The Woman in the Fifth

Six

LA VIE PARISIENNE.

Or, to be more specific about it: ma vie parisienne.

For my first weeks on the rue de Paradis, it generally went like this:

I would get up most mornings around eight. While making coffee I would turn on France Musique (or France Bavarde, as I referred to it, since the announcers seemed less interested in playing music than in endlessly discussing the music they were about to broadcast). Then I’d throw on some clothes and go downstairs to the boulangerie on the nearby rue des Petites Ecuries and buy a baguette for sixty centimes before heading down to the market on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. While there, I’d shop carefully. Six slices of jambon, six slices of Emmenthal, four tomatoes, a half-dozen eggs, 200 grams of haricots verts (I quickly learned how to calculate metrically), 400 grams of some sort of cheap white fish, 200 grams of the cheapest cut of steak that didn’t look overtly rancid, three liters of vin rouge, a half-liter of milk, three liters of some generic bottled water, and I’d have enough food to live on for three days. And the cost of this shopping expedition would never be more than thirty euros … which meant that I could feed myself for around sixty euros a week.

On the days that I bought food, I’d be back in the apartment by twelve thirty. Then I would open my laptop and let it warm up while making another coffee and telling myself that it was just a matter of five hundred words. As in: two typed pages. As in: the daily quota I had set myself for writing my novel.

Two pages, six days a week, would equal twelve pages. As long as I kept up this output without fail, I’d have a book within twelve months. And no, I didn’t want to consider the fact that I only had enough money to cover a pretty basic existence for the three months of rent I had paid. I just wanted to think about achieving the daily quota. Five hundred words … the length of many an email I used to bang out in less than twenty minutes… .

Five hundred words. It was nothing, really.

Until you started trying to turn that five hundred words into fiction, day in, day out.

My novel … my first novel … the novel I told myself twenty years ago that I would write. It was going to be an Augie March for our times; a large, sprawling, picaresque Bildungsroman about growing up awkward in New Jersey, and surviving the domestic warfare of my parents and the dismal conformism of sixties suburbia.

For months — during the worst of the nightmare into which I had been landed — I kept myself alive with the idea that, once I negotiated an escape route out of hell, I’d find a quiet place in which to get it all down on paper, and finally demonstrate to the world that I was the serious writer I always knew myself to be. I’ll show the bastards is a statement uttered by someone who has suffered a setback … or, more typically, has hit bottom. But as a resident of the latter category, I also knew that, rather than being some EST-style rallying cry, it was a howl from the last-chance saloon.

Five hundred words. That was the quotidian task, and one which I knew I could fulfill … because I had nothing else to do with my time.

Nothing except go to the cinema. The majority of my free time outside my chambre was spent haunting all those darkened rooms around town which cater to film junkies like myself. The geography of Paris was, for me, defined by its cinemas. Every Monday I’d spend sixteen euros on a carte orange hebdomadaire — a weekly travel card, which gave me access to all metros and buses within the Paris city limits. The card let me whizz around town at will — all the travels outside my quartier largely pertaining to my cinema habit. Once the five hundred words were down on the computer, I’d be free to leave the room and begin the movie-going day. The Fifth was my preferred terrain, as there were over fifteen cinemas in a square mile. Most of them specialized in old stuff. At the Action Ecoles, there was always a director’s festival in progress: Hitchcock this week, Kurosawa the next, alternating with a season of Anthony Mann Westerns. Down the road at Le Reflet Medicis, I spent a very happy three days watching every Ealing Comedy ever made, finding myself in floods of tears at the end of Whisky Galore … more an indication of my fragile state than of the film’s emotional headiness. A few streets away, at the Accatone, they were always showing one of Pasolini’s stranger explorations of the out-there frontiers of human behavior. I could make it from the Accatone to Le Quartier Latin in about three minutes for a Bunuel season. I could stroll over into the Sixth to nose around the film noir rarities at the Action Christine. Or, best of all, I could jump the metro to Bercy and hide out at the Cinematheque until midnight.

Every day, I’d spend at least six hours at the movies. But before heading out on this daily movie marathon, I’d check my email.

