in five minutes. There are two men in the basement — notre homme a tout faire and the chef — who would physically eject you from the hotel if I ordered them to do so.’

‘I’ll call the police.’

‘Is that supposed to frighten me?’ he asked. ‘The fact is, the police would side with the hotel, once I told them that the reason we were evicting you is because you made sexual advances to the chef. And the chef would confirm this to the police — because he is ignorant and because he is a strict Muslim whom I caught dans une situation embarrassante with notre homme a tout faire two months ago. So now he will do anything I say, as he fears exposure.’

‘You wouldn’t dare …’

‘Yes, I would. And the police wouldn’t just arrest you for lewd conduct, they’d also check into your background, and find out why you left your country in such a hurry.’

‘You know nothing about me,’ I said, sounding nervous.

‘Perhaps — but it is also clear that you are not in Paris for a mere holiday … that you ran away from something. The doctor told me you confessed that to him.’

‘I did nothing illegal.’

‘So you say.’

‘You are a shit,’ I said.

‘That is an interpretation,’ he said.

I shut my eyes. He held all the cards — and there was nothing I could do about it.

‘Give me my bag,’ I said.

He did as requested. I pulled out the wad of traveler’s checks.

‘It’s two hundred and sixty-four euros, right?’ I asked.

‘In dollars, the total is three hundred and forty-five.’

I grabbed a pen and signed the necessary number of checks, and threw them on the floor.

‘There,’ I said. ‘Get them yourself.’

‘Avec plaisir, monsieur.’

He picked up the checks and said, ‘I will return tomorrow to collect the payment for the room — that is, if you still want to stay.’

‘As soon as I can stagger out of here, I will.’

‘Tres bien, monsieur. And by the way, thank you for pissing in the vase. Tres classe.’

And he left.

I fell back against the pillows, exhausted, enraged. The latter emotion was something with which I’d had extensive personal contact over the past few weeks — an ominous sense that I was about to detonate at any moment. But rage turned inward transforms itself into something even more corrosive: self-loathing … and one which edges into depression. The doctor was right: I had broken down.

And when the flu finally moved on, what then? I would still be wiped out, beaten.

I reached back into my shoulder bag and pulled out the traveler’s checks. I counted them. Four thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars. My entire net worth. Everything I had or owned in the world — as I was pretty damn sure that, thanks to the demonizing I’d been subjected to in the press, Susan’s lawyers would convince the divorce judge that my wife should get it all: the house, the pension plans, the life insurance policies, the small stock portfolio we purchased together. We weren’t rich — academics rarely are. And with a daughter to raise and an ex-husband permanently barred from teaching again, the court would rightfully feel that she deserved the few assets we once shared. I certainly wasn’t going to fight that. Because I had no fight left in me — except when it came to somehow getting my daughter to talk to me again.

Four thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars. On the flight over here, stuffed into a narrow seat, I had done some quick calculations on the back of a cocktail napkin. At the time I had just over five thousand bucks. At the current, legal rate of exchange, it would net me just over four thousand euros. Living very carefully, I estimated I could eke out three or four months in Paris — on the basis that I could find a cheap place to live as soon as I got there. But forty-eight hours after landing in Paris, I had already spent over four hundred dollars. As it looked as though I wouldn’t be able to move from here for another few days, I could count on paying out another extortionate hundred bucks a night until I was fit enough to leave this dump.

My rage was damped down by fatigue. I wanted to go into the bathroom and strip off my sweat-sodden T-shirt and undershorts and stand under a shower. But I still couldn’t make it off the bed. So I just lay there, staring blankly upward, until the world went blank again and I was back in the void.

Two soft knocks on the door. I stirred awake, everything blurred, vague. Another soft knock, followed by the door opening a crack, and a voice quietly saying, ‘Monsieur … ?’

‘Go away,’ I said. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you.’

The door opened further. Behind it emerged a man in his early forties — with rust-colored skin and cropped black hair. He was dressed in a black suit and a white shirt.

‘Monsieur, I just want to see if you needed anything.’

