The Radiant City (8 page)

“Hello?”

“Matthew!” Brent. Only Brent pronounces his name “Mat-you.”

“Hey, Brent.”

“Don’t hey me. What did you write today?”

“I’m working.”

“So send me something.”

“Fine, I’ll send you something.”

“You said that last week.”

“And I sent you a chapter.”

“I didn’t get it. Big surprise. You didn’t overnight it.”

“French mail is whimsical.”

“I’m laughing.”

“I like to make you happy.”

Brent heaves a huge sigh. “Listen, Matthew. Listen to me. You got an advance. A very nice advance. Your editor is expecting to see something from this. You are not an international charity. If you don’t start producing—”

“I am producing. I’m just not ready to show anything yet.”

“This isn’t fiction, Matthew, where timing doesn’t matter. Timing matters. You’re hot for only so long and then somebody else comes along and does something else that everybody’s talking about and nobody remembers you. If nobody remembers you, nobody buys the book, get it?”

It is Matthew’s turn to sigh. “I get it. I get it, Brent. And really, I am working. It’s just a little rough yet. I want to impress them, you know?” His insincerity is like thistles in his throat.

“Impress the hell out of us. Write something.”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t make me come over there, Matthew.”

“See you, Brent. I’ll get you something in the next couple of days.”

All the way over to the 20th on the metro, Matthew mutters to himself about avaricious agents and bloodsucking publishers. The seat next to him remains empty.

When he arrives at the bar, someone calls out to him. “Hey Matthew, over here!”

His eyes have not adjusted and he cannot make out the face, but he knows Jack’s voice.

“Hey,” he says, blinking and squinting into the smoky gloom. Soon he can make out Jack’s bulk, sitting at his usual table with his back to the wall. “I’ll get a drink. You want one?”

“Draught,” says Jack. “And bring a Coke for my pal, Anthony.”

“Hey,” says another voice.

“Fair enough.”

Matthew orders two beers and a Coke from Dan who pours them into thick glass mugs and hands them over without saying a word. There is a tired-looking woman sitting at the end of the bar, her blond wig slightly askew. Matthew nods and she smiles back. It takes him a moment to realize it is Suzi, the girl wearing the black wig the first time he came to the Bok-Bok. “Nice look for you,” he says. “I like it.”

“You’re sweet. You buy me a drink, too?” She pats the seat next to her.

“Get Suzi whatever she wants, okay, Dan?”

Suzi gets up and comes over to him. Although he has lied about how flattering the wig is, it strikes him, not for the first time, what a pretty woman she is. Her eyes are huge and look even larger because of the dark circles underneath. Her mouth is very small, and overall she looks like a girl from another time, from the twenties, perhaps, when Betty Boop was the It girl.

“
Coupe de champagne,”
she says. “You join me, yes?”

“Maybe later, okay? I have to deliver drinks to the boys.”

“Let me know, Matthew.” She pronounces it in the French way,
Matte-u
—which, although similar to Brent’s pronunciation is infinitely more pleasing to the ear. She runs her green painted fingernail under his chin. “
Merci
,” she says and toasts him with her drink. Dan snorts.

Matthew makes his way through the tables, most of which are empty. John and Charlie sit together, as always, and, as always, before the end of the evening they will be arguing loudly. Three men Matthew has not seen before scribble something on the back of a paper napkin, and whisper. As he walks past, they stop talking and cover up the napkin. Matthew ignores them.

Jack takes his beer, drinks and wipes foam from his moustache. Three mugs stand empty on the table. Next to him is a man almost as large, wearing a broad-shouldered black leather coat. His forehead is high and his hair black, cut close to the scalp. His skin is the colour of red rice and strong tea. He wears an open, unguarded expression, which is unusual in a place like this. When he smiles, which he does as soon as Matthew approaches, his gums are predominant, and his teeth disproportionately small. There is no defence against such a sincere smile, and Matthew immediately smiles back.

“Thanks. I’ll get the next round,” says Anthony, and he holds out his hand for Matthew to shake.

“Pleased to meet you,” says Matthew.

“Anthony’s been down south in Marseilles.”

“Ah,” says Matthew.

“Anthony used to be a cop in New York City.”

“Tough place to be a cop,” says Matthew. He has trouble reconciling this occupation with the man who sits before him.

“All places are tough when you’re a cop. It was a long time ago.” He reaches up and taps his head. “Wound up with a metal plate.”

“Ouch.” Matthew winces.

“I was moonlighting as a guard at Bellevue. One of the inmates got all whacked out and picked up this big table.
Whammo!
Cold-cocked me.”

“Jesus,” says Matthew.

“I don’t remember it.”

“Anthony was in a coma for, what, two weeks?”

“Thirteen days. When I woke up there were these spaces where things used to be. Can’t plan things or remember some things like I used to. And I can’t drink the way I used to. I’m better than I was. Some headaches, dizziness. Been eleven years. Now mostly I just have trouble with new situations. Like, when I’m traveling, right, I can read the train ticket fine, and I can read the station board where they list the track numbers. Problem is, sometimes I can’t figure out how one thing relates to the other. Connection synapses don’t fire.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s stupid, though,” says Jack.

“Well, no stupider than before.” Anthony smiles. “I just like to tell new people what’s what, so they don’t draw the wrong conclusions if I draw a memory blank. Worse thing isn’t the head though, it’s numbness.” He flexes his fingers a few times. “Nerve damage. Not exactly conducive to handling a firearm. Not that I want to do that anymore. If I never see a gun again—fine by me.”

“Hell of a story,” says Matthew.

“It’s not a story.” Anthony looks puzzled.

