Woman in the Fifth

‘It is a night watchman’s job,’ Kamal said. ‘You come into an office, you sit there, you read, you write, you can even bring a radio or television if you like. You show up at midnight, you leave at six. That’s it.’

‘That can’t just be “it”,’ I said. ‘There must be more to it than that …’

‘There is nothing more to it except what I said.’

‘So what kind of a business is it?’

‘That is of no concern of yours.’

‘So it’s a completely illegal business then?’

‘As I said, that is no concern of yours.’

‘Is it drugs?’

‘No.’

‘Guns?’

‘No.’

‘Sex slaves?’

‘No.’

‘Weapons of mass destruction?’

‘The business in question is nothing more than a business.

But in order to keep you free of questions about this business, it is far simpler that you are informed about nothing to do with it.’

‘And if the cops bust it?’

‘That will not happen. Because they are unaware of its existence.’

‘Then why do you — they — need a night watchman?’

‘Because they do. End of story. But listen, my friend, if you have any doubts, then you do not have to accept the offer — even though it does pay three hundred euros for a six-night week.’

‘Fifty euros a night?’

‘Your math skills are impressive. It works out at a little more than eight euros an hour — and there’s nothing to the work except sitting at a desk and picking up a telephone on the rare occasion that someone shows up, and then clearing them for entry. That’s it.’

Of course that wasn’t it. I knew that there was something completely sinister about his proposition. I was certain that I might be landing myself in a situation which could be potentially dangerous, or could jeopardize my future freedom. But I found myself being won over by a bleak, but consoling thought: Nothing matters. When everything that once mattered to you has been taken away, what’s the point in worrying about a further descent into shit?

Nothing matters. What a liberating idea. Nothing matters, so everything can be risked. Especially when you need the money.

‘I’d prefer sixty-five euros a night,’ I said.

A small smile from Kamal. He had me.

‘I’m certain you would,’ he said.

‘I really couldn’t do it for less.’

‘You’ll take the job no matter what,’ he said.

‘Don’t be too sure about that.’

‘You’ll take it — because you’re desperate.’

There was no hostility in his voice, no smug triumphalism.

Just a cool assertion of the truth. I said nothing. Kamal refilled my glass. The whisky went down without burning me — my throat having already been anesthetized by the half-bottle of Johnnie Walker that had preceded it.

‘Do not fret so much,’ Kamal said, lighting up a cigarette.

‘I didn’t realize I was fretting.’

‘You are always fretting. Go home, sleep off the whisky, then be back here at six tomorrow evening. I will have news by then.’

I returned as requested the following night. When I arrived, Kamal was on the phone, but he motioned me toward a computer. There was one email awaiting me. It was from Adnan’s wife. After hanging up, Kamal translated it for me.

Dear Mr Ricks

The money arrived this morning. I was stunned by the sum involved — and once again send you manifold thanks for sending it to me. It has, literally, saved our lives. May God bless you and those close to you.

I have no one close to me.

‘You have done a good thing,’ Kamal said. ‘And a good deed is always rewarded.’

‘Not always.’

‘You are a very cynical man. But, in this instance, it is the truth. You have gotten your sixty-five euros a night.

The boss was reluctant at first.’

‘Who’s the boss?’

‘That information is of no interest to you.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘When do I start?’

‘Tonight, if that works for you.’

‘Fine.’

‘Be here at eleven thirty p.m. and I’ll bring you over to the place.’

‘Is it far from here?’

‘No.’

‘How will I get paid?’

‘There will be an envelope waiting for you here every day after one p.m. You’ll get off work at six a.m., so you can pick up your wages when you wake up. By the way, the boss said that you only need work six days, but if you want the seventh day—’

‘I want the seventh day.’

‘Done.’

‘Can I bring my laptop and books to work?’

‘And a radio and anything else to keep you occupied. Trust me, there won’t be much to do.’

When I left Kamal, I walked down to the Faubourg Saint-Martin and dropped thirty euros on a small transistor radio. I returned to my room. I opened a can of soup and cut up some cheese and a few slices of bread, and ate a simple dinner while listening to a concert of Berg and Beethoven on France Musique. Then I made myself a pot of coffee and drank it all. It was going to be a long night.

When I arrived back at the Internet cafe, I was carrying a small day pack containing my laptop, my radio, a pad and a pen, and a copy of a Simenon novel, Trois chambres a Manhattan, which I was reading in French. Kamal was closing up the place as I entered. He reached behind the bar and dug out two large bottles of Evian.

‘You’ll need these for the night ahead,’ he said.

He walked among the computers, making certain they were all shut down. Then he turned off all the lights. We stepped outside. He rolled down the large steel shutter, dug out his keys, sealed them with a formidable padlock, and motioned for me to follow him down the rue des Petites Ecuries.

‘We don’t have far to walk,’ he said.

At the end of the street, we turned into the rue du Faubourg Poissonniere. We crossed it and passed a showroom for some line of men’s fashions. I knew this small stretch of street well, as it was right around the corner from where I lived. I’d bought a sandwich once from the local greasy souvlaki bar (and lived to eat again). I’d even treated myself to the set seven-euro dinner at the little traiteur asiatique next door. But I hadn’t noticed the tiny doorway just beyond this four-table joint — a doorway that was set back off the street by around ten feet. The alley leading to the door was so narrow that a man with a forty-inch waistline would have had trouble negotiating it. There was a steel door at the end of it. There was a small camera above the door and a spotlight trained on the area below the doorway. There was a keypad with a speakerphone beside it. Kamal punched in six numbers. As he did so, he told me, ‘The code is 163226. Memorize it, but don’t write it down.’