His French, though fluent, was marked with a strong accent.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said. ‘I thought you were …’

‘Monsieur Brasseur?’

‘Who’s Monsieur Brasseur?’

‘The morning desk clerk.’

‘So that’s the bastard’s name: Brasseur.’

A small smile from the man in the doorway.

‘Nobody likes Monsieur Brasseur, except the hotel manager — because Brasseur is very talented at la provocation.’

‘Are you the guy who helped me out of the cab yesterday?’

‘Yes, I’m Adnan.’

‘Thanks for that — and for getting me settled here.’

‘You were very ill.’

‘But you still didn’t have to get me undressed and into bed, or call a doctor, or unpack everything. It was far too kind of you.’

He looked away, shyly.

‘It’s my job,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling tonight?’ ‘Very weak. Very grubby.’

He stepped fully into the room. As he approached me, I could see that his face had grooved lines around the eyes — the sort of creases that belonged on the face of a man twenty years his senior. His suit was tight, ill-fitting, badly worn — and there was a serious tobacco stain on both his right index and middle fingers.

‘Do you think you can get out of bed?’ he asked.

‘Not without help.’

‘Then I will help you. But first I will run you a bath. A long soak will do you good.’

I nodded weakly. He took charge of things. Without flinching at its contents, he picked up the vase and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard him flush the toilet and turn on the bath taps. He emerged back into the bedroom, took off his suit jacket, and hung it up in the armoire. Then he picked up my jeans and the shirt and socks that had been placed on the desk chair and stuffed them in the pillowcase.

‘Any other dirty laundry?’ he asked.

‘Just what I am wearing.’

He returned to the bathroom. The water stopped running. Steam leaked out through the doorway. He emerged, his face glistening from the vapors, his right arm wet.

‘It is hot, but not too hot.’

He came over to the bed and sat me upright and placed my feet on the floor and then lifted up my left arm and pulled it around his shoulder and hoisted me up. My legs felt as sturdy as matchsticks. But Adnan kept me vertical and walked me slowly into the bathroom.

‘Do you need help with your clothes?’ he asked.

‘No, I can handle it.’

But when I took one of my hands off the sink, I immediately lost balance and felt my knees warping. Adnan straightened me up and quietly asked me to keep one hand on the sink while raising the other above me. I was able to keep my arm aloft long enough for him to pull my T-shirt off my arm and over my head. Then he asked me to switch arms and inched the rest of it off. With a quick yank, he pulled my boxer shorts to the floor. I stepped out of them and allowed Adnan to walk me the two steps to the bath. The water was seriously hot. So hot that I recoiled when my foot first touched its surface. But Adnan ignored my protestations and gently forced me into the tub. The initial shock of the water gave way to a strange sense of scalded calm.

‘Do you need help washing yourself?’

‘I’ll try doing it myself.’

I managed to soap up my crotch, my chest and underarms, but couldn’t find the energy to reach down to my feet. So Adnan took the soap and dealt with them. He also brought over the shower hose and doused my hair and lathered it up with shampoo. Then he found a can of shaving cream and a razor among the toiletries he’d earlier unpacked, and knelt down by the bathtub and started covering my face in foam.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ I said, embarrassed by all the personal attention.

‘You will feel better for it.’

He took great care when it came to dragging a razor across my face. After he finished, he brought over the shower hose and rinsed off all the foam and the shampoo from my hair. Then he filled the sink with hot water, submerged a cloth in it, retrieved it, and without squeezing out its excess water, placed it over my face.

‘Now you will lie here, please, for a quarter of an hour,’ Adnan said.

He left the bathroom. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but the textured white of the cloth. I closed them and tried to empty my head; to concentrate on nothing. I failed. But the bath water was balming, and it was good to be clean again. I heard occasional noises from the other room, but Adnan left me be for a long time. Then there was a soft knock at the bathroom door.

‘Ready to get out?’ he asked.

Once again, he had to help me up and wrapped me in one of the thin hotel bath towels before handing me two folded items of clothing.

‘I found these in your things. A pajama bottom and a T-shirt.’

