The Paris Apartment (26 page)

The girl steps forward into the light of the streetlamp. She appears totally different from how she did in her act. She wears
a cheap-looking fake-leather jacket and jeans with a hoodie underneath—but it's also that she's taken off all that thick makeup.
She looks a lot less glamorous and at the same time much more beautiful. And younger. A
lot
younger. I didn't get a proper look at her in the darkness near the cemetery that time—if you'd asked me I might have guessed
late twenties. But now I'd say somewhere closer to eighteen or nineteen, the same sort of age as Mimi Meunier.

“Why did you come?” she hisses at us, in that thick accent. “To the club?”

I remember how she turned and sprinted away the first time we met. I know I have to tread very carefully here, not spook her.

“We're still looking for Ben,” I say, gently. “And I feel like you might know something that could help us. Am I right?”

She mutters something under her breath, the word that sounds like “
koorvah
.” For a moment I think she might be about to turn and sprint away again, like she did the first time we met. But she stays
put—even steps a little closer.

“Not here,” she whispers. She looks behind her, nervous as a cat. “We must go somewhere else. Away from this place.”

 

At her lead we walk away from the posh streets with the fancy cars and the glitzy shop windows. We walk through avenues
with red-and-gold-fronted cafés with wicker seats outside, like the one I met Theo in, signs advertising
Prix Fixe
menus, groups of tourists still mooching about aimlessly. We leave them behind too. We walk through streets with bars and
loud techno, past some sort of club with a long queue snaking around the corner. We enter a new neighborhood where the restaurants
have names written in Arabic, in Chinese, other languages I don't even recognize. We pass vape shops, phone shops that all
look exactly the same, windows of mannequins wearing different style wigs, stores selling cheap furniture. This is not tourist
Paris. We cross a traffic intersection with a bristle of flimsy-looking tents on the small patch of grass in the middle, a
group of guys cooking stuff on a little makeshift stove, hands in their pockets, standing close to keep warm.

The girl leads us into an all-night kebab place with a flickering sign over the door and a couple of small metal tables at
the back, rows of strip lights in the ceiling. We sit down at a greasy little Formica table in the corner. It's hard to imagine
anywhere more different from the low-lit glamor of the club we've just left. Maybe that's exactly why she's chosen it. Theo
orders us each a carton of chips. The girl takes a huge handful of hers and dunks them, all together, into one of the pots
of garlic sauce then somehow crams the whole lot hungrily into her mouth.

“Who's he?” she mumbles through her mouthful, nodding at Theo.

“This is Theo,” I say. “He works with Ben. He's helping me. I'm Jess. What's your name?”

A brief pause. “Irina.”

Irina
. The name is familiar. I remember what Ben had scribbled on that sheet of wine accounts I found in his dictionary.
Ask Irina
.

“Ben said he would come back,” she says suddenly, urgently.
“He said he would come back for me.” There's something in her expression I recognize. Aha. Someone else who has fallen in love with my brother. “He said he would get me away from that place. Help find a new job for me.”

“I'm sure he was working on it,” I say cautiously. It sounds quite like Ben, I think. Promising things he can't necessarily
deliver. “But like I said before, he's disappeared.”

“What has happened?” she asks. “What do you think has happened to him?”

“We don't know,” I tell her. “But I found a card for the club in his stuff. Irina, if there's anything you can tell us, anything
at all, it might help us find him.”

She sizes both of us up. She seems confused by being in this unfamiliar position of power. And frightened, too. Glancing over
her shoulder every few seconds.

“We can pay you,” I say. I look across at Theo. He rolls his eyes, pulls out his wallet.

When we've agreed on an amount of cash Irina is happy with—depressingly small, actually—and after she's finished the chips
and used up both of our pots of garlic sauce, she draws one leg up against the table protectively, the skin of her knee pale
and bruised in one spot through the ripped denim. For some reason this makes me think of playground scrapes, the child she
was not so long ago.

“You have a cigarette?” she asks Theo. He passes her one and she lights up. Her knee is juddering against the table, so hard
that the little salt and pepper shakers are leaping up and down.

