The door slams behind us.
Theo, who has managed to keep his balance, puts out a hand and hauls me up. It takes a long time for my heartbeat to return to normal. But as I manage to gain some control over my breathing I realize that though my knees hurt and my arm feels badly bruised, it could have been so much worse. I feel lucky to be back out here gulping freezing lungfuls of air. What if the voice in the doorman’s ear had given different instructions? What might be happening to us now?
It’s this thought rather than the cold that makes me shiver. I pull my jacket tighter around me.
“Let’s get away from here,” Theo says. I wonder if he’s thinking along the same lines: let’s not give them a chance to change their minds.
The street is almost silent, completely deserted: just the blink of the security lights in shop windows and the echo of our feet on the cobblestones.
And then I hear a new sound: another pair of feet, behind us and moving quickly, quicker, growing louder as my heart starts beating faster. I turn to see. A tall figure, hood pulled up. And as the light catches her face just so, I see that it’s her. The girl who followed me two nights ago, the girl on the hoop, who stared at me in the audience this evening like she’d come face to face with a nightmare.
Concierge
The Loge
I am dusting, up on the top floor. Normally I do the hallways and staircases at this time of day—Madame Meunier is very particular about that. But this evening I have trespassed onto the landing. It is the second risk I have taken; the first was speaking to the girl earlier. We might have been seen. But I was desperate. I tried to put a note under her door yesterday evening, but she caught me there, threatened me with a knife. I had to find another way. Because I saw who she was the first night she arrived, coming to that woman’s aid, helping her put the clothes back into her suitcase. I could not stand back and let another life be destroyed.
They are all in there, in the penthouse: all apart from him, the head of the family. I could have taken the back staircase—I use it sometimes to keep watch—but the acoustics are much better from here. I can’t hear everything they’re saying but every so often I catch hold of a word or a phrase.
One of them says his name: Benjamin Daniels. I press a little closer to the door. They are talking about the girl now, too. I think about that hungry, interested, bright way about her. Something in her manner. She reminds me of her brother, yes. But also of my daughter. Not in looks, of course: no one could match my daughter in looks.
One day, when the heat had begun to dissipate I invited Benjamin Daniels into my cabin for tea. I told myself it was because I had to show my gratitude for the fan. But really I wanted company. I had not realized how lonely I had been until he showed an interest. I had lost the shame I had felt at first about my meager way of living. I had begun to enjoy the companionship.
He glanced again at the photographs on the walls as he sat cradling his glass of tea. “Elira: have I got that right? Your daughter’s name?”
I stared at him. I could not believe he had remembered. It touched me. “That’s correct, Monsieur.”
“It’s a beautiful name,” he said.
“It means ‘the free one.’”
“Oh—in what language?”
I paused. “Albanian.” This was the first thing I trusted him with. From this detail he might have been able to guess my status here, in France. I watched him carefully.
He simply smiled and nodded. “I’ve been to Tirana. It’s a wonderful city—so vibrant.”
“I have heard that . . . but I don’t know it well. I’m from a small village, on the Adriatic coast.”
“Do you have any pictures?”
A hesitation. But what harm could it do? I went to my tiny bureau, took out my album. He sat down in the seat across from me. I noticed he took care not to disturb the photographs as he turned the pages, as though handling something very precious.
“I wish I had something like this,” he said, suddenly. “I don’t know what happened to the photos, from when I was small. But then again I don’t know if I could look—”
He stopped. I sensed some hidden reservoir of pain. Then, as though he had forgotten it—or wanted to forget it—he pointed at a photograph. “Look at this! The color of that sea!”
I followed his gaze. Looking at it I could smell the wild thyme, the salt in the air.
He glanced up. “I remember you said you followed your daughter to Paris. But she isn’t here any longer?”
I saw his gaze flicker around the cabin. I heard the unspoken question. It wasn’t as though I had left poverty at home for a life of riches here. Why would a person abandon their life for this?
“I did not intend to stay,” I said. “Not at first.”
I glanced up at the wall of photographs. Elira looked out at me—at five, at twelve, at seventeen—the beauty growing, changing, but the smile always the same. The eyes the same. I could remember her at the breast as an infant: dark eyes looking up at me with such brightness, an intelligence beyond her years. When I spoke it was not to him but to her image.
“I came here because I was worried about her.”
He leaned forward. “Why?”
I glanced at him. For a moment I had almost forgotten he was there. I hesitated. I had never spoken to anyone about this. But he seemed so interested, so concerned. And there was that pain I had sensed in him. Before, even when he had shown me the little kindnesses and attentions, I had seen him as one of them. A different species. Rich, entitled. But that his pain made him human.
“She forgot to call when she said she would. And when I eventually heard from her she didn’t sound the same.” I looked at the photographs. “I—” I tried to find a way to describe it. “She told me she was busy, she was working hard. I tried not to mind. I tried to be happy for her.”
But I knew. With a mother’s instinct, I knew something was wrong. She sounded bad. Hoarse, ill. But worse than that she sounded vague; not like herself. Every time we had spoken before I felt her close to me, despite the hundreds of miles between us. Now I could feel her slipping away. It frightened me.
I took a breath. “The next time she called was a few weeks later.”
All I could hear at first were gasps of air. Then finally I could make out the words: “I’m so ashamed, Mama. I’m so ashamed. The place—it’s a bad place. Terrible things happen there. They’re not good people. And . . .’ The next part was so muffled I could not make it out. And then I realized she was crying; crying so hard she could not speak. I gripped the phone tight enough that my hand hurt.
“I can’t hear you, my darling.”
“I said . . . I said I’m not a good person, either.”
“You are a good person,” I told her, fiercely. “I know you: and you’re mine and you’re good.”
“I’m not, Mama. I’ve done terrible things. And I can’t even work there any longer.”
“Why not?”