He helped dry me down, then got me dressed and led me back to a bed that had been remade with fresh sheets. They felt wonderfully cool as I slid between them. Adnan positioned the pillows so I could sit up against the headboard. He retrieved a tray that had been left on the desk. He carried it over with care. On it was a tureen, a bowl and a small baguette.

‘This is a very mild bouillon,’ he said, pouring some into the bowl. ‘You must eat.’

He handed me the spoon.

‘Do you need help?’ he asked.

I was able to feed myself — and the thin bouillon was restorative. I even managed to eat most of the baguette — my hunger overcoming the general lie-there-and-die listlessness I felt.

‘You are being far too nice to me,’ I said.

A small shy nod.

‘My job,’ he said and excused himself. When he returned some minutes later, he was carrying another tray — with a teapot and a cup.

‘I have made you an infusion of verveine,’ he said. ‘It will help you sleep. But you must first take all your medicines.’

He gathered up the necessary pills and a glass of water. I swallowed them, one by one. Then I drank some of the herbal tea.

‘Are you on duty tomorrow night?’ I asked.

‘I start at five,’ he said.

‘That’s good news. No one has been this nice to me since …’

I put my hand over my face, hating myself for that self-pitying remark — and trying to suppress the sob that was wailing up. I caught it just before it reached my larynx — and took a deep steadying breath. When I removed my hands from my eyes, I saw Adnan watching me.

‘Sorry …’ I muttered.

‘For what?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know … Everything, I guess.’

‘You are alone here in Paris?’

I nodded.

‘It is hard,’ he said. ‘I know.’

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

‘Turkey. A small village around a hundred kilometers from Ankara.’

‘How many years in Paris?’

‘Four.’

‘Do you like it here?’ I asked.

‘No.’

Silence.

‘You must rest,’ he said.

He reached over to the desk and picked up a remote control, which he pointed at the small television that had been bracketed to the wall.

‘If you are lonely or bored, there is always this,’ he said, placing the remote in my hand.

I stared up at the television. Four pretty people were sitting around a table, laughing and talking. Behind them a studio audience was seated on bleachers, laughing whenever one of the guests made a funny comment — or breaking into loud applause when the fast-talking presenter encouraged them to cheer.

‘I will come back and check on you later,’ Adnan said.

I clicked off the television, suddenly drowsy. I looked at the boxes of medicine again. One of them read, Zopiclone. The name rang some sort of distant bell … something my doctor back in the States might have once recommended when I was going through one of my insomnia jags. Whatever the drug was, it was certainly creeping up on me quickly, blurring the edges of things, damping down all anxieties, diminishing the florescent glow of the room’s blue chandelier, sending me into …

Morning. Or perhaps a moment just before morning. Gray dawn light was seeping into the room. As I stirred, I could sense that I was marginally better. I was able to put my feet on the floor and take slow, old-man steps into the bathroom. I peed. I splashed a little water on my face. I fell back into the blue room. I crawled into bed.

Monsieur Brasseur arrived with breakfast at nine. He knocked twice sharply on the door, then waltzed in without warning, placing the tray on the bed. No hello, no comment allez-vous, monsieur ? Just one question: ‘Will you be staying another night?’

‘Yes.’

He retrieved my bag. I signed another hundred dollars’ worth of traveler’s checks. He picked them up and left. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

I managed to eat the stale croissant and the milky coffee. I turned on the television. I channel-surfed. The hotel only had the five French channels. Morning television here was as banal and inane as in the States. Game shows — in which housewives tried to spell out scrambled words and win drycleaning for a year. Reality shows — in which faded actors coped with working on a real-life farm. Talk shows — in which glossy celebrities talked to glossy celebrities, and every so often girls in skimpy clothes would come out and sit on some aging rock star’s lap… .

I clicked off the television. I picked up Pariscope and studied the cinema listings, thinking about all the movies I could be sitting through right now. I dozed. A knock on the door, followed by a quiet voice saying, ‘Monsieur?’

Adnan already? I glanced at my watch. Five fifteen p.m. How had the day disappeared like that?

He came into the room, carrying a tray.

