The Paris Apartment (14 page)

I'm watching the roof terrace from my position in the courtyard. I saw the lights come on a few moments ago. Now I see someone
step close to the rail. I catch the sound of voices, the faint strains of music floating down. Rather a contrast with the
sounds coming from a few streets away, the whine of police sirens. I heard it just now on the radio: the riots are beginning
again in earnest tonight. Not that any of them up there will know or care.

The radio was a gift from him, actually. And only a few weeks ago I watched him up there on the roof terrace, too, smoking
a cigarette with the wife of the drunk on the first floor.

As the figure next to the rail turns I realize it's her, the girl staying in his apartment. She has somehow gained access
to the penthouse. Invited in? Surely not. If she is anything like her brother I can imagine she may have invited herself.

In a couple of days she has gained access to parts of this building that I have never entered, despite working here for so
many years. This is only to be expected. I am not one of them, of course. In all the time I have worked here I can only recall
the great Jacques Meunier looking at me twice, speaking to me once. But of course to a man like that I am barely human. I
am something less than visible.

But this girl is an outsider, too. Just as much as I am—maybe more so. Also apparently given to climbing, like her brother. Insinuating herself. Does she really know what she has got herself into here? I think not.

I see another figure appear behind her. It's the young man from the second floor. I snatch in a breath. She really is very
close to the rail. I only hope she knows what she is doing. Climbing so high, so quickly: it only makes for further to fall.

Telling Jess about it has brought it back—that thrill. The buzz of shunting between different cities, playing endless rounds
of poker
with a battered old deck of cards, drinking warm cans of beer. Talking shit, talking about the deep stuff—often a mixture
of both. Something real. All my own. Something money couldn't buy. It's why I leapt at the chance to reunite with Ben, in
spite of everything. It's not the first time I've longed to go back there, to that innocence.

I catch myself. Talk about rose-tinted glasses. Because it wasn't all innocent, was it?

Not when our mate Guy nearly OD-d in a Berlin nightclub and we found him pouring water into his face, had to save him from
basically drowning himself.

Not when we had to pass a bribe to a Hungarian train guard, because our tickets had expired and he was threatening to dump
us in the middle of a vast pine forest.

Not when we nearly got our throats slit by a gang in a back alley in Zagreb after they'd stolen all our remaining cash.

Not in Amsterdam.

I watch Jess now as she takes a drag on her cigarette. I remember Ben telling me about her in a Prague beer hall: “My half sister, Jess . . . She was the one who found Mum. She was only a kid. The bedroom door was locked, but I'd taught her how to trip a
lock with a piece of wire . . . An eight-year-old should never have to see something like that. It . . .
fuck
—” I remember how his voice broke a little, “it eats me up, that I wasn't there.”

I wonder what that would do to you. I study Jess, think of finding her yesterday, about to steal that bottle of wine. Or appearing
in this apartment tonight, uninvited. There's something reckless about her—it feels as though she might do anything. Unpredictable.
Dangerous. And given this morning's outing she's clearly got issues with the police.

“I've never been anywhere outside the UK,” she says, suddenly. “Apart from here, of course. And look how well this is turning
out.”

I stare at her. “What—this is the first time you've been abroad?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Haven't had any reason to go before. Or the cash, for that matter. So . . . what was Amsterdam like?”

I think back to it. The stink of the canals in the heat. We were a group of young guys so of course we went straight to the
red-light district. De Wallen, it's called. The neon glow of the windows: orange, fuchsia pink. Girls in lingerie, pressing
themselves against the glass, signaling that there was more to see if you were happy to pay. And then a sign: L
ive
S
ex
S
how in
B
asement
.

The others wanted to do it: of course they wanted to. We were basically still horny kids.

Down a tunnel, down some stairs. The light growing dimmer. Into a small room. Smell of stale sweat, stale cigarette smoke.
Harder to breathe, like the air was getting thinner, like the walls were pressing closer. A door opening.

“I can't do this,” I said, suddenly.

The others looked at me like I'd lost it.

“But this is what you
do
in Amsterdam,” Harry said. “It's just for fun. You're not telling me you're scared of a bit of snatch? And
anyway, it's legal here. So it's not like we'll get in any trouble, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I know,” I said. “I know but I just . . . I can't. Look, I'll—I'll hang around . . . and meet all of you afterward.”

I could tell they thought I was a pussy, but I didn't care. I couldn't do it. Ben looked at me then. And even though he couldn't
know, I felt like somehow he got it. But that was Ben all over. Our de facto leader. The grown-up of our little group: somehow
more worldly than the rest of us. The one who could talk his way into any nightclub, any hostel that claimed to be full—and
out of situations too: he was the one who passed that bribe. I was so envious of that. You can't learn or buy that sort of
charm. But I had wondered if maybe just a little of that confidence, that sureness, might rub off on me.