The Internet cafe was located on the rue des Petites Ecuries. It was a small storefront operation. There were a dozen computers positioned on unvarnished wooden cubicles, fronted by grubby orange plastic chairs. Behind this was a small bar which served coffee and booze. It cost one euro fifty an hour to check email and surf the Net. There was always a bearded guy in his thirties behind the bar. He looked Turkish, but spoke good French — though our conversations were always limited to a few basic pleasantries and the exchange of money for an Internet password or a coffee. Whenever I showed up, he was always on his cellphone, deep in some rapid-fire conversation — a conversation which turned into a low whisper as I bought my password and settled down in front of a computer. I could always see him studying me as I logged on — and wondered if he could gauge my disappointment as I opened my AOL mailbox and found no news from my daughter.

I’d been writing Megan twice a week since arriving in Paris. In my emails I asked her to please try to understand that I never meant to hurt her; that she remained the most important person in my life. Even if she now hated me for what had happened, I would never cease to love her and hoped that communication could be somehow re-established.

At first, my emails all followed a similar line of argument.

After three weeks, I switched tactics — writing to her about my life in Paris, about the room in which I was living, the way I passed my day, the movies I saw — and always ending with a simple statement:

I will write again next week. Always know that you are in my thoughts every hour of the day — and that I miss you terribly. Love … Dad

When no answer was forthcoming, I wondered if she was being blocked from writing to me by her mother — as I also knew that, by telling Megan details of my life in Paris, I was probably passing them on to my ex-wife as well. But I didn’t care if she learned about my diminished circumstances. What further harm could she do to someone who’d lost everything?

But then, at the start of my sixth week in Paris, I opened my AOL account and saw — amid the usual detritus sent to me from loansharks and penis-extension hucksters — an email marked: meganricks@aol.com.

I hit the Read button nervously, preparing myself for a ‘Never write to me again‘ letter … given that, the one time I called her after everything blew up, she told me that, as far as she was concerned, I was dead. But now I read:

Dear Dad

Thanks for all your emails. Paris sounds cool. School is still hard — and I’m still getting a lot of crap from people in my class about what you did. And I still find it hard to understand how you could have done that with one of your students. Mom told me I was to tell her if you made contact with me — but I’ve been reading all your emails at school. Keep writing me — and I’ll make sure Mom doesn’t know we’re in contact.

Your daughter

Megan

PS I’m still angry at you … but I miss you too.

I put my face in my hands after reading this — and found myself sobbing. Your daughter. That said it all. After nearly three months of thinking that I had lost Megan forever, here was the response I had been hoping for. I’m still angry at you … but I miss you too.

Hitting the Reply button, I wrote:

Dear Megan

It was wonderful hearing from you. You’re right to be angry with me. I’m angry with me. I did something stupid — but by the time I realized I had made a terrible mistake, things started to spin out of my control and I found myself unable to stop bad things from happening. However, you do need to know that people took my mistake and used it for their own aims. I am not trying to make excuses for what I did. I accept responsibility — and will always feel terrible for hurting you. I am simply so pleased that we are now back in contact with each other — and promise to keep writing you every day.

I’m sure that, very soon, things will get easier at school … and that you will be able to put so much of this behind you. I appreciate how difficult it is not telling your mother that we’re in touch. In time, I hope that your mom and I will be able to be on friendly terms with each other — because I’m sure that’s what you want too. Always know that I think the world of you and am here for you whenever you need me. Meanwhile I promise to write you every day.

Love

Dad

I read through the email several times before sending it, wanting to double-check that it was devoid of self-pity, that it didn’t come across as a self-justification, and that — most of all — it communicated to my daughter how much I loved and missed her.

As I stood up to leave, the man behind the desk looked up from his newspaper and said, ‘Bad news?’

This threw me — and made me realize he’d been studying me while I was reading Megan’s email.

‘Not at all.’

‘Then why are you crying?’

‘Because it’s good news.’

‘I hope there will be some more for you tomorrow.’

There was no further word from Megan for the next few days — even though I emailed her every afternoon, keeping the tone anecdotal, filling her in on life in my quartier. After three days, I received the following:

Dear Dad

Thanks for the last couple of emails. I was on a school trip to Cleveland … b-o-r-i-n-g … and only got back yesterday. I went into your office at home last night, and found an old map of Paris, and looked up where you are. Rue de Paradis — I like the name.