“You were really good by the way,” I say, trying to think of something safe to begin with. “Your dancing.”

“I know,” she says, seriously, nodding her head. “I'm very good. The best at La Petite Mort. I trained as a dancer, before,
where I come from. When I came for the job, they said it was for dancing.”

“It seemed like the audience really enjoyed it,” I say. “The show. I thought your performance was very . . .” I try and think
of the right word. “Sophisticated.”

She raises her eyebrows, then makes a kind of
ha
sound without any humor in it.

“The show,” she mutters. “That's what Ben wanted to know about. It seemed like he knew some things already. I think someone
told him some of it, maybe.”

“Told him some of what?” I prompt.

She takes a long drag on her cigarette. I notice that her hand is shaking. “That the show, all of it: it's just—” She seems
to be searching for the right words. “Window . . . looking. No. Window shopping. Not what that place is really about. Because
afterward they come downstairs. The special guests.”

“What do you mean?” Theo says, sitting forward. “Special guests?”

A nervous glance out through the windows at the street. Then suddenly she's fumbling the roll of notes Theo gave her back
out of her jacket pocket, thrusting it at him.

“I can't do this—”

“Irina,” I say, quickly, carefully, “we're not trying to get you in any trouble. Trust me. We won't go blabbing to anyone.
We're just trying to find out what Ben knew, because I think that might help us find him. Anything you can tell us might be
useful in some way. I'm . . . really scared for him.” As I say it my voice breaks: it's no act. I lean forward, begging her.
“Please. Please help us.”

She seems to be absorbing all this, deciding. I watch her take a long breath. Then, in a low voice, she begins to talk.

“The special guests pay for a different kind of ticket. Rich
men. Important men. Married men.” She holds up her hand for emphasis, touches her ring finger. “We don't know names. But we know they are important. With—” she rubs her thumb and forefinger together:
money
. “They come downstairs. To the other rooms, below. We make them feel good. We tell them how handsome
they are, how sexy.”

“And do they,” Theo coughs, “buy . . . anything?”

Irina stares at him blankly.

I think his delicacy might have been lost in translation.

“Do they pay for sex?” I ask, lowering my voice to a murmur—wanting to show we have her back. “That's what he means.”

Again she glances at the windows, out at the dark street. She's practically hovering in her seat, looking like she's ready
to leg it at any moment.

“Do you want more money?” I prompt. I kind of want her to ask for more. I'm sure Theo can afford it.

She nods, quickly.

I nudge Theo. “Go on then.”

A little reluctantly he pulls another couple of notes out of his pocket, slides them across the table to her. Then, almost
like she's reading from some sort of script, she says: “No. It is illegal in this country. To pay.”

“Oh.” Theo and I look at each other. I think we must both be thinking the same thing.
In that case, then what . . . ?

But she hasn't finished. “They don't buy
that
. It's clever. They buy wine. They spend
big
money on wine.” She spreads her hands to demonstrate this. “There's a code. If they ask for a ‘younger' vintage that's the kind of girl they want. If they ask for one of the ‘special' vintages it means they'd like . . . extras. And we do everything they want us to. We do whatever they ask. We're theirs for the night. They choose the girl—or girls—they want,
and they go to special room with a lock on the door. Or we go somewhere with them. Hotel, apartment—”

“Ah,” Theo says, grimacing.

“The girls at the club. We don't have family. We don't have money. Some have run from home. Some—many—are illegal.” She sits
forward. “They have our passports, too.”

“So you can't leave the country,” I say, turning to Theo. “That's fucking dark.”

“I can't go back there anyway,” she says, suddenly, fiercely. “To Serbia. It wasn't—it wasn't a good situation back home.”
She adds, defensively: “But I never thought—I never thought that would be where I'd end up, a place like that. They know we
won't go to the police. One of the clients, some girls say he
is
police. Important police. Other places get shut down all the time. But not that place.”

“Can you actually prove that?” Theo asks, sitting forward.

At this, she checks over her shoulder and lowers her voice. Then she nods. “I took some photos. Of the one they say is police.”

