The Paris Apartment(48)

I’ve always loved this time of year, Halloween especially. The chance to wallow in darkness after all the tedious cheerfulness and heat of the summer. But I’ve never been into parties, even at the best of times. I’m tempted to try and hide up here. I glance at the shadowy space under the bed. Maybe I could climb under there like I did as a child—when Papa was angry, say—and just wait for it all to be over . . .

But there’s no point. It will only make Camille more suspicious, more persistent. I know I don’t have any other option except to go out there and show my face and get so drunk I can’t remember my own name. With a stubby old eyeliner I try to draw a black spiderweb on my cheek so Camille won’t say I’ve made no effort but my hands are shaking so much I can’t hold the pencil steady. So I smudge it under my eyes instead, down my cheeks, like I’ve been crying black tears, rivers of soot.

When I next look in the mirror I take a step back. It’s kind of spooky: now I look how I feel on the inside.





Concierge





The Loge



She caught me. It’s not like me to be so sloppy. Well. I’ll just have to watch and wait and try again when the opportunity presents itself.

I’m back in my cabin. The buzzer for the gate goes again and again. Each time I hesitate. This is my tiny portion of power. I could refuse them entry if I wanted. It would be so easy to turn the party guests away. Of course, I do not. Instead I watch them streaming into the courtyard in their costumes. Young, beautiful; even the ones who aren’t truly beautiful are gilded by their youth. Their whole lives ahead of them.

A loud whoop—one boy jumps on another’s back. Their actions show they are children, really, despite their grown bodies. My daughter was the same age as them when she came to Paris. Hard to believe, she seemed so adult, so focused, compared to these youths. But that’s what being poor does to you; it shortens your childhood. It hardens your ambition.

I talked to Benjamin Daniels about her.

At the height of the September heat wave he knocked on the door of my cabin. When I answered, warily, he thrust a cardboard box toward me. On the side was a photograph of an electric fan.

“I don’t understand, Monsieur.”

He smiled at me. He had such a winning smile. “Un cadeau. A gift: for you.”

I stared at him, I tried to refuse. “Non, Monsieur—it’s too generous. I cannot accept. You already gave me the radio . . .”

“Ah,” he said, “but this was free! I promise. A two-for-one offer at Mr. Bricolage—I bought one for the apartment and now I have this second, going spare. I don’t need it, honestly. And I can tell it must get pretty stifling in there”—with a nod to my cabin. “Look, do you want me to set it up for you?”

No one ever comes into my home. None of the rest of them have ever been inside. For a moment I hesitated. But it was stifling in there: I keep all the windows shut for my privacy, but the air had grown stiller and hotter until it was like sitting inside an oven. So I opened the door and let him in. He showed me the different functions on the fan, helped me position it so I could sit in the stream of air while I watched through the shutters. I could see him glancing around. Taking in my tiny bureau, the pull-down bed, the curtain that leads through to the washroom. I tried not to feel shame; I knew at least that it was all tidy. And then, just as he was leaving, he asked about the photographs on my wall.

“Who’s this, here? What a beautiful child.”

“That is my daughter, Monsieur.” A note of maternal pride; it had been a while since I had felt that. “When she was younger. And here, when she was a little older.”

“They’re all of her?”

“Yes.”

He was right. She had been such a beautiful child: so much so that in our old town, in our homeland, people would stop me in the street to tell me so. And sometimes—because that’s the way in our culture—people would make the sign against the evil eye, tell me to take care: she was too beautiful, it would only bring misfortune if I wasn’t careful. If I was too proud, if I didn’t hide her away.

“What’s her name?”

“Elira.”

“She was the one who came to Paris?”

“Yes.”

“And she still lives here too?”

“No. Not any more. But I followed her here; I stayed after she had gone.”

“She must be . . . what—an actress? A model? With looks like that—”

“She was a very good dancer,” I said. I couldn’t resist. Suddenly, hearing his interest, I wanted to talk about her. It had been such a long time since I had spoken about my family. “That was what she came to Paris to do.”

I remembered the phone call, a month in. Not much email, back then, or texting. I would wait weeks for a call that would be cut short by the bleeping that would tell us she was running out of coins.

“I found a place, Mama. I can dance there. They’ll pay me good money.”

“And you’re sure it’s all right, this place? It’s safe?”

She laughed. “Yes, Mama. It’s in a good part of town. You should see the shops nearby! Fancy people go there, rich people.”



Now I watch as one of the partygoers staggers over to the nearby flowerbed, the one that has just been replanted, and relieves himself right there on the soil. Madame Meunier would be horrified if she knew, though I suspect she has rather more pressing matters to concern herself with at the moment. And usually the thought of her precious border being soaked with urine would give me a dark kind of pleasure. But this is not a normal time. Right now I am more anxious about this invasion of the building.