I had to be very careful about going into your office, as Mom told me it was off-limits, and Gardner hasn’t taken it over yet …

Gardner. As in: Gardner Robson. The man who helped engineer my catastrophe and had also taken my wife away from me. The very sight of his name on the computer screen made me grip the sides of the plastic chair and try to control the rage that I still felt.

‘Gardner hasn’t taken it over yet …’

Why not take over my office when he’s taken over everything else?

I read on:

I find Gardner very hard to live with. You know he used to be in the Air Force and he keeps telling me that he likes things ‘ship shape’. If I leave a jacket on the staircase when I come home from school, or if I’ve forgotten to make my bed, that’s not ‘ship shape’. He can be all right as long as you do things his way, and Mom seems totally in lurve with him … but I’m still not totally sold on him as a stepdad. I keep thinking it would be cool to visit you in Paris, but I know that Mom would never let me … and, anyway, I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about what you’ve done. Mom said you wanted to end the marriage …

She said what? Given that she had taken up with Robson well before my scandal hit the front pages — and given that I begged her repeatedly for a second chance — how dare she twist the truth and then feed our daughter this lie … a lie which Megan understandably interpreted as, in part, a rejection of herself.

I read on:

… and that’s why you cheated on Mom with that student and then fled overseas when everything got too hot. Is this true? I hope not.

Your daughter

Megan

I slammed my fist so hard on the desk that the guy behind the counter looked up in surprise.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said.

‘Bad news today?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Very bad.’

I turned back to the computer, hit the Reply button and wrote:

Dearest Megan

I have made many mistakes in my life, and have been guilty of all sorts of wrong calls. But I never — repeat: never — wanted to end the marriage to your mom. That was her decision — and one which I tried to talk her out of. If I had my way, I’d still be living at home with you and your mom. Please understand that your mom ended the marriage because she was angry with me for what I had done … but she wasn’t exactly blameless for the way things turned out. But, once again, let me reemphasize the fact that being away from you — and being unable to see you on a daily basis — is so terribly hard. And my one great hope is that I’ll be seeing you very soon indeed.

Love

Dad

PS It’s very important that you don’t raise any of this with your mother. If you start asking her questions about whether she wanted to divorce me, she might get suspicious and wonder if we’re in touch. The last thing I want is to lose contact with you.

After hitting the Send button, I turned to the guy behind the counter and said, ‘Apologies again for punching the desk.’

‘You’re not the first. A lot of bad news gets read here every day. But maybe there’ll be good news for you tomorrow.’

The guy was right. When I returned the next afternoon, there was a reply from Megan.

Hi Dad

Thanks for writing what you did. I’m still confused by it all. Like who’s telling the truth here? But it’s good to know that you didn’t want to leave us. That means a lot. And don’t worry about Mom. She’ll never know we’ve been writing each other. But do keep the emails coming. I really like them.

Love

Megan

The fact that she signed the email with ‘Love‘ … that was not simply ‘good news’. That was the best news I had received since this whole nightmare started. And I immediately wrote back:

Dearest Megan

It really doesn’t matter who is telling the truth here. What does matter is that we stay close. And as I said yesterday, I’m sure that we will be seeing each other again very soon.

Love

Dad

It was a Friday when I sent that email — so it didn’t surprise me that I didn’t hear from her over the weekend. As she had a computer in her room at home, I knew it might be dangerous if I emailed her on Saturday or Sunday … just on the off chance that her mother or Robson might walk into her room when she was opening her mailbox (yes, this was overly cautious on my part — but I wanted nothing to jeopardize our correspondence, let alone land Megan in trouble at home). So I resisted the temptation to write her — and just continued on with my usual routine. Wake up at eight, the morning shop, the morning write, lunch, out the door by 1.30 p.m. at the latest, movies, home by midnight, a Zopiclone sleeping tablet chased with herbal tea, sleep … and the inevitable 2 a.m. wake-up call when Omar came rolling in drunk (he did this nightly without fail) and proceeded to pee loudly. Though his loud bodily functions would always snap me into consciousness, the Zopiclone ensured that I’d pass out a few minutes after this wake-up call. As such, I gave daily thanks to that hotel doctor who had overprescribed me one hundred and twenty tabs of this knockout drug.

