The Paris Apartment(5)

I stare at Cindy, the black bruise-like shadows around her eyes, the jagged line of her hair which is kind of like my own, since I took a pair of scissors to it. It feels like looking in a mirror.

I turn to the window, look down into the courtyard. The lights are on in the concierge’s cabin. Of course: that nosy old bitch never misses a trick. Creeping out from shadowy corners. Always watching, always there. Looking at you like she knows all your secrets.

This building is a U-shape around the courtyard. My bedroom is at one end of the U, so if I peer diagonally downward I can see into his apartment. Nearly every evening for the last two months he sat there at his desk working late into the night, the lights on. For just a moment I let myself look. The shutters are open but the lights are off and the space behind the desk looks more than empty, or like the emptiness itself has a kind of depth and weight. I glance away.

I slide down from my bed and tiptoe out into the main part of the apartment, trying not to trip over all the stuff Camille leaves scattered around like it’s an extension of her bedroom: magazines and dropped sweaters, dirty coffee cups, nail varnish pots, lacy bras. From the big windows in here I’ve got a direct view of the front entrance. As I watch, the gate opens. A shadowy figure slips through the gap. As she comes forward into the light I can make her out: a woman I have never seen before. No, I say silently. No no no no no. Go away. The roar in my head grows louder.

“Did you hear that knocking?”

I spin around. Putain. Camille’s lounging there on the couch, cigarette glowing in her hand, boots up on the armrest: faux-snakeskin with five-inch heels. When did she get in? How long has she been lurking there in the dark?

“I thought you were out,” I say. Normally, if she goes clubbing, she stays till dawn.

“Oui.” She shrugs, takes a drag on her cigarette. “I’ve only been back twenty minutes.” Even in the gloom I see how her eyes slide away from mine. Normally she’d be straight into some story about the crazy new club she’s been at, or the guy whose bed she’s just left, including an overly detailed description of his dick or exactly how skilled he was at using it. I’ve often felt like I’m living vicariously through Camille. Grateful someone like her would choose to hang out with me. When we met at the Sorbonne she told me she likes collecting people, that I interested her because I have this “intense energy.” But when I’ve felt worse about myself I’ve suspected this apartment probably has more to do with it.

“Where have you been?” I ask, trying to sound halfway normal.

She shrugs. “Just around.”

I feel like there’s something going on with her, something she’s not telling me. But right now I can’t think about Camille. The roaring in my head suddenly feels like it’s drowning out all my thoughts.

There’s just one thing I know. Everything that has happened here happened because of him: Benjamin Daniels.





Jess




I’m standing in a small, dark courtyard. The apartment building proper wraps around it on three sides. The ivy has gone crazy here, winding up almost to the fourth floor, surrounding all the windows, swallowing drainpipes, a couple of satellite dishes. Ahead a short path winds between flowerbeds planted with dark shrubs and trees. I can smell the sweetish scent of dead leaves, fresh-turned earth. To my right there’s a sort of cabin structure, only a bit bigger than a garden shed. The two windows seem to be shuttered. On one side a tiny chink of light shows through a crack.

In the opposite corner I make out a door, which seems to lead into the main part of the building. I head that way along the path. As I do a pale face looms suddenly out of the darkness on my right. I stop short. But it’s the statue of a nude woman, life-size, her body wound about with more black ivy, her eyes staring and blank.

The door in the corner of the courtyard has another passcode, but it clicks open with the same set of numbers, thank God. I step through it into a dark, echoing space. A stairwell winds upward into deeper darkness. I find the little orange glow of a light switch on the wall, flick it. The lights hum on, dimly. A ticking sound: some sort of energy-saving timer maybe. I can see now that there’s a dark reddish carpet beneath my feet, covering a stone floor then climbing up the polished wooden staircase. Above me the bannister coils around on itself and inside the staircase there’s a lift shaft—a tiny, ancient, rickety-looking capsule that might be as old as the apartment itself, so ancient-looking I wonder if it’s actually still in use. There’s a trace of stale cigarette smoke on the air. Still, all pretty posh, all a long, long way from the place I’ve been crashing at in Brighton.

There’s a door to the left of me: Cave, it says. I’ve never let a closed door stay closed for long: I suppose you could say that’s my main problem in life. I give it a push, see a flight of steps leading down. I’m hit by a waft of cold underground air, damp and musty.

I hear a noise then, somewhere above me. The creak of wood. I let the door swing shut and glance up. Something moves along the wall several flights up. I wait to see someone appear around the corner, in the gaps between the bannisters. But the shadow stops, as though waiting for something. And then suddenly everything goes dark: the timer must have run out. I reach over, flick it back on.

The shadow’s gone.

I walk over to the lift in its metal cage. It’s definitely on the antique side, but I’m too exhausted to even think about lugging my stuff up those stairs. There’s barely room for me and the suitcase inside. I close the little door, press the button for the third floor, put a hand against the structure to steady myself. It gives under the pressure of my palm; I hastily pull my hand away. There’s a bit of a shudder as the lift sets off; I catch my breath.