‘You are feeling better today, monsieur ?’

‘A little, yes.’

‘I have your clean laundry downstairs. And if you are able to try something a little more substantial than soup and a baguette … I could make you an omelet, perhaps?’

‘That would be very kind of you.’

‘Your French — it is very good.’

‘It’s passable.’

‘You are being modest,’ he said.

‘No — I am being accurate. It needs improvement.’

‘It will get it here. Have you lived in Paris before?’

‘Just spent a week here some years ago.’

‘You picked up such fluent French in just a week?’

‘Hardly,’ I said, with a small laugh. ‘I’ve been taking classes for the past five years back home in the States.’

‘Then you must have known you would be coming here.’

‘I think it was more of a dream … a life in Paris …’

‘A life in Paris is not a dream,’ he said quietly.

But it had been my dream for years; that absurd dream which so many of my compatriots embrace: being a writer in Paris. Escaping the day-to-day routine of teaching at a nowhere college to live in some small, but pleasant atelier near the Seine … within walking distance of a dozen cinemas. Working on my novel in the mornings, then ducking out to a 2 p.m. screening of Louis Malle’s Ascenseur pour l’echafaud before picking up Megan at the bilingual school in which we’d enrolled her.

Yes, Susan and Megan always played a part in this Paris fantasia. And for years — as we took language classes together at the college and even devoted an hour a day to speaking to each other in French — my wife encouraged this dream. But — and there was always a but — we first had to get a new kitchen for our slightly tumbledown house. Then the house required rewiring. Then Susan wanted to wait until we both received tenured positions at the college. But once my tenure came through, she felt we had to find the ‘right time’ to take a sabbatical, and the ‘appropriate moment’ to take Megan out of her local school without damaging her ‘educational and social development’. Susan was always obsessive about ‘getting the timing just right’ on ‘major life decisions’. The problem was, things never went exactly according to Susan’s plan. There was always something holding her back from making the jump. After five years of ‘maybe in eighteen months’ time’, she stopped auditing the language classes and also ended our nightly conversations in French — two events that dovetailed with her withdrawal from me. I kept taking the classes, kept telling myself that, one day, I would get to live and write in Paris. Just as I also kept reassuring myself that Susan’s distancing act was just a temporary thing — especially as she would never acknowledge that she had pulled away from me, and kept insisting that nothing was wrong.

But everything was wrong. And everything went from bad to catastrophic. And Paris didn’t turn into a fantasia, but …

‘Coming here was a way out for me,’ I told Adnan.

‘From what?’

‘Problems.’

‘Bad problems?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Then he excused himself. He arrived back with the omelet and a basket of bread fifteen minutes later. As I ate, he said, ‘I will ring the doctor tonight to confirm that he will be seeing you tomorrow.’

‘I can’t afford the doctor. I can’t afford this hotel.’

‘But you are still very sick.’

‘I’m on something of a budget. A tight budget.’

I was waiting for him to reply with something like, ‘I thought all Americans are rich.’ But Adnan said nothing, except, ‘I will see what I can do.’

The sleeping pills did their chemical magic and sent me through the night. Brasseur arrived with the breakfast tray at eight and relieved me of another hundred-dollar traveler’s check. I managed to make it to the bathroom again without aid — but only just. I spent the day reading and flipping mindlessly through the television channels. Adnan arrived at five.

‘I called the doctor before I came to work. He said that he didn’t need to see you as long as your condition hadn’t deteriorated …’

Well, that was one bit of decent news.

‘But he was also very adamant that you did not move for at least another forty-eight hours, even if you are feeling better. He said that there is a high incidence of relapse with this flu, so you must be prudent — otherwise you could end up in hospital.’

Where the tarif would be a lot more than one hundred bucks a night.

‘I guess I have no choice but to sit still,’ I said.

‘Where will you go after here?’

‘I need to find somewhere to live.’

‘An apartment?’

‘A very cheap apartment.’

A small nod of acknowledgment, then he asked, ‘Are you ready for your bath now, monsieur?’

I told him I could take care of it myself.

