Woman in the Fifth

that part of the world. Do you know about the system of being controlled here? The police are legally allowed to stop anyone and demand to see their papers. No papers, and they can lock you up, or if you have papers and no residency permit — la carte de sejour — it’s the beginning of the end.’

‘You mean, if I stay on after my initial six-month visa and the cops stop me in the street …’

‘You won’t get stopped. You’re American, white …’

‘Have you ever been controlled ?’

‘Not yet — but that’s because I avoid certain places, like the Strasbourg Saint-Denis or Chatelet metro stations where the police often check papers. In wealthy areas I also try to stay away from the intersections of big thoroughfares. After four years, you get very adept at looking around corners, knowing just how far to walk down a certain street.’

‘How can you live like that?’ I heard myself saying (and immediately regretting that I spoke without thinking). Adnan didn’t flinch or bridle at such a direct question.

‘I have no choice. I can’t go back.’

‘Because …’

‘Trouble,’ he said.

‘Bad trouble?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Bad trouble.’

‘I know what that’s all about.’

‘You can’t return home either?’

‘I suppose there’s nothing legally stopping me,’ I said. ‘But there’s also nothing for me to go back to. So …’

Another silence. This time he broke it.

‘You know, monsieur, if you need somewhere cheap in a hurry …’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, suddenly shy. ‘I shouldn’t be interfering in this way.’

‘You know somewhere?’

‘It isn’t very nice, but …’

‘Define “not very nice”.’

‘Do you know what a “chambre de bonne” is?’

‘A maid’s room?’ I said, using a literal translation.

‘What used to be a maid’s room, but is now a tiny studio apartment. Maybe eleven meters square in size. A bed, a chair, a sink, a hotplate, a shower.’

‘But in bad condition?’

‘Not good.’

‘Clean?’

‘I could help you clean it. It is down the hall from my own chambre de bonne.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘As I said, I don’t want to intrude into your …’

‘How much is it a month?’

‘Four hundred euros. But I know the man who manages the building, and I might be able to get him to drop the price by thirty or forty euros.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

Adnan smiled a shy smile.

‘Good. I will arrange it.’

The next morning, when Brasseur came in with breakfast, I announced that I would be checking out tomorrow. While arranging the tray on the bed, he casually asked, ‘So Adnan is taking you home with him?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just what I heard from the chef, who lives down the corridor in the same building as Adnan: “He has a new boyfriend — the American who has been so sick.”’

‘You can think what you like.’

‘It is not my affair.’

‘That’s right, it’s not your affair — as there is no affair here.’

‘Monsieur, there is no need to reassure me. I am not your priest — or your wife.’

That’s when I threw the orange juice at him. Without a pause for reflection, I made a grab for the glass and hurled the contents at him. It scored a direct hit on his face. There was a moment of stunned silence — as the juice dripped down his cheeks and pulpish bits lodged in his eyebrows. But then his shock turned into cold rage.

‘Get out,’ he said.

‘Fine,’ I said, jumping out of the bed.

‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.

‘For what? Baptism by fruit juice?’

‘Believe me, I’ll think of something unpleasant and damaging.’

‘You do that, I’ll tell them about all the illegal workers you have here — and how you’re paying them slave wages.’

That stopped him cold. He pulled out a handkerchief and started mopping his face.

‘Maybe I’ll just fire Adnan.’

‘Then I’ll make an anonymous call to the cops and tell them how you use illegal—’

‘This conversation is finished. I’ll call your “petit ami “, Adnan, and tell him to take you off to his place.’

‘You are a sick little bastard.’

But he didn’t hear the final three words of the sentence, as he was already out the door. When it slammed behind him, I slumped against a wall, stunned by what had just taken place and the crazed fury of it all.

But he started it, right?

I got dressed. I started packing. I fell into a guilty fugue, thinking how unnecessarily kind Adnan had been to me, and how I’d now put him in a difficult situation with his asshole boss. I wanted to leave him one hundred euros as a thank-you, but sensed that Brasseur would pocket it. Once I found another hotel, I’d come back here one evening and give it to him.

The phone rang. I answered it. It was Brasseur.

‘I have spoken with Adnan at his other job. He will be here in half an hour.’

Click.

I dialed reception right back. Brasseur answered.

‘Please tell Adnan that I’ll find a place on my own, that—’

‘Too late,’ Brasseur said. ‘He’s already en route.’

‘Then call him on his portable.’

‘He doesn’t have one.’

Click.

I thought, Grab your bag and leave now. Adnan might have been all nice and attentive while you were infirm (a little too attentive, if truth be told), but who knows what ulterior motive underscores his offer of a chambre de bonne down the corridor from his own. As soon as he gets you there, probably four of his friends will jump you, grab all your traveler’s checks and what few valuables you have (your computer, your fountain pen, your dad’s old Rolex), then cut your throat and dump your body in some large poubelle where it will end up being incinerated along with half of Paris’s rubbish. And yeah, this scenario might just sound a little paranoid. But why believe that this guy has any decent motives at all? If the last few months had taught me anything, it was that hardly anyone does anything out of sheer, simple decency.

I finished packing. I hoisted my bag and went downstairs. As I approached the reception desk, I noticed that Brasseur had changed into a fresh shirt, but that his tie was still dappled with juice stains. He said, ‘I’ve decided I’m keeping the twenty euros to cover my dry-cleaning costs.’