But every morning I awoke to the charming discovery that Omar had left the toilet a mess. After weeks of having to clean up after him, I finally hit the wall. It was the day after I had received my last email from Megan — and the large pool of urine on the floor sent me to his door. I banged on it loudly. He answered after a minute, dressed in stained boxer shorts and an AC Milan T-shirt that strained to make it over his vast gut.

‘What?’ he asked, looking half-asleep.

‘I need to talk to you,’ I said.

‘You talk to me? Why?’

‘It’s about how you leave the toilet.’

‘How I leave toilet?’ he said, getting a certain edge to his voice. I tried to adopt a reasonable tone.

‘Look, we both have to share the toilet—’

‘We share toilet?’ he said, sounding outraged.

‘We both use the same toilet at different times.’

‘You want we use it together?’

‘I want you to lift up the seat when you pee, please. And I always want you to flush the toilet and use the scrubbing brush when—’

‘Fuck you,’ he said and slammed the door.

So much for my attempts at diplomacy. The next morning I found Omar had pissed everywhere … not just on the toilet seat and its adjoining walls, but on my front door as well. For the first time since moving in, I ventured back to the offices of Sezer Confection. Mr Tough Guy let me in with a scowl. Monsieur looked away as I spoke. In other words, business as usual.

‘There is a problem?’ Sezer asked.

I explained what had happened.

‘Maybe it was a cat,’ he said.

‘Yeah — and he happened to arrive on a magic carpet with a full bladder. It was Omar.’

‘You have proof?’

‘Who else would piss on my door?’

‘I am not Sherlock Holmes.’

‘You need to talk to Omar,’ I said.

‘If I do not have proof that it was his piss on your door …’

‘Can you at least get someone to clean it off?’

‘No.’

‘Surely as the building manager—’

‘We clean the corridors. We make certain that the eboueurs pick up the rubbish every day. But if you piss on a door—’

‘I didn’t piss on the door.’

‘That’s your story. But as I said: since you have no proof, I must assume—’

‘Forget it,’ I said and started walking out.

‘One small thing,’ Sezer said. ‘I have had word about Adnan.’

I stopped and turned around.

‘And?’ I asked.

‘As predicted, he was arrested as soon as he stepped off the plane in Istanbul last month. They brought him to Ankara for formal sentencing — as he had been found guilty in his absence. He got fifteen years.’

I heard myself say, ‘That’s not my fault.’ I regretted the comment immediately. Sezer put his fingertips together and smiled.

‘Who said it was your fault?’ he asked.

I washed down the door myself that day. And the toilet walls. And scrubbed the bowl clean yet again. That night, after Omar had had his late-night piss, I found I couldn’t get back to sleep. Though I did my best to rationalize what had happened — to tell myself that Adnan had been on the run for years and had simply been lucky to escape being controlled until that morning when he came to fetch me — I couldn’t pardon myself. Another ruined life, courtesy of yours truly.

There is only one cure for a sleepless night: work. I wrote like a maniac: five pages before dawn. It was early days yet — page thirty-five of what would be a very big book — but already, my protagonist, Bill, was nine years old and listening to his parents tear each other apart while drinking highballs in their New Jersey kitchen.

I was writing this scene — and feeling very pleased with it — when I noticed the leak. It was coming from the little cabinet below the sink. A small pool of water had gathered on the scuffed linoleum. I stood up from the desk, went over and opened the cabinet. The cause of the leak was immediately evident. A piece of tape, fastened to the waste pipe, had come loose. There were a few loose tiles at the bottom of the cabinet. An old roll of black duct tape was positioned on one of them. I picked it up. In doing so, the tile beneath it came away. There was a small piece of plastic protruding. I pulled at it — and discovered a little carrier bag hidden in a hole that had been dug crudely into the floor. Inside were tightly rolled wads of banknotes, around twenty of them — each individually secured with a rubber band. I undid the first wad. The currency contained within was a mishmash of five-, ten- and twenty-euro notes. I counted out the twenty notes contained in the bundle. It came to a total of two hundred euros exactly. I unrolled a second wad. Another thirty notes totaling almost exactly one thousand euros. Another roll. The same set-up. By the time all the wads were open and spread flat on the linoleum, I saw that I was staring at four thousand euros.