‘So you are on the mend?’ he asked.

‘I’m determined to check out of here in two days. Any thoughts on a cheaper place to live?’

‘My arrondissement still has lots of inexpensive places, even though people with money are starting to buy them up.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Do you know the Tenth? Near the Gare de l’Est?’

I shook my head.

‘Many Turks still live around there.’

‘How long have you lived there?’

‘Ever since I came to Paris.’

‘Always in the same place?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you miss home?’

He looked away from me.

‘All the time.’

‘Can you afford to get back there occasionally?’

‘I cannot leave France.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ He halted for a moment and studied my face, seeing if he could trust me. ‘… if I leave France, I will probably have difficulties returning. I do not have the appropriate papers.’

‘You’re illegal here?’

A nod.

‘Does Brasseur know that?’

‘Of course. That’s why he can get away with paying me nothing.’

‘How much is nothing?’

‘Six euros an hour.’

‘And you work how many hours?’

‘Five until one, six days a week.’

‘Can you live on that?’

‘If I didn’t have to send money back to my wife …’

‘You’re married?’

He avoided my eyes again.

‘Yes.’

‘Children?’

‘A son.’

‘How old?’

‘Six.’

‘And you haven’t seen him … ?’

‘In four years.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘Yes, it is. Being unable to see your children …’

He broke off without finishing the sentence.

‘Believe me, I know,’ I said. ‘Because I have no idea if I will ever be allowed to see my daughter again.’

‘How old is she?’

I told him.

‘She must miss her father.’

‘It’s a very difficult situation … and I find myself thinking of her all the time.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘As I am for you.’

He acknowledged this with a small, hesitant nod, then turned and stared out the window.

‘Can’t your wife and son somehow visit you here?’ I asked.

‘The money doesn’t exist for that. Even if I could somehow find a way for them to come, they would be denied entry. Or they would be asked to give an address at which they were staying. If the address didn’t check out, they’d be deported immediately. And if it did check out, it would lead the police directly to me.’

‘Surely the cops have other things on their mind these days than busting one illegal immigrant.’

‘We’re now all potential terrorists in their eyes — especially if you look like you come from that part of the world. Do you know about the system of being controlled here? The police are legally allowed to stop anyone and demand to see their papers. No papers, and they can lock you up, or if you have papers and no residency permit — la carte de sejour — it’s the beginning of the end.’

‘You mean, if I stay on after my initial six-month visa and the cops stop me in the street …’

‘You won’t get stopped. You’re American, white …’

‘Have you ever been controlled ?’

‘Not yet — but that’s because I avoid certain places, like the Strasbourg Saint-Denis or Chatelet metro stations where the police often check papers. In wealthy areas I also try to stay away from the intersections of big thoroughfares. After four years, you get very adept at looking around corners, knowing just how far to walk down a certain street.’

‘How can you live like that?’ I heard myself saying (and immediately regretting that I spoke without thinking). Adnan didn’t flinch or bridle at such a direct question.

‘I have no choice. I can’t go back.’

‘Because …’

‘Trouble,’ he said.

‘Bad trouble?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Bad trouble.’

‘I know what that’s all about.’

‘You can’t return home either?’

‘I suppose there’s nothing legally stopping me,’ I said. ‘But there’s also nothing for me to go back to. So …’

Another silence. This time he broke it.

‘You know, monsieur, if you need somewhere cheap in a hurry …’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, suddenly shy. ‘I shouldn’t be interfering in this way.’

‘You know somewhere?’

‘It isn’t very nice, but …’

‘Define “not very nice”.’

‘Do you know what a “chambre de bonne” is?’

‘A maid’s room?’ I said, using a literal translation.

‘What used to be a maid’s room, but is now a tiny studio apartment. Maybe eleven meters square in size. A bed, a chair, a sink, a hotplate, a shower.’

‘But in bad condition?’

‘Not good.’

‘Clean?’

‘I could help you clean it. It is down the hall from my own chambre de bonne.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘As I said, I don’t want to intrude into your …’

‘How much is it a month?’