“You've got photos?” Theo leans forward, eagerly.

“They take our phones. But when I started speaking to Ben he gave me a camera. I was going to give this to your brother.”
A hesitation. Her eyes dart between us and the window. “More money,” she says.

Both of us turn to Theo, wait as he finds some more cash and puts it on the table between us.

She fumbles her hand into the pocket of her jacket, then takes it back out, fist clenched, knuckles showing white. Very carefully,
like she's handling something explosive, she places a memory card on the table and pushes it toward me. “They're not such
good photos. I had to be so careful. But I think it's enough.”

“Here,” Theo says, reaching out a hand.

“No,” Irina says, looking at me. “Not him. You.”

“Thank you.” I take it, slide it into my own jacket pocket. “I'm sorry,” I say, because it seems suddenly important to say
it. “I'm sorry this has happened to you.”

She shrugs, hunches into herself. “Maybe it's better than other things. You know? At least you're not going to end up murdered
at the end of an alley or in the Bois de Boulogne, or raped in some guy's car. We have more control. And sometimes they buy
us presents, to make us feel good. Some of the girls get nice clothes, jewelry. Some go on dates, become girlfriends. Everybody's
happy.”

Except she looks anything but happy.

“There's even a story—” She leans closer, lowers her voice.

“What?” Theo asks.

“That the owner's wife came from there.”

I stare at her. “What, from the club?”

“Yes. That she was one of the girls. So I guess it worked out OK for some.”

I'm trying to process this. Sophie Meunier? The diamond earrings, the silk shirts, the icy stare, the penthouse apartment,
the whole vibe of being better than everyone else . . . she was one of
them
? A sex worker?

“But it's not rich husbands for everyone. Some guys—they refuse to wear anything. Or they take it off when you're not looking.
Some girls get, you know . . . sick.”

“You mean STIs?” I ask.

“Yes.” And then in a small voice: “I caught something.” She makes a face, a grimace of disgust and embarrassment. “After that, I knew I had to leave. And some girls get pregnant. It happens, you know? There's a story too, about a girl a long, long time ago—maybe it's just a rumor. But they say she got pregnant and
wanted to keep it, or maybe it was too late to do something . . . anyway, when she went into—” She mimes doubling over with pain.

“Labor?”

“Yes. When that happened she came to the club; she had no other place to go. When you're illegal, you're scared to go to hospital.
She had the baby
in
the club. But they said it was a bad birth. Too much blood. They took her body away, no one ever knows she existed. No problem.
Because she wasn't official.”

Jesus Christ.
“And you told all this to Ben?” I ask her.

“Yes. He said he would make sure I was safe. Help me out. A new start. I speak English. I'm clever. I want a normal job. Waitressing,
something like that. Because—” Her voice wavers. She puts up a hand to her eyes. I see the shine of tears. She swipes at them
with the heel of her hand, almost angrily, like she doesn't have time for crying. “It's not what I came to this country for.
I came for a new life.”

And even though I never cry I feel my own eyes pricking. I hear her. Every woman deserves that. The chance of a new life.

I sit here on my bed, staring into the darkness of his apartment, remembering. On his laptop, three nights ago, I read about
a place with a locked room. About what happened in that room. About the women. The men.

About how it was—is—connected to this place. To this family.

I felt sick to my stomach. It couldn't be right, what he'd written. But there were names. There was detail. So much horrible
detail. And Papa—

No. It couldn't be true. I refused to believe it. It had to be lies—

And then I saw my own name, like I had in his notebook, when it had been so exciting. Only now it filled me with fear. Somehow
I
was connected to that place, too. There were horrible things my older stepbrother had said. I had always thought they were
just random insults. Now I wasn't sure. I didn't think I could bring myself to read it, but I knew I had to.

What I saw next . . . I felt my whole life fall apart. If it was true, it would explain exactly why I had always felt like
an outsider. Why Papa had always treated me the way he had. Because I wasn't really theirs. And there was more: I glimpsed
a line, something about my real mother, but I couldn't read it because my eyes had blurred with tears—

I froze. Then I heard footsteps outside, approaching the door.
Merde.
I slammed the laptop closed. The key was turning in the lock. He was back.

