The Paris Apartment(77)

“You’re . . . pregnant?” Not only was she unmarried; she hadn’t mentioned any partner to me; anyone special. I was so shocked I couldn’t speak for a moment. “How many months?”

“Five months, Mama. I can’t hide it any longer. I can’t work.”

After this, all I could hear was the sound of her crying. I knew I had to say something positive.

“But I’m—I’m so happy, my darling,” I told her. “I’m going to be a grandmother. What a wonderful thing. I’ll start getting some money together.” I tried not to let her hear my panic, about how I would do this quickly enough. I would have to take on extra work—I would have to ask favors, borrow. It would take time. But I would find a way. “I’ll come to Paris,” I told her. “I’ll help you look after the baby.”

I looked at Benjamin Daniels. “It took some time, Monsieur. It was not cheap. It took me six months. But finally I had the money to come here.” I had my visa, too, which would allow me to stay for a few weeks. “I knew that she would already have had the baby, though I hadn’t heard from her for several weeks.” I had tried not to panic about this. I had tried, instead, to imagine what it would be like to hold my grandchild for the first time. “But I would be there to help her with the care; and to care for her: that was the important thing.”

“Of course.” He nodded in understanding.

“I had no home address for her, when I arrived. So I went to her place of work. I knew the name; she had told me that much. It seemed such an elegant, refined place. In the rich part of town, as she had said.

“The doorman looked at me in my poor clothes. “The entrance for the cleaners is round the back,” he said.

“I was not offended, it was only to be expected. I found the entrance, slipped inside. And, because I looked the way I did, I was invisible. No one paid me any attention, no one said I should not be there. I found the women—the girls—who had worked with my daughter, who knew her. And that was when—”

For a moment I could not speak.

“When?” he prompted, gently.

“My daughter died, Monsieur. She died in childbirth nineteen years ago. I came to work here and I have stayed ever since.”

“And the baby? Your daughter’s baby?”

“But Monsieur. Clearly you have not understood.” I took the photograph album from him and shut it back in the bureau with my relics, my treasures. The things I have collected over the years: a first tooth, a child’s shoe, a school certificate. “My granddaughter is here. It’s why I came here. Why I have worked here for all these years, in this building. I wanted to be close to her. I wanted to watch her grow up.”



A word, from behind the penthouse door, and suddenly I am wrenched back into the present. I have just distinctly heard one of them say: “Concierge.” I step backward into the gloom, treading carefully to avoid the creaking floorboards. An instinct: I should not be here. I need to get back to my cabin. Now.





Mimi





Fourth floor



I burst back into the apartment. I go straight to my room, straight to the window, stare out through the glass. It was hell, sitting up there with all of them. Talking, shouting at each other. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted so badly to be alone.

Mimi. Mimi. Mimi.

It takes a moment for me to work out where the sound is coming from. I turn around and see Camille standing there in my doorway, hands on her hips.

“Mimi?” She walks toward me, clicks her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? What are you doing?”

“Quoi?” What? I stare at her.

“You were just staring out of the window. Like some sort of zombie.” She does an impression: eyes wide, jaw hanging open. “What were you looking at?”

I shrug. I hadn’t even realized. But I must have been looking into his apartment. Old habits die hard.

“Putain, you’re scaring me, Mimi. You’ve been acting so . . . so weird.” She pauses. “Even weirder than normal.” Then she frowns, like she’s working something out. “Ever since the other night. When I came back late and you were still up. What is it?”

“Rien,” I say. It’s nothing. Why won’t she just leave me alone?

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “What happened here, before I got back that night? What’s going on with you?”

I shut my eyes, clench my fists. I can’t cope with all these questions. All this probing. I feel like I’m about to explode. With as much control as I can manage, I say: “I just . . . I need to be on my own right now, Camille. I need my own space.”

She doesn't take the hint. “Hey—was it something to do with that guy you were being so mysterious about? Did it not work out? If you’d just tell me, maybe I could help—”

I can’t take any more. The white noise is buzzing in my head. I stand up. I hate the way she’s looking at me: the concern and worry in her expression. Why can’t she just get it? I suddenly feel like I don’t want to see her face any more. Like it would be much better if she weren’t here at all.

“Just shut up! Fous le camp!” Fuck off. “Just—just leave me alone.”

She takes a step back.