The Radiant City (24 page)

Matthew speaks first. “I don’t know. I got an advance from a publisher. I start things. I can’t seem to finish them.”

“It must be very hard, writing.” She sits down and leans toward him.

He speaks with his head hanging. “No. Sulphur mining, or coal mining, that’s hard. Tarring a road when it’s a hundred and twenty degrees out is hard. Working in a sawmill is hard. Being a ship breaker in Indonesia – now that’s hard.”

“Yes. Of course—”

“You know what Katherine Anne Porter said? I’m paraphrasing, but basically she said that human life is pure chaos, and the job of the artist—the only thing he’s good for, incidentally—is to work that confusion into order. No one understands what’s happening to them as it’s happening, right? So writers have to remember for other people. We have to sift through experience until our disparate selves are reconciled, and by sharing it, offer the same opportunity for reconciliation to others. It’s our duty. What do you think of that?”

“I think you should eat something.”

“I think it’s bullshit.” He blinks. “What did you say?”

“I said that I think you should eat something.”

Matthew laughs then and, even if it is not a very good laugh, but only something that scrapes the surface of sound, Saida feels better.

“Why not come over and have some food? I will cook for you.”

“I don’t think I can handle being around too many people just yet, Saida. Thanks, though.”

“I do not want to be too pushy, but I think maybe you would feel better if you went out. Being around people you do not know is sometimes easier than people you do. There is a
crepe
place around the corner if you do not want to go to my restaurant. I will not be offended. Sometimes I have had enough of my own cooking, too. It will do me good. It will be a break for me.”

“You are rather pushy, you know that?”

“So Joseph tells me. And Ramzi. And my father, too.”

“They usually do what you tell them?”

“Eventually. I am usually right.”

He laughs again, a better laugh.

Encouraged, she says, “Yes, I think we should go for a walk, and then you should eat.”

“I’m not much up for it. Honestly, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. I just tied one on and need some sleep.”

“You are a worse liar than Joseph, besides I want to talk to you about him.”

“About Joseph?”

“I am a mother. My son is very important to me. I worry about him, too. And he likes you. I want your advice.”

“You are not only pushy. You are stubborn.”

“Yes, this is also true.”

“Oh, fuck it,” He says and shuffles off to the shower, muttering all the way about meddlesome women. His voice is not harsh, however, and it makes her smile.

After a moment Saida hears the water running, hears him blowing his nose. The walls are very thin and the intimate proximity to a man she is not related to distresses her. She takes a small pad and pencil out of her purse and makes a list of things she must buy for her father. Dish detergent. Toilet paper. Oranges. The noise from the bathroom continues—wet noises of skin and soap. She cannot concentrate and would feel better doing something, but fears if she begins to tidy that it will offend him. And besides, this too, is personal. The things of a man, the sounds of a man, so near, and naked in the shower. She adds to the list for her father. Milk. Kasha.

When Matthew reappears, he wears a clean white shirt and black jeans. His skin is pale against the snowy cotton, but he looks scrubbed, if not pressed.

“Good,” she says, relieved to see him back in an acceptable shell. “Now that is better, yes?”

Grumpily, he agrees.

When they are out on the street, she says, “I will just tell my father and Joseph. Wait.”

Elias sits at the counter and she is surprised to see Ramzi serving customers. They are not too busy. Three tables.

“How is he?” says Joseph.

“Sad. Fragile.”

“Is he coming in?” says Ramzi.

“No. I am going for a walk with him. He needs fresh air.”

“Now?” says Ramzi.

“You can handle the place by yourself. I manage by myself when you are not here. It is your turn.”

“Fine. No need to raise your voice,” says Ramzi, as he slices chicken off the cone of meat slowing turning on the grill.

“And besides, Joseph can help.”

“I’m going out.”

“Where out?”

“Out-out. Now that Uncle Ramzi’s here. You don’t need me.”

“I want you here when I get back.”

Joseph merely shrugs.

“You are going out with him?” Her father looks first to Saida and then to Matthew, who waits outside on the street, on the far sidewalk, with his back to them. “He is not coming here?”

“I will be back soon,” she says, kissing him.

“He’s okay though?” says Joseph.

“I will try and bring him back later,” she says and she kisses him, too.

As they walk, she can see the movement is doing Matthew good. His blood seems to be flowing again.

“Hear that? My stomach. I am hungry,” he says.

His eyes still blink as though they hurt, probably from so much time spent in the dark and, even though the day is dull, he pulls sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on. They have to dodge people, as the sidewalk is narrow, and now and then he guides her with his hand on her arm.

The tiny restaurant is warm and steamy, and they get a spot in the corner near the window. The tables are rough-hewn wood and on the ceiling the old beams are exposed and have taken on a patina from years of steam and cooking grease. Matthew orders a crepe with ham and cheese and tomatoes; Saida orders one with tuna and olives and they both ask for warm cider and a small salad. In a few short minutes, they are tucking in.

“So, what is it about Joseph?” he says.

“I do not know him anymore. I do not know where he goes, or who he sees. I do not know where he gets this money.”

“He’s a teenager. You’re not supposed to know him. As I understand it, your job as the parent of a teenager is merely to embarrass him.”

“I think he is spending time with your friend, Jack. I am sure I saw him the other day, in Barbès, when Joseph said he was going to play soccer. But there was no soccer.”

