The Radiant City. Lauren B. Davis
and whisper. As he walks past, they stop talking and cover up the napkin. Matthew ignores them.
Jack takes his beer, drinks and wipes foam from his moustache. Three mugs stand empty on the table. Next to him is a man almost as large, wearing a broad-shouldered black leather coat. His forehead is high and his hair black, cut close to the scalp. His skin is the colour of red rice and strong tea. He wears an open, unguarded expression, which is unusual in a place like this. When he smiles, which he does as soon as Matthew approaches, his gums are predominant, and his teeth disproportionately small. There is no defence against such a sincere smile, and Matthew immediately smiles back.
“Thanks. I’ll get the next round,” says Anthony, and he holds out his hand for Matthew to shake.
“Pleased to meet you,” says Matthew.
“Anthony’s been down south in Marseilles.”
“Ah,” says Matthew.
“Anthony used to be a cop in New York City.”
“Tough place to be a cop,” says Matthew. He has trouble reconciling this occupation with the man who sits before him.
“All places are tough when you’re a cop. It was a long time ago.” He reaches up and taps his head. “Wound up with a metal plate.”
“Ouch.” Matthew winces.
“I was moonlighting as a guard at Bellevue. One of the inmates got all whacked out and picked up this big table. Whammo! Cold-cocked me.”
“Jesus,” says Matthew.
“I don’t remember it.”
“Anthony was in a coma for, what, two weeks?”
“Thirteen days. When I woke up there were these spaces where things used to be. Can’t plan things or remember some things like I used to. And I can’t drink the way I used to. I’m better than I was. Some headaches, dizziness. Been eleven years. Now mostly I just have trouble with new situations. Like, when I’m traveling, right, I can read the train ticket fine, and I can read the station board where they list the track numbers. Problem is, sometimes I can’t figure out how one thing relates to the other. Connection synapses don’t fire.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s stupid, though,” says Jack.
“Well, no stupider than before.” Anthony smiles. “I just like to tell new people what’s what, so they don’t draw the wrong conclusions if I draw a memory blank. Worse thing isn’t the head though, it’s numbness.” He flexes his fingers a few times. “Nerve damage. Not exactly conducive to handling a firearm. Not that I want to do that anymore. If I never see a gun again—fine by me.”
“Hell of a story,” says Matthew.
“It’s not a story.” Anthony looks puzzled.
“No, I didn’t mean that it wasn’t true, just that it’s hard.”
“I guess. But I got off light. You should have seen some of the guys in the head ward. Acting like five year olds in a grown man’s body, or couldn’t walk, or talk. Naw, a little confusion, a little numbness, it’s all right. I get a check from the city of New York. I get to come to Paris and all. I’m studying food. That’s what I was doing in the south, but it didn’t work out. I got a job as a kitchen grunt. A crappy job, but it was a start. Good restaurant. But I didn’t catch on fast enough.”
“Sorry to hear that,” says Matthew, but Anthony just shrugs.
“Language problem is the way I choose to see it. I make it a practice not to hang on to resentments. Keep calm. Kind of a vow I took when my life derailed. No more violence, you know?”
Jack snorts. “Anthony had a spiritual awakening. Turned over a new leaf. I knew Anthony back in New York. Made a fair penny together back in the day.”
“Long time ago,” says Anthony and he drops his eyes.
“Aw, don’t get all remorseful,” says Jack, punching him in the shoulder. “That was then. Now we’re just three guys in Paris, right? No pasts.”
“At least not in here,” says Anthony. “Think that’s why I took to this place, the first time Jack brought me.”
“I’ll drink to that,” says Matthew.
Suzi passes their table on the way to the toilet and ruffles Jack’s hair.
“Jack’s got a girlfriend,” Anthony says.
“Grow the fuck up,” says Jack.
“Suzi’s all right,” says Matthew.
“Hell, yes. No problem there,” says Jack. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.”
“Yours for the asking, I’d say.” Matthew takes a long pull of his beer.
“Mine for the paying, actually. And I don’t pay.”
“I don’t think she’d make you pay. She likes you,” says Anthony, then smiles. “I got a girlfriend. Vietnamese girl.”
“Anthony’s new romance.” Jack looks amused.
“What’s her name?” says Matthew.
“Pawena. In fact, you should meet her. Come over for dinner. I’m going to cook and Jack’s coming. What do you say?”
“Sure, why not? Thanks for the offer.”
“Jack, you working at the hostel Saturday night?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, Saturday night then.” With that, Suzi comes out of the bathroom, and Anthony reaches out and takes her hand. “Suzi, you want to come to dinner with us? At my place? I’m cooking. You can meet my girlfriend.”
“You want me to come to dinner?”
“You working Saturday night?”
“She always works nights, asshole,” says Jack.
Suzi arches an eyebrow and puts her hand on her hip. “This Saturday I will take off. Can you really cook?”
“I can cook.”
“I would love to come for dinner. Give me the address.”
Anthony gives her an address and she whistles. “Oh-la-la! You live in an area I know very well. Good area for girls.”
Anthony throws his head back and laughs. “Not on my street!”
When she walks away, Jack slaps Anthony on the back of the head. “What are you doing?”
“Pawena’s going to bring her girlfriend, and with Matthew coming I thought it would be nice to have an even number. What?”
“Listen, Brainiac, how do you think your girlfriend’s going to take to you inviting a hooker?”
“Oh, she won’t mind.”
“Geez, I hate cops.”
“Present company,” says Anthony and waits.
“Excepted,” says Jack, rolling his eyes and grinning.
Chapter Nine
The Ferhat family live near the Barbès-Rochechouart Métro on rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, a street split down the middle between the 9th arrondissement and the 10th. Si, technically, the Ferhats live in the 10th, which the bourgeoisie consider not as good a neighbourhood as the 9th, which in turn is not as good as the 8th. The Ferhats live on the top floor, the sixth floor, where former maids’ and cooks’ quarters have been converted into tiny apartments. The conversion happened in stages as the neighbourhood became less genteel. First, four or perhaps five decades ago, the tiny rooms under the eaves were rented out to people other than domestic servants. Then, thirty years ago, the landlord knocked down walls and made small independent rooms into four