It’s almost scarily neat, every surface scrubbed to a high shine. It smells of bleach and detergent—not a thing out of place. Somehow I would have expected nothing less from this woman. And yet the cleanness, the neatness, the little vase of flowers, somehow make it all the more depressing. A little mess might be a distraction from how cramped it is, or from the damp stains on the ceiling which I’m fairly sure no amount of cleaning could remove. I’ve lived in some dives in my time, but this takes the biscuit. And what must it feel like to live in this tiny hovel while surrounded by the luxury and space of the rest of the apartment building? What would it be like to live with the reminder of how little you have on your doorstep every day?
No wonder she hated me, swanning in here to take up residence on the third floor. If only she knew how out of place I am here too, how much more like her than them I really am. I know I can’t let her see my pity: that would be the worst insult possible. I get the impression she’s probably a very proud person.
Behind her head and the tiny dining table and chair I see several faded photographs pinned to the wall. A little girl, sitting on a woman’s lap. The sky behind them is bright blue, olive trees in the background. The woman has a glass in front of her of what looks like tea, a silver handle. The next is of a young woman. Slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed. Maybe eighteen or nineteen. Not a new photograph: you can tell from the saturated colors, the fuzziness of it. But at the same time it’s definitely too recent to be of the old woman herself. It must be a loved one. Somehow it’s impossible to imagine this elderly woman having a family or a past away from this place. It’s impossible, even, to imagine her ever having been young. As though she has always been here. As though she is a part of the apartment building itself.
“She’s stunning,” I say. “That girl on the wall. Who is she?”
There’s a long silence, so long that I think maybe she didn’t understand me. And then finally, in that rasping voice, she says: “My daughter.”
“Wow.” I take another look at her in light of this, her daughter’s beauty. It’s hard to see past the lines, the swollen ankles, the clawed hands—but maybe I can see a shadow of it, after all.
She clears her throat. “Vous devez arrêter,” she barks, suddenly, cutting into my thoughts. You have to stop.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Stop what?” I lean forward. Perhaps she can tell me something.
“All your questions,” she says. “All of your . . . looking. You are only making trouble for yourself. You cannot help your brother now. You must understand that—”
“What do you mean?” I ask. A chill has gone right through me. “What do you mean, I cannot help my brother now?”
She just shakes her head. “There are things here that you cannot understand. But I have seen them, with my own eyes. I see everything.”
“What?” I ask her. “What have you seen?”
She doesn’t answer. She simply shakes her head. “I am trying to help you, girl. I have been trying since the beginning. Don’t you understand that? If you know what is good for you, you will stop. You will leave this place. And never look back.”
Sophie
Penthouse
There’s a knock on the door. I go to answer it and find Mimi standing there on the other side.
“Maman.” The way she says the word. Just like she did as a little girl.
“What is it, ma petite?” I ask, gently. I suppose to others I may seem cold. But the love I feel for my daughter; I’d challenge you to find anything close to it.
“Maman, I’m frightened.”
“Shh.” I step forward to embrace her. I draw her close to me, feeling the frail nubs of her shoulder blades beneath my hands. It seems so long since I have held her like this, since she has allowed me to hold her like this, like I did when she was a child. For a time I thought I might never do so again. And to be called “Maman.” It is still the same miracle it was when I first heard her say the word.
I have always felt she is more mine than Jacques’. Which I suppose makes a kind of sense: because in a way she was Jacques’ greatest gift to me, far more valuable than any diamond brooch, any emerald bracelet. Something—someone—I could love unreservedly.
One evening—roughly a week after the night I had knocked on Benjamin Daniels’ door—Jacques was briefly home for supper. I presented him with the quiche Lorraine I had bought from the boulangerie, piping hot from the oven.
Everything was as it should be. Everything following its usual pattern. Except for the fact that a few nights before I had slept with the man from the third-floor apartment. I was still reeling from it. I could not believe it had happened. A moment—or rather an evening—of madness.
I placed a slice of quiche on Jacques’ plate. Poured him a glass of wine. “I met our lodger on the stairs this evening,” he said as he ate, as I picked my way through my salad. “He thanked us for supper. Very gracious—gracious enough not to mention the disaster with the weather. He sends you his compliments.”
I took a sip of my wine before I answered. “Oh?”
He laughed, shook his head in amusement. “Your face—anyone would think this stuff was corked. You really don’t like him, do you?”
I couldn’t speak.
I was saved by the ringing of Jacques’ phone. He went into his study and took a call. When he returned his face was clouded with anger. “I have to go. Antoine made a stupid mistake. One of the clients isn’t happy.”
I gestured to the quiche. “I’ll keep this warm for you, for when you come back.”
“No. I’ll eat out.” He shrugged on his jacket. “Oh, and I forgot to say. Your daughter. I saw her on the street the other night. She was dressed like a whore.”
“My daughter?” I asked. Now that she had done something to displease him she was “my” daughter?
“All that money,” he said, “sending her to that Catholic school, to try and make her into a properly behaved young woman. And yet she disgraced herself there. And now she goes out dressed like a little slut. But then, perhaps it’s no surprise.”
“What do you mean?”
But I didn’t need to ask. I knew exactly what he meant.
And then he left. And I was all alone in the apartment, as usual.
For the second time in a week, I was filled with rage. White hot, powerful. I drank the rest of the bottle of wine. Then I stood up and walked down two flights of stairs.
I knocked on his door.
He opened it. Pulled me inside.
This time there was no preamble. No pretense of polite conversation. I don’t think we spoke one word. We weren’t respectful or gentle or cautious with one another now. My silk shirt was torn from me. I gasped against his mouth like someone drowning. Bit at him. Tore the skin of his back with my nails. Relinquished all control. I was possessed.
Afterward, as we lay tangled in his sheets, I finally managed to speak. “This cannot happen again. You understand that, don’t you?”
He just smiled.
Over the next few weeks we became reckless. Testing the boundaries, scaring ourselves a little. The adrenaline rush, the fear—so similar a feeling to the quickening of arousal. Each seemed to heighten the other, like the rush of some drug. I had behaved so well for so long.
The secret spaces of this building became our private playground. I took him in my mouth in the old servants’ staircase, my hands sliding into his trousers, expert, greedy. He had me in the laundry room in the cave, up against the washing machine as it thrummed out its cycle.
And every time I tried to end it. And every time I know we both heard the lie behind the words.