‘Four hundred euros. But I know the man who manages the building, and I might be able to get him to drop the price by thirty or forty euros.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

Adnan smiled a shy smile.

‘Good. I will arrange it.’

The next morning, when Brasseur came in with breakfast, I announced that I would be checking out tomorrow. While arranging the tray on the bed, he casually asked, ‘So Adnan is taking you home with him?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just what I heard from the chef, who lives down the corridor in the same building as Adnan: “He has a new boyfriend — the American who has been so sick.”’

‘You can think what you like.’

‘It is not my affair.’

‘That’s right, it’s not your affair — as there is no affair here.’

‘Monsieur, there is no need to reassure me. I am not your priest — or your wife.’

That’s when I threw the orange juice at him. Without a pause for reflection, I made a grab for the glass and hurled the contents at him. It scored a direct hit on his face. There was a moment of stunned silence — as the juice dripped down his cheeks and pulpish bits lodged in his eyebrows. But then his shock turned into cold rage.

‘Get out,’ he said.

‘Fine,’ I said, jumping out of the bed.

‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.

‘For what? Baptism by fruit juice?’

‘Believe me, I’ll think of something unpleasant and damaging.’

‘You do that, I’ll tell them about all the illegal workers you have here — and how you’re paying them slave wages.’

That stopped him cold. He pulled out a handkerchief and started mopping his face.

‘Maybe I’ll just fire Adnan.’

‘Then I’ll make an anonymous call to the cops and tell them how you use illegal—’

‘This conversation is finished. I’ll call your “petit ami “, Adnan, and tell him to take you off to his place.’

‘You are a sick little bastard.’

But he didn’t hear the final three words of the sentence, as he was already out the door. When it slammed behind him, I slumped against a wall, stunned by what had just taken place and the crazed fury of it all.

But he started it, right?

I got dressed. I started packing. I fell into a guilty fugue, thinking how unnecessarily kind Adnan had been to me, and how I’d now put him in a difficult situation with his asshole boss. I wanted to leave him one hundred euros as a thank-you, but sensed that Brasseur would pocket it. Once I found another hotel, I’d come back here one evening and give it to him.

The phone rang. I answered it. It was Brasseur.

‘I have spoken with Adnan at his other job. He will be here in half an hour.’

Click.

I dialed reception right back. Brasseur answered.

‘Please tell Adnan that I’ll find a place on my own, that—’

‘Too late,’ Brasseur said. ‘He’s already en route.’

‘Then call him on his portable.’

‘He doesn’t have one.’

Click.

I thought, Grab your bag and leave now. Adnan might have been all nice and attentive while you were infirm (a little too attentive, if truth be told), but who knows what ulterior motive underscores his offer of a chambre de bonne down the corridor from his own. As soon as he gets you there, probably four of his friends will jump you, grab all your traveler’s checks and what few valuables you have (your computer, your fountain pen, your dad’s old Rolex), then cut your throat and dump your body in some large poubelle where it will end up being incinerated along with half of Paris’s rubbish. And yeah, this scenario might just sound a little paranoid. But why believe that this guy has any decent motives at all? If the last few months had taught me anything, it was that hardly anyone does anything out of sheer, simple decency.

I finished packing. I hoisted my bag and went downstairs. As I approached the reception desk, I noticed that Brasseur had changed into a fresh shirt, but that his tie was still dappled with juice stains. He said, ‘I’ve decided I’m keeping the twenty euros to cover my dry-cleaning costs.’

I said nothing. I just headed to the door.

‘Aren’t you waiting for Adnan?’ he asked.

‘Tell him I’ll be in touch.’

‘Lover’s tiff?’

That stopped me in my tracks. I wheeled around, my right hand raised. Brasseur took a step backwards. But then, like any bully who realized that his provocation wouldn’t result in instant retaliation, he looked at me with contempt.

‘With any luck, I will never see you again,’ I said.

‘Et moi non plus,’ he replied. The same to you.

I showed him my back and hit the street, where I ran straight into Adnan. It was hard to hide my surprise — and discomfort — in meeting him.

‘Didn’t Brasseur tell you I was coming?’ he asked.