Outside, light was smudging the night sky. I carefully re-rolled all the banknotes and put them back into the bag. Then I pushed it back down into the hole and covered it with the loose tile before tearing off a piece of duct tape to plug up the leaking pipe. That done, I stood up and made coffee and sat at my desk, staring out at the dirty window and realizing that I had a major moral dilemma on my hands. Four thousand euros. At my current rate of expenditure, it would buy me almost another four months in Paris. And I knew how easy it would be to say nothing about my find. Especially with Adnan locked away in Ankara.

But if I said nothing — and I got my additional four months — then what?

Guilt, guilt, and more guilt. Though I’d probably get away with it, I wouldn’t let myself get away with it.

I finished the coffee. I grabbed my notepad and scribbled the following note:

Dear M. Sezer

I would like to make contact with Adnan’s wife to enquire directly about his situation. Might you please have a postal or email address for her?

Amicalement

And I signed my name.

I went out and placed the note in the mailbox for Sezer Confection. Then I returned to my room and rolled down the blind and set my alarm clock and pulled off my clothes and finally fell into bed. I slept straight through until 1 p.m. When I awoke, I noticed a scrap of paper that had been slipped under my door. The writing was spindly, small:

Her name is Mme Z. Pafnuk. Her email is: z.pafnuk@atta.tky. She knows who you are and what happened.

The note was unsigned. Leave it to Monsieur Sezer to twist the knife at any given opportunity.

I went off to a movie. When I returned to my quartier after dusk, I stopped at the Internet cafe. There was one email awaiting me online:

Harry:

The librarian at Megan’s school noticed that she was spending excessive amounts of time on the computer. When challenged as to what she was doing, she said that she was merely surfing the Net — but appeared very nervous. The librarian informed the school principal who called me, stating that he was worried she might be having an inappropriate correspondence with a stranger. When she got home, I insisted she tell me the truth. She refused, so I then demanded she open her AOL mailbox for me. That’s when I discovered all your emails to her — which she had dutifully saved. Your attempts to wriggle your way back into her life — and play the caring father — are nothing short of disgusting. Just as your pathetic attempts to demonize me are contemptuous. You only have one person to blame for your disaster — and that is yourself.

I had a long talk with Megan last night and informed her, in graphic detail, why that student of yours killed herself. She knew most of it already — because her classmates in school haven’t been able to stop hounding her about it. But what she didn’t know was just how horribly you had behaved toward that unfortunate girl. And now Megan wants nothing to do with you. So don’t write her again. I promise you she won’t respond. And know this: if you make any other attempts to make personal contact with her, legal steps will be taken to make certain you are permanently barred from setting foot within a mile from where we live.

Don’t bother to reply to this letter. It will be deleted upon receipt.

Susan

I found myself shaking so badly as I finished reading this email that I had to hold on to the cheap wooden table on which the computer rested. ‘… what she didn’t know was just how horribly you had behaved toward that unfortunate girl.’ Another lie — and one perpetrated by Robson in his campaign to ruin me. ‘And now Megan wants nothing to do with you.’ Pressing my fingertips against my eyes, I tried very hard to stop myself from crying. When I brought myself under control, I pulled away my hands — and saw that the young bearded guy behind the cafe counter was studying me. When our eyes met, he turned away — embarrassed that I caught him looking at me in such distress. I wiped my eyes and came over to the counter.

‘A drink?’ he asked me.

‘An espresso, please,’ I said.

‘More bad news?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Maybe things will change.’

‘Not this time.’

He finished making the coffee and placed it in front of me. Then he reached for a bottle of Scotch and poured out a small shot for me.

‘Here — drink,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

I threw back the whisky. It stung going down, but I could also feel its immediate balming effect. After gulping the refill that he poured me I asked him, ‘Do you speak Turkish?’

‘Why do you want to know this?’ he asked.

‘Because I need to write somebody an email in Turkish.’

‘What sort of email?’