“Have you talked to Joseph?”

“He does not talk to me anymore. I ask him where he is going; all he says is, ‘out.’” Saida is afraid that now she might be the one who cries. She puts down her fork and smoothes the napkin across her lap. When she looks up again, their eyes meet.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him. Jack, I mean. I can talk to Joseph too, if you want.”

“I would appreciate it.” She picks an olive up in her fingers and nibbles at it, depositing the pit on her plate. “Now, your turn. If you want to tell me what bothers you. I will listen.”

“I’m all right.”

“Have you ever noticed how much time you spend with your hand up in front of your mouth?” says Saida. She mimics him, three fingers curled over her mouth, the index finger held straight under her nose -- like someone afraid of what she might say, and afraid of what she might breathe in.

Matthew puts his hand on the table and wills it to stay there; then he runs his fingers through his hair and tucks his hand under his left arm. “Seems to have a mind of its own,” he says.

A look passes over his face then, as if he is considering something. “I feel better, though,” he says, and still the look on his face is difficult to read. “That’s down to you, I think.”

Saida waits, hoping he might yet confide in her.

“Maybe I could do with a little more than listening; maybe we both could.”

Matthew reaches out and runs his fingers along the side of her face. Saida jerks back in her chair.

“No. You have misunderstood,” she says, somewhat more loudly than she had intended.

He draws his hand back as though her cheek were flame.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Neither do I.”

She thinks she will get up then, and leave him there. Leave him to his dark moods.

“Saida, forgive me. I’m an ass. I’m not myself. It’s a guy reflex. There’s no excuse . . . I’m really sorry.”

He looks devastated, blasted with shame. He looks as though he is as shocked by his behaviour as she is. It is almost funny. Almost.

“Perhaps it does have a mind of its own,” she says.

Then they laugh a little; she does not get up and leave him there. They drink coffee and talk about whether or not Ramzi will actually leave one day, and whether he has a girlfriend and about how grey the days in Paris can be, and how the tourists still flock there, filling the sidewalks and the cafés of St. Germain, lining up outside the museums in their sensible shoes and baseball caps, insisting on going up to the windy Eiffel Tower when everyone else is huddled over cups of
chocolate
chaud
in the humid cafés.

When she leaves him an hour later in front of his door, she believes him when he says he feels better and that he will stop by and see Joseph tomorrow. She believes him when he says again how sorry he is.

“Never mind,” she says. “We will not talk about it.”

And that is how she intends to handle it, this thing that did not happen.

Joseph is not there when she returns. “Where did he go?”

“Out to meet some friends,” says Ramzi. “Leave him be. It is his age. How is Matthew?”

“He will live, I think,” she says. “It is what happened to him in Israel. He is still quite sick I think.”

“He is not very strong, is he?” Her brother says this as though he would have been stronger.

“And how would you be?”

He shrugs. “You move on.”

It is Ramzi’s way, this moving on. Always away from something. Saida knows what he does not: that he is not that strong either. She knows he is moving away from half-remembered images, whispered stories told at night when he was supposed to be sleeping. He was only a little boy when they left Lebanon. He remembers only in the bones, in the muscles that twitch to escape. She was older, she remembers more and maybe that is better after all, to know what it is that makes you what you are. A woman’s way more than a man’s, she thinks, all this sorting, sifting, and measuring out the feelings of a life.

Finally, Ramzi is satisfied that there is no more to learn and they go back to their work. If he looks at her with unasked questions, she does not feel the need to offer explanations. He would like it if she found another man, someone to take his place here in the restaurant, someone to take hold of the end of the rope as he cuts himself free.

A pang twists like a sharp-clawed lizard in her stomach. They are a family broken. Other families cleave to each other in exile from their homeland. They cluster together at their church, Notre Dame de Liban, on rue d’Ulm. They hold each other closer because the world has become so wide. But the Ferhats are scattering. They are birds chasing seeds flying on the wind. In Lebanon, there was a celebration for everything, bringing everyone together, and there was work done together—like when the woman made
kechck
powder to cook in the winter with the lamb. Drying it on the roofs, grinding it, always together, talking, their voices like music. Here there was only the rustle of Ramzi’s newspapers and her father’s baffled expression.

Where does Matthew come from? Where are his people? All these people in Paris, wanderers without connection either to the place or to anyone else. It seems such a lonely life. How do you know yourself loved if there are only strangers around you, only the friends of this season? Saida keeps an eye on Matthew’s windows, hoping to see them thrown back. It would be nice to feel she had made that happen, made him turn away from the dark loneliness inside him.

Except for the one shutter he opened when she was in the apartment, they stay closed, and then his hand reaches out and that one closes as well. Without realizing she is doing it, her hand goes to her cheek. Then she shakes her head. Foolish thoughts. No one saves anyone else. They swim or sink alone.

The next morning Matthew wakes up and, for the first time in a week, does not automatically reach for something to make him go back to sleep. He turns on the television and sees that no more bombs have gone off in Paris. Security is tight. Hundreds of soldiers and police patrol the streets carrying machine guns. Train stations, airports, the metro stations, all filled with law enforcement personnel.
Vigipirate,
the French emergency vigilance plan, is in effect and authorities caution commuters to be aware of any suspicious activities or items.