Woman in the Fifth

‘You lie. They heard. They know.’

‘I didn’t hear a sound all night. I never left the room all night. The only thing out of the ordinary was the clown who threw something at the camera—’

‘You see his face?’

‘He had a hood pulled up over his head, so it was hard to—’

‘Why you think he broke the camera?’

‘How should I know?’

‘You lie.’

‘Lie about what?’

‘You know what happened. And if the police ask you what you heard?’

‘Why would the police do that?’

‘If the police ask you …’

‘I’d tell them what I told you: I heard nothing.’

Silence. He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed my pay envelope on the floor. I decided not to raise objections to this little act of aggression, and instead played the subservient role demanded of me and leaned over to pick up the envelope. As I stood up again he said, ‘They know you heard the screams. They know you left the room — because they heard you leave the room. You don’t do that again. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly.

I tried to go about my business that day. But as I sat down in a restaurant for lunch, as I took the metro out to Bercy for a screening of Kazan’s Splendor in the Grass, as I sipped a coffee afterward in the little brasserie opposite the Cinematheque, I couldn’t help but wonder, Is someone watching me? I kept scanning people near to me to see if I noticed the same reoccurring face. Walking down a street, I’d stop and spin around in an attempt to catch the man tailing me. But I saw no one. Still, I was taking no chances. I resisted the temptation to use a phone kiosk and call the walk-in clinic to get the results of my HIV test — out of the fear that someone would report back to them that I was seen on the phone and, ergo, to the cops. So I decided to go there myself, my apprehension about the result somewhat tempered by everything else that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

The clinic was open until eight. I arrived half an hour before closing time. The doctor I had seen was in the reception area as I walked in.

‘What brings you back here?’ he asked.

‘I just came by for the test results.’

‘You could have phoned.’

‘I’d rather hear them in person.’

He shrugged, as if to say, If you insist. Then he turned to the receptionist and told her my name (I was impressed that he remembered me). She riffled around an in-tray until she found the necessary file and handed it to him. He motioned for me to follow him into his office. I shut the door behind us. He settled into his desk chair and opened the file and started to read. I studied his face — in a manner similar to a defendant staring at the foreman of a jury as he returns holding the verdict envelope in his hand.

‘Please sit down, Mr Ricks,’ the doctor said.

‘Bad news?’

‘No need to be a fatalist, monsieur. The HIV test came back negative. However, I must inform you that you did test positive for another sexually transmitted disease: chlamydia.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘It is not a serious condition, and can easily be treated with antibiotics …’

‘I thought only women got chlamydia.’

‘Think again.’

He started scribbling something on a script pad.

‘You will need to take these four times a day, and drink at least three liters of water daily. And no unprotected sex for three weeks.’

Three weeks!Margit would be thrilled to hear this — though the fact that I might have also given her a sexually transmitted disease would probably overshadow that minor detail.

‘It is also advised that you do not drink alcohol during this course of antibiotics. It diminishes their efficacy.’

Better and better. Three weeks without booze. How could I get through this life of mine without booze?

‘Naturally, you will also need to inform all your sexual partners of this condition.’

How do you know that I have ‘partners’ and not just a partner? Or is my ever-growing sleaziness that apparent?

‘I would also strongly advise you to return after the course of antibiotics for another blood test — just to be certain that there is no ongoing ambiguity.’

Doctor, there is always ongoing ambiguity … not to mention ongoing worry, as the past few days have shown.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Just fine.’

After stopping off at a late-night pharmacy on the boulevard de Sebastopol and handing over an exorbitant thirty-eight euros for the prescribed tablets, I decided to get the first bit of nasty business over with. I returned to the rue de Paradis and walked into Yanna’s bar. It was a slow night. There were only three other customers there — and they were conveniently installed in a table toward the back. Yanna’s eyes grew wide as I sat down at the otherwise empty bar.

‘I thought I told you not to come here anymore,’ she hissed.

‘Did you speak to your husband?’

‘He was delayed. He comes back tomorrow.’

She glanced nervously at the customers at the back table.

‘Order a drink,’ she whispered, ‘otherwise they will get suspicious.’

‘Water.’

‘Water?’

‘Not my idea of a good time, believe me. But I am on antibiotics.’

‘For what?’ she asked.

That’s when I told her. She turned several shades of white.

‘You fucker,’ she hissed. ‘You gave me—’

‘I gave you that? Think again, madame. It’s a female condition that’s passed on to the male.’ I had no idea if this was true. ‘And since I haven’t been sleeping around—’

‘Liar.’

‘I caught this from you. And who knows where you caught it. Maybe your husband—’

‘Get out,’ she said.

‘Not before you see this,’ I said, and passed her the crumpled note that Omar had left under my door. She opened it up, glanced at it, then handed it back to me.

‘Cochon,’ she said.

‘You’ve got to tell your husband as soon as he arrives.’

‘Believe me, I will. And I’ll also tell him that Omar raped me and gave me this condition.’

‘Now hang on …’ I said, thinking if she told her husband that, it would result in an automatic death sentence for Omar.

‘I hope he kills him,’ she said. ‘And if you don’t get out now, I’ll also tell him that you tried to interfere with me as well.’

I stared at her furious face — and knew that I should not pursue this discussion any further.

Some hours later, staring at the screen of my laptop, ticking off the hours until 6 a.m., I wondered, Why do I have this singular talent for making women angry at me? Or, to cut to the heart of the matter, Why do I always seem to fuck it up? But this was superseded by a larger