The Radiant City (10 page)

“I have to go,” he says.

“Stay for dinner,” Elias says, his leathery face a mass of wrinkles when he smiles. “We make lemon chicken and spinach. Very good. Tell him, Saida.”

“I’d love to but I can’t.” He is shy, suddenly, at the comfort he feels here, does not entirely trust it, and is therefore happy to have dinner at Anthony’s to use as an excuse.

“You come back, then?” says Joseph.

“Sure.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Joseph, do not be rude. Mr. Matthew is very busy,” says Ramzi.

“I’ll come back soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Good,” says Joseph, rubbing his head. “I’ll be here.”

As Matthew leaves, Saida calls out, “Thank you.”

Anthony lives in a rented house on a tiny road known as Villa des Tulipes, in the upper 18th arrondissement, at the porte de Clignancourt. From the metro, Matthew crosses rue Belliard, at the edge of the great flea market, Les Puces, through the throng of North Africans and Arabs selling everything from roasted corn on the cob to carpets from the back of vans. He finds Villa des Tulipes and as he turns onto it, is taken by the sense of calm on the tiny street. It is very old, and cobblestoned, the surface beneath his feet curving in an aged hump. Too narrow, really, for cars. If he reaches his arms out he can probably touch the iron fences and concrete steps on either side. The lane is a comfortably shabby assortment of small attached cottages, mostly one storey, but some with two, and is lit by the buttery light from old-fashioned street lamps.

Anthony lives on the bottom floor of one of the cottages, which is painted sky blue with dark green trim. A fig tree and a lilac bush grow in the postage-stamp garden. From an open window drifts laughter, the smell of roasting meat, and Etta James’s barrelhouse voice singing “At Last.” Matthew flips the latch on the gate, crosses the tiny garden and knocks.

Suzi opens the door and kisses him on both cheeks. She smells of roses and beneath that, something tangy, like lemons. She wears no wig and her hair is dark, cut in the short gamine style of Paris. She looks at least five years younger than usual, and Matthew realizes she is wearing almost no makeup other than a little lipstick. Her skin is pale and she has a few blemishes
.

“Come on in. You are the last.”

Matthew can’t help but notice her eyes. The pupils are extremely small.

“Sorry I’m late. Hey, Jack.”

“Hey. Good to see you. Suzi, get out of the way and let him in.”

The entranceway is indeed so small that there is no room for the two of them. Suzi smiles and steps back. “Anthony is in the kitchen,” she says. “So are we.” Matthew follows her.

The walls in the hall are painted midnight blue and decorated with gold-foil stars. The kitchen, which Matthew can see at the end of the hall, is warm, pale terracotta. The floor throughout is wooden. To the right is a small bedroom, the walls painted a serene shade of mossy green. Peeking in, he sees a large wooden cross hanging on the far wall over the futon bed, a bronze Buddha in the corner and stacks and stacks of books.

The kitchen is really part kitchen and part everything else. The back wall is made up almost entirely of paned glass and looks out onto a garden only slightly larger than the one at the front, in which an ancient-looking olive tree grows. A low wall, topped with metal fencing, backs the garden, beyond that are apartments, but at some distance. Matthew assumes the rail tracks run between the apartments and the house, and that the house is built on the side of the drop. At the right side of the back wall is a fair-sized alcove that houses the refrigerator, the stove, sink and the door that leads to the outside.

Anthony stands at the pot-cluttered stove, wearing a large white apron. The room itself is furnished with a low table, surrounded by cushions, at which sit two Asian girls. There is also a futon sofa covered in a colourful blanket and more cushions. Jack has taken possession of a big, battered leather chair near the back window, next to yet another pile of books and a reading lamp. Suzi dangles herself on the arm of the chair. In fact, all of her dangles, her legs, her arms, as though her spine is liquid. An intricately carved Moroccan lantern hangs from the ceiling.