“No, I didn’t mean that it wasn’t true, just that it’s hard.”

“I guess. But I got off light. You should have seen some of the guys in the head ward. Acting like five year olds in a grown man’s body, or couldn’t walk, or talk. Naw, a little confusion, a little numbness, it’s all right. I get a check from the city of New York. I get to come to Paris and all. I’m studying food. That’s what I was doing in the south, but it didn’t work out. I got a job as a kitchen grunt. A crappy job, but it was a start. Good restaurant. But I didn’t catch on fast enough.”

“Sorry to hear that,” says Matthew, but Anthony just shrugs.

“Language problem is the way I choose to see it. I make it a practice not to hang on to resentments. Keep calm. Kind of a vow I took when my life derailed. No more violence, you know?”

Jack snorts. “Anthony had a spiritual awakening. Turned over a new leaf. I knew Anthony back in New York. Made a fair penny together back in the day.”

“Long time ago,” says Anthony and he drops his eyes.

“Aw, don’t get all remorseful,” says Jack, punching him in the shoulder. “That was then. Now we’re just three guys in Paris, right? No pasts.”

“At least not in here,” says Anthony. “Think that’s why I took to this place, the first time Jack brought me.”

“I’ll drink to that,” says Matthew.

Suzi passes their table on the way to the toilet and ruffles Jack’s hair.

“Jack’s got a girlfriend,” Anthony says.

“Grow the fuck up,” says Jack.

“Suzi’s all right,” says Matthew.

“Hell, yes. No problem there,” says Jack. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.”

“Yours for the asking, I’d say.” Matthew takes a long pull of his beer.

“Mine for the paying, actually. And I don’t pay.”

“I don’t think she’d make you pay. She likes you,” says Anthony, then smiles. “I got a girlfriend. Vietnamese girl.”

“Anthony’s new romance.” Jack looks amused.

“What’s her name?” says Matthew.

“Pawena. In fact, you should meet her. Come over for dinner. I’m going to cook and Jack’s coming. What do you say?”

“Sure, why not? Thanks for the offer.”

“Jack, you working at the hostel Saturday night?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, Saturday night then.” With that, Suzi comes out of the bathroom, and Anthony reaches out and takes her hand. “Suzi, you want to come to dinner with us? At my place? I’m cooking. You can meet my girlfriend.”

“You want me to come to dinner?”

“You working Saturday night?”

“She always works nights, asshole,” says Jack.

Suzi arches an eyebrow and puts her hand on her hip. “This Saturday I will take off. Can you really cook?”

“I can cook.”

“I would love to come for dinner. Give me the address.”

Anthony gives her an address and she whistles. “Oh-la-la! You live in an area I know very well. Good area for girls.”

Anthony throws his head back and laughs. “Not on my street!”

When she walks away, Jack slaps Anthony on the back of the head. “What are you doing?”

“Pawena’s going to bring her girlfriend, and with Matthew coming I thought it would be nice to have an even number. What?”

“Listen, Brainiac, how do you think your girlfriend’s going to take to you inviting a hooker?”

“Oh, she won’t mind.”

“Geez, I hate cops.”

“Present company,” says Anthony and waits.

“Excepted,” says Jack, rolling his eyes and grinning.

The Ferhat family live near the Barbès-Rochechouart Métro on rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, a street split down the middle between the 9th arrondissement and the 10th. Si, technically, the Ferhats live in the 10th, which the bourgeoisie consider not as good a neighbourhood as the 9th, which in turn is not as good as the 8th. The Ferhats live on the top floor, the sixth floor, where former maids’ and cooks’ quarters have been converted into tiny apartments. The conversion happened in stages as the neighbourhood became less genteel. First, four or perhaps five decades ago, the tiny rooms under the eaves were rented out to people other than domestic servants. Then, thirty years ago, the landlord knocked down walls and made small independent rooms into four two-room apartments with kitchenettes. At that time the sole bathroom was down the hall, shared among the tenants. Now improvements have been made. Each apartment has a bathroom with a toilet and a shower – not an actual bath for, having been partitioned from a corner of the main room, there is no space. Still, they are pleased not to have to go down the hall, not to have to smell the shit of strangers.

The same cannot be said for all converted
chambres de bonne
in Paris. Immigrants, refugees, students, the poor in all forms, take what they can get. Wave after wave of people arrive from everywhere in the world, looking for safe haven, for inspiration, looking for the famous
liberté, egalité, fraternité.
They come from America, from Romania, from Vietnam, from Algeria, from Cambodia, from Iran, Argentina, Russia . . . from everywhere life has either been too dangerous, too difficult, or too dull.

They sleep in rooms too cold or too hot, rooms with no insulation between the walls, and they fall asleep to the sounds of someone else’s snoring, or their love-making, or their weeping, their whimpers, their flatulence, their rage. They hang their clothes out of windows on racks to air out the stench of cooking fat and cigarettes. They grow geraniums and lavender and basil in pots on the sills. They put on extra socks before they go to bed in the winter and suck on ice in the summer when the pollution is so thick the inside of the mouth tastes of diesel fuel and all the wealthy people have closed up shop and gone to Deauville or Cannes or Annecy.

Some bedrooms are in the back of the building, facing the courtyard where it is relatively quiet—only the
gardienne
remains down below, shaking the dust off her broom, flapping her table cloth, scolding her children. Or the sound of the neighbours’ radios and guitars and, during the day, the sound of construction: jackhammers and drills and sandblasters that make up the endless soundtrack of Paris. Saida’s bedroom, however, is at the front; she puts wax plugs in her ears so she can sleep through the rattle and clank of garbage trucks and car horns and the motorcycles and the arguing voices from the street below.