The Paris Apartment(76)

They are all in there, in the penthouse: all apart from him, the head of the family. I could have taken the back staircase—I use it sometimes to keep watch—but the acoustics are much better from here. I can’t hear everything they’re saying but every so often I catch hold of a word or a phrase.

One of them says his name: Benjamin Daniels. I press a little closer to the door. They are talking about the girl now, too. I think about that hungry, interested, bright way about her. Something in her manner. She reminds me of her brother, yes. But also of my daughter. Not in looks, of course: no one could match my daughter in looks.



One day, when the heat had begun to dissipate I invited Benjamin Daniels into my cabin for tea. I told myself it was because I had to show my gratitude for the fan. But really I wanted company. I had not realized how lonely I had been until he showed an interest. I had lost the shame I had felt at first about my meager way of living. I had begun to enjoy the companionship.

He glanced again at the photographs on the walls as he sat cradling his glass of tea. “Elira: have I got that right? Your daughter’s name?”

I stared at him. I could not believe he had remembered. It touched me. “That’s correct, Monsieur.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” he said.

“It means ‘the free one.’”

“Oh—in what language?”

I paused. “Albanian.” This was the first thing I trusted him with. From this detail he might have been able to guess my status here, in France. I watched him carefully.

He simply smiled and nodded. “I’ve been to Tirana. It’s a wonderful city—so vibrant.”

“I have heard that . . . but I don’t know it well. I’m from a small village, on the Adriatic coast.”

“Do you have any pictures?”

A hesitation. But what harm could it do? I went to my tiny bureau, took out my album. He sat down in the seat across from me. I noticed he took care not to disturb the photographs as he turned the pages, as though handling something very precious.

“I wish I had something like this,” he said, suddenly. “I don’t know what happened to the photos, from when I was small. But then again I don’t know if I could look—”

He stopped. I sensed some hidden reservoir of pain. Then, as though he had forgotten it—or wanted to forget it—he pointed at a photograph. “Look at this! The color of that sea!”

I followed his gaze. Looking at it I could smell the wild thyme, the salt in the air.

He glanced up. “I remember you said you followed your daughter to Paris. But she isn’t here any longer?”

I saw his gaze flicker around the cabin. I heard the unspoken question. It wasn’t as though I had left poverty at home for a life of riches here. Why would a person abandon their life for this?

“I did not intend to stay,” I said. “Not at first.”

I glanced up at the wall of photographs. Elira looked out at me—at five, at twelve, at seventeen—the beauty growing, changing, but the smile always the same. The eyes the same. I could remember her at the breast as an infant: dark eyes looking up at me with such brightness, an intelligence beyond her years. When I spoke it was not to him but to her image.

“I came here because I was worried about her.”

He leaned forward. “Why?”

I glanced at him. For a moment I had almost forgotten he was there. I hesitated. I had never spoken to anyone about this. But he seemed so interested, so concerned. And there was that pain I had sensed in him. Before, even when he had shown me the little kindnesses and attentions, I had seen him as one of them. A different species. Rich, entitled. But that his pain made him human.

“She forgot to call when she said she would. And when I eventually heard from her she didn’t sound the same.” I looked at the photographs. “I—” I tried to find a way to describe it. “She told me she was busy, she was working hard. I tried not to mind. I tried to be happy for her.”

But I knew. With a mother’s instinct, I knew something was wrong. She sounded bad. Hoarse, ill. But worse than that she sounded vague; not like herself. Every time we had spoken before I felt her close to me, despite the hundreds of miles between us. Now I could feel her slipping away. It frightened me.

I took a breath. “The next time she called was a few weeks later.”

All I could hear at first were gasps of air. Then finally I could make out the words: “I’m so ashamed, Mama. I’m so ashamed. The place—it’s a bad place. Terrible things happen there. They’re not good people. And . . .’ The next part was so muffled I could not make it out. And then I realized she was crying; crying so hard she could not speak. I gripped the phone tight enough that my hand hurt.

“I can’t hear you, my darling.”

“I said . . . I said I’m not a good person, either.”

“You are a good person,” I told her, fiercely. “I know you: and you’re mine and you’re good.”

“I’m not, Mama. I’ve done terrible things. And I can’t even work there any longer.”

“Why not?”

A long pause. So long that I began to wonder if we had been cut off. “I’m pregnant, Mama.”

I thought I hadn’t heard her properly at first.