“Matthew! Great to have you here!” Anthony comes toward him, waving a wooden spoon. “Let me introduce you. You know Suzi and Jack, and this is Paweena.” He squats down next to a dainty girl sitting on a cushion at the table, and dressed in a turquoise sweater with a high collar that frames her face. She is in her early twenties, perhaps twenty-five, her skin a mix of saffron and toffee. “Paweena, this is Matthew, the guy I told you about. He’s a journalist, right? He was in Rwanda and Bosnia—just about every place.”

“Nice to meet you,” Matthew says, shaking her extended hand.

“Hi,” Paweena says. Her hand is soft and cool and limp. “This is Jariya.”

“Hello, Jariya. Pretty name.”

“Thank you,” says the girl, as she spits out an olive pit into her palm before dropping it into the ashtray on the table. She has slightly bucked teeth. They give her an overly eager quality that doesn’t blend with her eyes, which are as hard as black tacks. She makes no move to extend her hand and neither does Matthew. Jariya lights a cigarette and plays with a cheap pink lighter, twirling it on the top of the table.

“We are just now talking about Paweena’s new apartment,” says Suzi. Matthew notices that Jack has his hand along Suzi’s thigh, covering her knee. He notices too, that there is something tricky in Suzi’s voice. He looks at Anthony, who has his arm around Paweena, and he can’t help but notice that Paweena is leaning slightly away from him, with a strange smile on her face.

“There is a new set of dishes I saw. I want them and Anthony, he’s going to buy them for me. And curtains. I need curtains.”

“Sure, baby,” says Anthony. He gets up and goes back to the stove.

Matthew notices that the doors have been taken off the kitchen cabinets, so that all one has to do is scan the shelves to see what’s available.

“What’s cooking?” Matthew’s nose is practically twitching with the smells. Spices of some sort under the meat. Thyme? Nutmeg?

“Thought I’d do something for the hunting season.
Sanglier
. Wild boar. Marinated in wine and spices for two days. Potatoes gratin. Salad. Recipes from the Haute Savoie region.”

“
Sanglier
?
Really? Damn. I’m starving just thinking about it,” Matthew says, and Anthony beams.

“Grab a seat, Matthew. Help yourself to some wine.” Anthony points to an open bottle on the table.

“Thanks. So, where you girls from?” Matthew says.

“Thailand,” says Paweena.

“Thailand?” says Jack. “That’s not what Anthony said.”

“Where he say we from?”

Anthony comes over and joins them at the table, folding his long legs easily.

“Someplace else,” Jack mutters. Suzi gets up and sits next to Matthew.

“Where’d I say?”

Paweena takes Anthony’s jaw in her hand and brings his lips to hers. Then she turns to Matthew and says, “You ever been to Bangkok?”

Suzi snorts.

“Yup. I’ve been there.”

“Lot’s of Americans they think Thailand nothing but sex trade and cheap drugs.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Uh-huh,” she says.

“You married?” says Jariya.

“Married? Uh, no.”

“Everybody hungry?” says Anthony, rising, and they all agree they are.

The food is splendid. The boar is served with a gravy
deglacé
and
“les
herbes
,” greens baked with currants, lemon juice and a breadcrumb crust. The potatoes are thickly layered with cream. The salad has walnuts in it.

As dinner goes on and the wine flows, Matthew enjoys himself. Suzi sits between him and Jack and graces them with equal attention, a smile here, a nudge of the thigh there, a hand on the shoulder, a whisper. She asks Jack about what it is like working at the hostel and where does he go to take photos. She asks Matthew about where he is from and what Nova Scotia is like. Anthony sits on the other side of the table, book-ended by the Asian girls. Jariya looks sullen and tries, unsuccessfully, to catch Matthew’s attention more than once. They all compliment Anthony, who radiates pleasure and keeps up a running commentary on where the best butchers are and how to properly treat wild meats and why a light red wine is best with this meal. From time to time, Matthew catches Paweena staring thoughtfully at him.

