“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” I call. “What’s going on?”
Camille appears in a pair of men’s boxers and lace camisole, dirty blond hair piled up on top of her head in an unraveling bun. A lit spliff dangles from one hand. “Our Halloween party?” she says, grinning. “It’s tonight.”
“Party?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah. Remember? Nine thirty, down in the cave, for the spooky atmosphere—then maybe bring a few people up here for an afterparty. You said before that your papa would probably be away this week.”
Putain. I totally forgot. Did I really agree to this? If I did it feels like a lifetime ago. I can’t have people here, I can’t cope—
“We can’t have a party,” I tell her. I try to sound firm, assertive. But my voice comes out small and shrill.
Camille looks at me. Then she laughs. “Ha! You’re joking, of course.” She strides over and ruffles my hair, plants a kiss on my cheek, wafting weed and Miss Dior. “But why the long face, ma petite chou?” Then she stands back and looks at me properly. “Wait. Es-tu sérieuse? What the fuck, Mimi? You think I can just cancel it now, at what, eight thirty?” She’s staring now, looking at me properly—as though for the first time. “What’s wrong with you? What’s going on?”
“Rien,” I say. Nothing. “It’s fine. I was only joking. I’m—uh—really looking forward to it, actually.” But I’m crossing my fingers behind me like I did as a little kid, hiding a lie. Camille is looking closely at me now; I can’t hold her gaze.
“I just didn’t sleep well last night,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other. “Look, I . . . I have to go and get ready.” I can feel my hands trembling. I clench them into fists. I want to stop this conversation right now. “I need to get my costume together.”
This distracts her, thank God. “Did I tell you I’m going as one of the villagers from Midsommar?” She asks. “I found this amazing vintage peasant dress from a stall at Les Puces market . . . and I’m going to throw a load of fake blood over it too—it’ll be super cool, non?”
“Yeah,” I say, hoarsely. “Super cool.”
I rush into my room and close the door behind me, then lean against it and breathe out. The indigo walls envelop me like a dark cocoon. I look up at the ceiling, where when I was small I stuck a load of glow-in-the-dark stars and try to remember the kid who used to stare at them before she fell asleep. Then I glance at my Cindy poster on the opposite wall and I know it is only my imagination but suddenly she looks different: her eyes wild and frightened.
I’ve always loved this time of year, Halloween especially. The chance to wallow in darkness after all the tedious cheerfulness and heat of the summer. But I’ve never been into parties, even at the best of times. I’m tempted to try and hide up here. I glance at the shadowy space under the bed. Maybe I could climb under there like I did as a child—when Papa was angry, say—and just wait for it all to be over . . .
But there’s no point. It will only make Camille more suspicious, more persistent. I know I don’t have any other option except to go out there and show my face and get so drunk I can’t remember my own name. With a stubby old eyeliner I try to draw a black spiderweb on my cheek so Camille won’t say I’ve made no effort but my hands are shaking so much I can’t hold the pencil steady. So I smudge it under my eyes instead, down my cheeks, like I’ve been crying black tears, rivers of soot.
When I next look in the mirror I take a step back. It’s kind of spooky: now I look how I feel on the inside.
Concierge
The Loge
She caught me. It’s not like me to be so sloppy. Well. I’ll just have to watch and wait and try again when the opportunity presents itself.
I’m back in my cabin. The buzzer for the gate goes again and again. Each time I hesitate. This is my tiny portion of power. I could refuse them entry if I wanted. It would be so easy to turn the party guests away. Of course, I do not. Instead I watch them streaming into the courtyard in their costumes. Young, beautiful; even the ones who aren’t truly beautiful are gilded by their youth. Their whole lives ahead of them.
A loud whoop—one boy jumps on another’s back. Their actions show they are children, really, despite their grown bodies. My daughter was the same age as them when she came to Paris. Hard to believe, she seemed so adult, so focused, compared to these youths. But that’s what being poor does to you; it shortens your childhood. It hardens your ambition.
I talked to Benjamin Daniels about her.
At the height of the September heat wave he knocked on the door of my cabin. When I answered, warily, he thrust a cardboard box toward me. On the side was a photograph of an electric fan.
“I don’t understand, Monsieur.”
He smiled at me. He had such a winning smile. “Un cadeau. A gift: for you.”
I stared at him, I tried to refuse. “Non, Monsieur—it’s too generous. I cannot accept. You already gave me the radio . . .”
“Ah,” he said, “but this was free! I promise. A two-for-one offer at Mr. Bricolage—I bought one for the apartment and now I have this second, going spare. I don’t need it, honestly. And I can tell it must get pretty stifling in there”—with a nod to my cabin. “Look, do you want me to set it up for you?”
No one ever comes into my home. None of the rest of them have ever been inside. For a moment I hesitated. But it was stifling in there: I keep all the windows shut for my privacy, but the air had grown stiller and hotter until it was like sitting inside an oven. So I opened the door and let him in. He showed me the different functions on the fan, helped me position it so I could sit in the stream of air while I watched through the shutters. I could see him glancing around. Taking in my tiny bureau, the pull-down bed, the curtain that leads through to the washroom. I tried not to feel shame; I knew at least that it was all tidy. And then, just as he was leaving, he asked about the photographs on my wall.
“Who’s this, here? What a beautiful child.”
“That is my daughter, Monsieur.” A note of maternal pride; it had been a while since I had felt that. “When she was younger. And here, when she was a little older.”
“They’re all of her?”
“Yes.”
He was right. She had been such a beautiful child: so much so that in our old town, in our homeland, people would stop me in the street to tell me so. And sometimes—because that’s the way in our culture—people would make the sign against the evil eye, tell me to take care: she was too beautiful, it would only bring misfortune if I wasn’t careful. If I was too proud, if I didn’t hide her away.
“What’s her name?”
“Elira.”
“She was the one who came to Paris?”
“Yes.”
“And she still lives here too?”
“No. Not any more. But I followed her here; I stayed after she had gone.”