“I'll come with you, mate,” he said. Howls of disappointment from the others: “It'll be weird if it's just the two of us,”
and “What's wrong with you both? Fuck's sake.”

But Ben slung an arm around my shoulders. “Let's leave these losers to their cheap thrills,” he said. “How about we go find
a weed café?”

We walked out into the street and instantly I felt like I could breathe easier. We wandered to a spot a couple of streets
away. Sat down with our ready-rolled joints.

He leaned forward. “You all right, mate?”

“Yeah . . . fine.” I inhaled greedily, hungry for the weed haze to descend.

“What freaked you out so much?” he asked, a moment later, “about that place back there?”

“I don't know,” I said. “It's not something I want to talk about. If that's OK.”

We'd started with the weaker stuff. It didn't seem to do all that much at first. But as it kicked in I felt something shift.
Actually, now I think about it, maybe it wasn't so much the weed. It was Ben.

“Look,” he said. “I get that you don't want to talk. But if you need to get anything off your chest, you know?” He put up
his hands. “No judgment here.”

I thought of that place, the girls. I'd kept it inside me for so long, my grim little secret. Maybe it would be a kind of
catharsis. I took a deep breath. A long pull of my joint. And then I started talking. Once I started I didn't want to stop.

I told him about my sixteenth birthday present. How my dad had told me it was time for me to become a man. His gift to me.
Best of the best, for his son. He wanted to give me an experience I'd never forget.

I remember the staircase leading downward. Opening that door. Telling him I didn't want that.

“What?” My dad had stared at me. “You think you're too good for this? You're going to throw this back in my face? What's wrong
with you, boy?”

I told Ben how I stayed. Because I had to. And how I left that place a changed person—barely a man yet. How it left its stain
on me.

All of a sudden it was just spilling out of me, all my secrets, shit I had never told anyone, like this putrid waterfall.
And Ben just sat listening, in the dark of the café.

“Christ,” he said, his pupils large. “That's seriously fucked-up.” I remember that, clearly.

“I haven't told anyone else about it,” I said. “Don't—don't tell the others, yeah?”

“It's safe with me,” Ben said.

After that we started on the stronger stuff. Egging each other on. That was when it really hit. We'd look at each other and
just giggle, even though we didn't know why.

“We didn't see all that much of the city,” I tell Jess, now. “So I'm not exactly what you'd call an expert. If you want a good weed café I could probably tell you that much.”

If only the night had ended there. Without what came next. Without the darkness. The black water of the canal.

“Hang on,” I say. “You told me you and Ben hadn't seen each other for over a decade when you guys bumped into each other again?”

“Yes.”

“And that was after that trip, right?”

“Yeah. I hadn't seen him since then.”

I let it sit a little, wait for him to continue, to explain the long stretch of time. Silence.

“I have to ask,” I say, “what on earth happened in Amsterdam?” I mean it as a joke—mainly. But it feels like there's something
there. The way his voice changed when he spoke about it.

For a moment Nick's face is a mask. Then it's like he remembers to smile. “Ha. Just boys being boys. You know.”

A gust of icy wind hits us, ripping leaves from the shrubs and tossing them into the air.

“Jesus!” I say, wrapping my arms around myself.

“You're shivering,” Nick says.

“Yeah, well—this jacket's not really designed for the cold. Primarni's finest.” Though I highly doubt Nick knows what Primark
is.

He stretches a hand out toward me, such a sudden motion that I jerk backward.

“Sorry!” he says. “I didn't mean to startle you. You've got a leaf caught in your hair. Wait a second, I'll get it out.”

“There's probably all sorts in there,” I say, casting around for a joke. “Food, cigarette butts, the lot.” I can feel the warmth of
his breath on my face, his fingers in my hair as he untangles the leaf.

“Here—” he plucks it out and shows it to me: it's a dead brown ivy leaf. His face is still very close to mine. And in the
way you do just know with these things, I think he might be about to kiss me. It's a very long time since I've been kissed
by anyone. I find myself letting my lips open slightly.

Then we're plunged into darkness again.

“Shit,” Nick swears. “It's the sensors—we've been too still.”

He waves an arm and they come back on. But whatever was just happening between us has been shattered. I blink spots of light
from my eyes. What the hell was I thinking? I'm trying to find my missing brother. I don't have time for this.

Nick takes a step away from me. “Right,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Shall we go back down?”

We climb back down into the apartment. “Hey,” I say. “I think I'll just find a bathroom.” I need to pull myself together.

“You want me to show you the way?” Nick asks. Clearly he's familiar with this apartment, I note, despite what he says about
not doing this often.

“No, I'm good,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

He goes back to join the others. I wander down a dimly lit corridor. Thick carpet beneath my feet. More artworks hanging on
the walls. I push open doors as I go: I don't know exactly what I'm looking for, but I do know I've got to find something
that might tell me more about these people, or what Ben had to do with any of them.