As they move on to the dessert course, Matthew excuses himself to use the toilet. He walks up the hall and cannot resist peeking into Anthony’s bedroom. As well as the Buddha, wooden cross and the Ganesh, smiling and elephant-headed, sits on a small table next to a pair of candles in gold altar sticks. A Thai spirit house with oranges, incense and a shallow bowl of water in front of it perches on the windowsill. He picks up one of the books that lie scattered about
. Thomas Merton: Spiritual Master
. He notices the
Bible,
and a book called
Of Water and Spirit
, by someone called Malidoma Patrice Somé about the life of an African shaman.
The Koran. The Upanishads. The Mishomis Book,
which, he learns from scanning the cover, is about the Midewiwin religion of the Ojibway people. There are works by Tagore, Chuang Tzu, Martin Burber and Loren Eisley. So many books. The room feels like sacred space. Matthew backs out, and hopes no one has seen him invade it.

On the wall in the hallway is a black-and-white photo. He stops to take a closer look. It is of the tango dancers in the park by the Seine. Matthew remembers the dancers. The man holds the woman in the small of her back, their hands high over their heads. The woman is bent backward. The dress she wears has a tear under the arm through which a patch of dark hair is visible. The cords in her neck stand out even though her face is passive. The man looks as if he might sink his teeth into her. The light is filtered through the awning overhead, and at the same time reflects from the Seine below, making the faces both clear and softened
.

When Matthew comes back to the main room it is evident that if Suzi had played no favourites early, she has now made her decision. She reclines between Jack’s legs, leaning against his chest. His arms are folded around her and he smiles lazily at Matthew. Matthew raises his glass in a toast to them both and Suzi giggles. Other changes have taken place as well. Paweena has moved and now sits between Jariya and Anthony.

“Did you take that photo in the hall?” Matthew says to Jack.

“Yup.”

“Here’s to you. It’s good. Better than good.” He raises his glass again.

“A change from all the dead body shots, huh?”

They finish dinner with an apple
tarte
and caramel ice cream. Matthew hums along to Ry Cooder singing “Trouble, You Can’t Fool Me.” They are sipping coffee and brandy when Paweena says “I have it now.” She keeps her eyes on Matthew and he feels an icicle twist along his spine.

“Have what, baby?” says Anthony.

“Where I know Matthew from. Jariya, you know who this is. This is the reporter who was shot in Israel.”

“Wasn’t me,” says Matthew as Jariya’s head snaps toward him.

“Shit,” says Jack.

“Yes. Was you. I remember very good. You think you were Superman or something. Stepped in front of the bullets.” She laughs. “Very foolish man.”

“Hey, you that guy?” says Anthony.

“Wasn’t me.” He looks over at Jack, who meets his gaze.

“Man says it wasn’t him,” says Jack.

Matthew looks around the table into the faces of the people who, with the exception of Jack, instantly revert to strangers, all illusion of friendship shattered. Anthony regards him with open admiration, Paweena and Jariya with something like ghoulish curiosity, Suzi with slight embarrassment. What do they know about it? A father. A child. Gunfire. Dust and blood. The taste in the mouth like sharp pennies. The way the world dissolved in the noise. A gun within reach. The possibilities contained in the gun. Death and silence.

“Tell us about it,” says Paweena, cocking her head and smiling.

The stem of the wineglass snaps. There is a skin-pop and then pain stitches through Matthew’s palm. Wine spatters across the table. Blood drips, and someone shrieks.

“Put this around it,” says Suzi and wraps her napkin around his hand.

“Sorry.”

Matthew gets up and goes to the bathroom as Jack whispers something to Suzi.

“I’ll get a bandage.” Anthony starts to rise.

“No, let me,” says Suzi as she disengages herself from Jack’s arms.

While Matthew stands dripping over the sink, Suzi rummages in the medicine cabinet until she finds what she needs. Her small breasts strain against her T-shirt. The lace in her bra is outlined. She pushes up her sleeves and Matthew sees marks on her inner arm. She catches him looking, cocks an eyebrow and he looks away. She takes his hand in hers and efficiently but gently cleans out the wound, which is narrow but deep. She puts the bandage over it.