Oh God. I couldn't face him. Not now. Not like this. Everything was changed between us, broken. Everything I believed in had
just been shattered. Everything I had ever known was a lie. I didn't even know who I was any more.

I ran into the bedroom. There was no time . . . The closet. I yanked the doors open, slipped inside, crouched down in the
darkness.

I heard him put a record on the player in the main room and the music streamed out, just like the music I had heard every
hot summer night, floating to me across the courtyard. As though he had been playing it for me.

It felt like my heart was breaking.

It couldn't be true. It couldn't be true.

Then, over the sound of my own breathing, I heard him entering the room. Through the keyhole I saw him moving around. He pulled
off his sweater. I saw his stomach, that line of hair I had noticed on the first day. I thought about that girl I had been,
the one who had watched him from the balcony. I hated her for being such a clueless little idiot. A spoiled brat. Thinking
she
had issues. She had no idea. But at the same time I was grieving for the loss of her. Knowing I could never go back to her.

He paced close to the closet—I cringed back into the shadows—and then moved away again, stepping into the bathroom. I heard
him turn on the shower. All I wanted, now, was to get out of there. This was my moment. I pushed the door open. I could hear
him moving around in the bathroom, the shower door opening. I began to tiptoe across the floor. Quiet as I could. Then there
was a knock on the front door to the apartment.
Putain
.

Back I ran, back to the closet, crouching down in the darkness.

I heard the shower stop. I heard him go to answer it, greeting whoever it was at the door.

And then I heard the other voice. I knew it straightaway, of course I did. They talked for a while, but I couldn't hear what
they were saying. I opened the closet door a crack, trying to hear.

Then they were coming into the bedroom. Why? What were they doing in the bedroom? Why would those two come in here? I could
just make them out through the keyhole. Even in those snatched glimpses I could see there was something strange about their
body language—something I couldn't quite work out. But I knew that something was wrong . . . something was not how it should
be.

And then it happened. I saw them move together, the two of them. I saw their lips meet. It felt like it was happening in slow
motion. I was digging my nails so hard into my palms I thought I might be about to draw blood. This couldn't be happening.
This couldn't be real. I sank down into the darkness, fist in my mouth, teeth biting into my knuckles to stop myself from
screaming.

A few moments later I heard the shower start again. The two of them going into the bathroom, closing the door. Now was my
chance. I didn't care about the risk, that they might catch me. Now nothing mattered as much as getting out of there. I ran
like I was running for my life.

 

Back in my room, back in the apartment, I fell to pieces. I was sobbing so hard I could hardly breathe. The pain was too much;
I couldn't bear it. I thought of all the plans I had made for the two of us. I knew he had felt it too, what had been between
us in the park that night. And now he'd broken it. He'd ruined it all.

I took out the paintings I'd made of him and forced myself to
look at them. Grief became rage. Fucking bastard. Fucking lying
fils de pute
. All those horrible, twisted, lying words on his computer. And then he and Maman, the two of them together like that—

I stopped, remembered what I'd seen on his computer. I had called her Maman, but after everything I had read I wasn't even
sure what she was to me now—

No. I couldn't think about that. I wouldn't, couldn't believe it. It was all too painful. I could only focus on my anger:
that was pure, uncomplicated. I took out my canvas-cutting knife, the blade so sharp you can cut yourself just by touching
it to your thumb. I held it to the first canvas and I sliced through it. All the time I felt like he was watching me with
those beautiful eyes, asking what I was doing, so I punched holes through them so I couldn't see his eyes any longer. And
then I ripped into all of them, stabbing through the canvas with the blade, enjoying hearing it tear. I pulled at the fabric
with my hands, the canvas rasping as his face, his body, was torn to pieces.

Afterward I was trembling.

I looked at what I'd done, the mess, the violence of it. Knowing that it had come from me. I felt like I had an electric current
running through me. A feeling that was kind of like fear, kind of like excitement. But it wasn't enough.

I knew what I had to do.