‘A personal email.’

‘I am not a translator.’

‘It’s only three lines long.’

A pause. I could see he was sizing me up, wondering why I needed to write something in Turkish.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

I told him and proffered my hand.

‘I’m Kamal,’ he said. ‘And this translation — it is just three lines?’

‘That’s right.’

He pushed a pad toward me.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Write.’

I picked up the stub of a pencil that he placed on top of the pad and wrote, in French, the veiled communique I had been hatching in my head since waking up this afternoon:

Dear Mrs Pafnuk

I am the new resident of the room which Adnan used to live in. I was just wondering if there was anything he left behind that he needs to be sent on to him. Please send him my best wishes, and tell him I remain grateful to him for his kindnesses shown to me. I think of him often and would like to offer my assistance if his family is in need of any help.

Yours sincerely

And I signed it with my email address.

I pushed the pad toward the guy. He looked down at the message.

‘It’s five lines, not three,’ he said, then flashed me the smallest of smiles.

‘You have the email address?’ he asked.

I handed over the scrap of paper slipped under my door.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I take care of it.’

He disappeared over to a terminal. A few minutes went by. He finished typing and said, ‘It’s sent.’

‘What do I owe you?’

‘One euro for the coffee, the whisky is on the house.’

‘And for the translation?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I knew Adnan.’

That threw me.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘I know it wasn’t your fault.’

But so much is my fault.

I was tempted to send Megan one more email — but figured she would now report it immediately to her mother, and Susan would then make good on her threat to get a barring order, and I wouldn’t have the money to fight it, and any hope of ever seeing Megan again …

Abandon all hope of that. Your ex-wife has ensured that she’ll despise you forever.

I spent the next few days in a depressed fog — going through the motions of my routine, but almost catatonic with grief as the realization hit home: My contact with Megan is over. Every day I checked my email, trying to convince myself that she mightn’t have listened to her mother and decided to risk contact with me. But the mailbox remained empty … until, around a week later, when there was a reply waiting for me from Mrs Pafnuk. It was written in Turkish and Kamal translated it for me.

Dear Mr Ricks

I was very pleased to hear from you. So too was Adnan, whom I visited yesterday. He said that the conditions are dreadful, but he can do nothing except try to stay sane and see the time out. He sends you his best wishes — and asks me to convey to you his feelings of friendship, and hopes that you will look around his room carefully and see if you can find a storage area where he kept something very special. He senses that you have already found it — and know its contents — but are being understandably cautious. Please contact me again by email to let me know if you have found what he hopes you have found. Once again, my husband thanks you greatly for your assistance and sends you fraternal greetings.

Sincerely,

Mrs Z. Pafnuk

When Kamal finished reading the email out to me in French, he pursed his lips and said, ‘She obviously hired the local scribe in her village to write this for her.’

‘How can you tell?’ I asked.

‘Adnan told me she could hardly read or write. He would come here twice a week to write her — and he would dictate to me what to write, because he also couldn’t read or write that much either.’

‘So you’re the local scribe here as well?’

‘You run an Internet cafe in a quartier like this, you end up writing many emails for people. But by this time next year, this cafe will be no more. Our lease is up in nine months — and I know that the landlord will double the rent. Because the quartier is changing. The French are moving back.’

‘The wealthy French?’ I asked.

‘Bien sur. The bobos. They’re buying up all the loft spaces in the Tenth and pushing property prices way up. I promise you, eighteen months from now this cafe will be a chic restaurant or a boutique that sells expensive soaps. Within two years, the only Turks you will find around here will be the waiters.’

‘And what will you do?’ I asked.

‘Survive, comme d’habitude. Do you want to reply to this email?’

‘Yes,’ I said and reached for a pad by the computer and scribbled:

Dear Mrs Pafnuk

I have found what Adnan left behind. How would you me to transfer it to you?

Yours sincerely

I handed the note to Kamal.

‘How much money did you find?’ he asked.

‘How do you know it was money?’ I asked.

‘Do not worry. I will not come to your room tonight, and beat you over the head with a hammer and take it.’

‘That’s nice to know.’

‘So it was a large sum?’ ‘A good sum, yes.’

He looked at me with care.