‘I just decided to wait outside,’ I lied. ‘I couldn’t stand being in there anymore.’

Then I told him what had transpired in the room — after Brasseur had made his charming insinuations.

‘He thinks all Turks are pedes,’ he said, using French slang for homosexuals.

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ I said, also mentioning what he’d said about catching the homme a tout faire with the chef.

‘I know the chef — Omar. He lives in the same building as me. He is bad.’

And he quickly changed the subject, saying that Sezer — the manager of the building where he lived — would be expecting us within the hour. Then, taking the handle of my roll-bag (and refusing my protestations that I could wheel it along myself ), he guided us a sharp right up the rue Ribera.

‘Brasseur said he called you at your other job,’ I said as we headed toward the metro.

‘Yes, I do a six-hour shift every day at a clothes importer near to where I live.’

‘Six hours on top of the eight at the hotel? That’s insane.’

‘And necessary. All the money from the hotel job goes home to Turkey. The morning job …’

‘What time does it start?’

‘Seven thirty.’

‘But you only get off work here at one a.m. By the time you get home …’

‘It’s about a half-hour by bicycle. All the metros stop just before one. Anyway, I don’t need much sleep, so …’

He let the sentence die, hinting he didn’t want to keep talking about all this. Rue Ribera had a slight incline — and though it was one-lane wide and lined with apartment buildings, the morning sun still found a way of beaming down on this narrow thoroughfare. In the near distance, a father — fortyish, well dressed, well heeled — walked out of some venerable building with his teenage daughter. Unlike most adolescent girls she wasn’t in the midst of a vast, perpetual sulk. Rather, she laughed at something her dad said to her, and then made a comment which caused him to smile. The rapport between them was evident — and I could not help but feel a crippling sadness.

I stopped momentarily. Adnan glanced at the family scene, then back at me.

‘Are you all right?’

I shook my head.

We moved on to the avenue Mozart and the Jasmin metro station. We took the line headed toward Boulogne. When the train arrived, I saw Adnan quickly scanning the carriage — making certain it was free of officialdom — before guiding us on to it.

‘We change at Michel-Ange Molitor,’ Adnan said, ‘then again at Odeon. Our stop is Chateau d’Eau.’

It was just two stops to our first change point. We left the metro and followed the signs for Line 10, heading toward Gare d’Austerlitz. As we walked down a flight of stairs, I insisted on taking my bag from Adnan. We reached the bottom of the stairs, then followed a long corridor. At the end of it were two flics, checking papers. Adnan froze for a moment, then hissed, ‘Turn around.’

We executed a fast about-face. But as we headed back along the corridor, another two flics appeared. They couldn’t have been more than thirty yards in front of us. We both froze again. Did they see that?

‘Walk ahead of me,’ Adnan whispered. ‘And when they stop me, keep walking. You go to Chateau d’Eau, then to 38 rue de Paradis — that’s the address. You ask for Sezer …’

‘Stay alongside me,’ I whispered back, ‘and they probably won’t stop you.’

‘Go,’ he hissed. ‘38 rue de Paradis.’

He slowed down his gait. But when I tried to stay by him, he hissed again, ‘Allez rue de Paradis ! ‘

I started walking toward the flics, feeling the same sort of disquiet that comes over me on those rare instances when I have encountered the police or customs officers: an immediate sense that I must be guilty of something.

As I came into their direct line of vision, I could see the flics looking me over, their faces impassive while their eyes took in everything about my appearance. Five feet away from them, I expected the words, ‘Vos papiers, monsieur.’ But they remained silent as I passed by. I remounted the stairs, then stopped, loitering with intent as I waited in the futile hope that Adnan would follow right behind me. Five minutes passed, then ten. No Adnan. I decided to risk walking downstairs again. If the flics were there, I could plead that I was just a dumb American tourist who had lost his way. But when I reached the corridor again, it was empty.

There was a moment of awful realization: They’ve nabbed him … and it’s all your fault.

This was followed by another awful thought: What do I do now?

Allez rue de Paradis.

Go to Paradise.