I find two bedrooms: one very masculine and impersonal, like I imagine a room in a swanky business hotel might be, the other more feminine. It looks as though Sophie and Jacques Meunier sleep in different rooms. Interesting, though maybe not surprising. Off Sophie's bedroom is a room-sized wardrobe, with rows
of high heels and boots in sensible shades of black and tan and camel, hanging racks of dresses and silk shirts, expensive-looking sweaters with tissue interleaved between them. In one corner is an ornate dressing table with a spindly antique-looking chair and a big mirror. I thought only the Kardashians and people in films had rooms like this.

I find the bathroom too, big enough to hold a yoga class in, with a huge sunken bath encased in marble, his-and-hers sinks.
The next door opens onto the toilet: if you're rich I suppose you probably don't wee in the same place that you bathe in your
scented oils. A quick poke around in the cabinets, but I don't find much beyond some very posh-looking wrapped soaps from
somewhere called Santa Maria Novella. I pocket a couple.

The room opposite the toilet seems to be some sort of study. It smells like leather and old wood. A huge antique-looking desk
with a burgundy leather top squats in the center. There's a big black and white picture opposite it which I think is some
abstract image at first but then suddenly—like a magic eye—realize is actually a photograph of a woman's torso: breasts, belly
button, vee of pubic hair between her legs. I stare at it for a moment, taken aback. It seems like quite an odd thing to hang
in your study, but then I suppose you can do what you like if you work from home.

I try the drawers to the desk. They're locked, but these kinds of locks are pretty easy to pick. I've got the first open in a minute or so. The first thing I find is a couple of sheets of paper. It looks like the top sheet must be missing, because these are numbered “2” and “3” at the bottom. Some sort of price list, it looks like. No: accounts. Wines, I think: I see “Vintage” at the top of one column. The number of bottles bought—never more than about four, I notice. A price next to each wine. Jesus. Some of these single bottles seem to be going for more than a thousand euros.
And then what looks like a person's name next to each of these entries. Who spends that much money on wine?

I reach right to the back of the drawer, to see if there's anything else in there. My fingers close around something small
and leathery. I pull it out. It's a passport. A pretty old one, by the looks of things. On the front it has a gold circular
design and some foreign-looking letters. Russian, maybe? It looks pretty old, too. I open it up and there's a black and white
photograph of a young woman. I have the same feeling I did when I looked at that portrait over the fireplace. That I know
this person from somewhere . . . though I can't place her. Her cheeks and lips full, her hair long and wild and curling, her
eyebrows plucked into thin half-moons. All at once it hits me. Something about the set of the mouth, the tilt of the chin.
It's Sophie Meunier, only about thirty years younger. I look at the front cover again. So she's actually Russian or something—not
French. Odd.

I shut the drawer. As I do, something falls with a thud off the desk and onto the floor. Shit. I snatch it up: not broken,
thank God. A photograph in a silver frame. A posh, formal-looking one. I don't know how I didn't notice it before: I must
have been so focused on the drawers. There are several people in it. I recognize the man first. It's Jacques Meunier, Sophie's
husband: the guy in the painting. And there's Sophie Meunier next to him, somewhere between the age she is now and in that
passport photo, wearing what's probably meant to be a smile on her face instead of a chilly grimace. And then three kids.
I frown, squinting at the faces, then tilt the photograph toward me, try and see it better under the dim lights. Two teenagers—boys—and
a little girl.

The younger-looking boy, with his mop of golden hair. I've seen him before. And then I remember. I saw him in a photograph
in Nick's flat, next to a sailing boat, a man's hand on his shoulder. The younger boy is Nick.

Hang on. Hang on, this doesn't make any sense. Except it does, suddenly, make a terrible kind of sense. That older boy with the darker hair and the scowl, nearly a man—I think that's Antoine. This tiny girl with the dark hair . . . I peer at it more closely. There's something about the startled expression that's familiar. It's Mimi. The people in this photograph are—

It's then I hear my name being called. How long have I been in here? I put the photograph down with a clatter, my hands suddenly
clumsy. I scuttle across the room to the door, peek out through the crack into the corridor. The door at the end is still
closed but as I watch it begins to open. While there's still time not to be seen I scurry across the hallway, into the toilet.

I hear Nick's voice saying, “Jess?”

I open the door to the toilet again and step into the corridor with my best expression of innocent surprise. My heart is hammering
somewhere up near my throat.

“Hey!” I say. “All good?”

“Oh,” Nick says. “I just—well, Sophie wanted me to make sure you hadn't got lost.” He smiles that nice guy smile and I think:
I do not know this person at all.

“No,” I say. “I'm fine.” My voice, incredibly, sounds almost normal. “I was just coming back to join you.”

I smile.

And all the time I'm thinking:
they're a family, they're a family
. Nice guy Nick and frosty Sophie and drunken Antoine and quiet, intense Mimi.

What the actual fuck.