‘You are an honorable man,’ he said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not.’

Two days later, there was a return email from Mrs Pafnuk. She asked me to send the ‘item’ by Western Union telegraphic exchange to their office in Ankara. ‘I will be visiting Adnan on Sunday and can collect it then.’

After translating her email, Kamal said, ‘There is a Western Union on the boulevard de la Villette, near the Belleville metro.’

‘I’ll head there right after this.’

‘Come on, tell me. How much money did you find?’

I hesitated.

‘OK, don’t tell me. I was just curious.’

‘Four grand,’ I said.

He whistled through his teeth.

‘You must be very rich to have decided to inform Adnan’s wife about all that cash—’

‘If I was rich,’ I said, cutting him off, ‘I would hardly be living in a chambre de bonne on the rue de Paradis.’

‘That is true,’ Kamal said. ‘Then you are evidently a fool.’

I smiled.

‘A complete fool,’ I said.

I returned to my room and crouched down by the sink and removed the tile and pulled out the plastic bag. Then I stuffed every pocket of my jeans and my leather jacket with the rolled-up money. I felt like a drug dealer. It was around 5 p.m. Night was falling, and I moved quickly through the streets, terrified that irony might strike me at any moment, in the form of the first mugger I’d encountered in Paris — a thug who would have hit the jackpot had he decided I was a suitable target this evening. But my luck held all the way to the boulevard de la Villette. At the little Western Union branch, the clerk behind the grille — an African woman with an impassive face and eyes that showed her suspicion — said nothing as I dug out roll after roll of banknotes. When she had counted them all, she informed me that the cost of sending four thousand euros to Ankara would be one hundred and ten euros — and did I want this sum deducted from the four grand?

I did want it deducted, but …

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll pay for that on top of the four thousand.’

After finishing the Western Union transfer, I returned to Kamal’s cafe and had him email Mrs Pafnuk with the reference number she required for collecting the money. When he finished sending this communique, he got up and went behind the bar and produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker Scotch, and said, ‘Come on, we drink to your honesty and your stupidity.’

Over the next hour, we drained most of the bottle of Scotch. It had been a very long time since I had downed so much alcohol in one go — and it felt pretty damn good. Kamal told me he was born in Istanbul, but arrived in Paris three decades ago as a five-year-old. ‘My parents were legal immigrants, so there was no problem with the authorities. But being sent straight into a French school in Saint-Denis was a nightmare. I didn’t speak a word of the language. Happily, nor did half the other children at the school. Still, I caught on to French quickly — because I had no choice. And now … now I have a French passport.’

‘But are you French?’

‘I see myself as French. But the French still see me as an immigre. You are always an outsider here unless you are French. It’s not like London, where everyone is an outsider — the English included — so the city is a big stew. Here the French keep to the French, the North Africans to the North Africans, the Turks to the Turks. Tant pis. It doesn’t bother me. It is just how things are.’

He didn’t reveal too much information about himself. There was a wife, there were two young children, but he mentioned them in a passing sort of way, and when I asked their names, he steered off that subject immediately, turning it back to me, finding out what I did in the States, and discovering that my marriage had recently ended.

‘Who was the other woman?’ he asked.

‘That’s a long story.’

‘And where is she now?’

‘That’s another long story.’

‘You are being reticent.’

‘Like yourself.’

A small smile from Kamal. Then: ‘So what do you do now?’

‘I’m trying to be a writer.’

‘That pays?’

‘No way.’

‘So how do you live?’

‘With great care. Six weeks from now, my money will run out.’

‘And then?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Are you looking for work?’

‘I have no carte de sejour — and it’s very difficult for Americans to get work permits here.’

‘You could ask around at the various universities and colleges.’

No, I couldn’t — because that would mean them checking up on my background, and demanding references from the college where I taught for ten years. And once they found out what happened …

‘That would be difficult,’ I said.

‘I see,’ he said quietly, then reached for his cigarettes. ‘So you are in a bad place, yes?’

‘That’s one way of saying it.’

‘So … might you be interested in a job?’

‘Like I said, I’m illegal …’

‘That wouldn’t matter.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the job I’m proposing wouldn’t be legal, that’s why.’