Rawi Hage - De Niro's Game

Genevieve invited me in and asked me to sit down.

I sat, and she disappeared. The maid brought me juice and some biscuits.

I drank, and ate, and looked at the high ceiling, the oriental carpets, the large Japanese paintings, the mahogany and cherry woods. I stood up and slowly made my way to the window, and from there I gazed down at the street. It stretched away on both sides, lined with balconies and small cars, and the white traffic lines that make Paris look symmetrical and divided.

Do you like the view? Genevieve asked me as she came back into the room.

Yes.

Where are you staying here? Do you know someone in town?

No.

Did you come by plane?

No, by boat.

Oh, mon Dieu, c’est long ça, non ? she said in her pleasant, gentle voice. I noted her graceful manners, and her long robe, and her well-brushed, chestnut hair.

I promised Nabila that I would come and meet her brother-in-law, George’s father.

Nabila is George’s aunt? she interrupted.

Yes.

Listen, she said. Like I told you, George’s father is dead, but my daughter, who is George’s half-sister, is coming here, and she is dying to meet you. She is on her way. Maybe you can tell us everything when she comes? We will have dinner together. Do you want to take a shower? I can give you some clothes.

The bathroom had golden faucets; the water ran in abundance. I spread the foam of perfumed soap on my skin, and silky soft shampoo on my curly hair. The maid knocked, giggled, and handed me a razor. As I shaved, I let the water run in a vengeful act of waste. Then the maid knocked again and handed me pants, a shirt, and socks. The sleeves of the shirt were a little big and covered the back of my hands; I folded them up, put on the socks, and walked out.

I heard two women’s voices conversing in the living room. I entered, and they both stopped and smiled at me. A young woman stood up, approached me, and kissed me on the cheeks. She had long fair hair and George’s eyes.

I am Rhea, she smiled. George’s sister.

I recognized you, I said.

Really? Do I look like George?

Your eyes, I said.

She smiled, and held my arm, and said, Let us eat.

We sat, and Genevieve poured wine to fill our glasses. We ate in silence for a while, and then Rhea spoke. Her words cut through the clang of heavy silver spoons that dived to the bottom of gold-rimmed plates and the sound of wine pouring into towering crystal glasses.

My mother told me that you came by boat, she said.

I nodded.

Why did you leave? she asked.

The war, I said.

And is George happy there?

He never wanted to leave.

My father tried to bring him here, you know, but George’s mother resisted, and when the war broke out we never knew what happened to them. My father tried to send messages through the embassy, but it seemed as if George’s mother never wanted to have anything to do with us.

I kept quiet.

Monsieur Bassam is a man of small words, Genevieve teased me.

Ask and I will answer, I said.

Ah, bon ! she shouted and laughed.

So what does George do? asked Rhea.

He does security.

Quoi ? Mother and daughter looked at each other in surprise.

Do you mean he is a bodyguard?

Sort of.

C’est dangereux, ça, non ? Genevieve murmured from inside her tilted, suspended, swinging wineglass. A burgundy wave waited on the coast of her lips for the word to leave.

Do you have a photo of him?

No.

Is he tall?

A bit taller than me.

So, were you two together in the security business?

No, we were childhood friends.

In school?

Yes, and our mothers were best friends.

You speak French very well. I guess you both learned French at school.

Yes.

So you came here to meet us?

Well, I promised Nabila, George’s aunt, that I would come.

And George did not send anything? He never asked you anything about us?

No. Not really. George was always preoccupied with his job.

Does he know anything about us? Does he know about his father’s death?

I never discussed his family with him, I said. Some things are better left alone. In our society, these are sensitive things to talk about.

You mean, having no legitimate father.

Yes.

But you knew about it, Rhea said.

It was Nabila who asked me to come here, I said, and stopped. I chewed my food slowly, delicately.

So you came to see us, with no message, Rhea insisted.

Nabila wanted Monsieur Mani to send George a French passport, I said.

Well, now, that makes a little more sense, Genevieve said. So George wants to come here?

No, it was Nabila who wanted George to come to France, I said.

But George does not want to come? Rhea asked.

I shook my head and drove the fork into my mouth. I was famished. I tried to eat slowly and with graceful manners, to use gestures that would complement the rich surroundings. But the questioning made me uncomfortable. And my laconic answers seemed to make my hosts frustrated. They hardly ate, but both sipped their wine, constantly caressing their glasses, lifting the liquid without drinking.

Suddenly, both women started to speak loud and fast and in unison.

I continued eating, and watched the maid take the plates from beneath our noses. Rhea had a feisty presence that I liked. She was assertive, and when she talked she waved her hands or tapped them on the table. She also lifted her hair with her finger, delicately, to reveal her fair skin, her small eyes, her pointy nose. She held her fork and knife with ease, separated the vegetables from the meat, and cut them all into small pieces without piercing them with the fork. As she talked, she did not look at her mother. When they engaged in fast and sporadic conversation, like two competing monologues, the maid and I seemed irrelevant.

My eyes wandered again around the room. There was always something new to discover: framed old maps with compasses indicating north; a trace of a trip to an exotic land; African masks; a small statue of an Egyptian god; and bookshelves, coffee tables, books.

Finally, the women turned their attention back to me, and Genevieve asked me if I was planning to stay in Paris.

I am not sure.

Are you lost? she laughed.

I just got here, I said.

Rhea snapped at her mother and told her to leave me alone. Laisse-le, putin, laisse-le!

Now they quarrelled, and while the maid cleared the rest of the table, I stood up and walked to the window.

I looked again at the long street and could not recall if anything had changed from the last time I had looked; through the window, everything seemed like a photo on a postcard.

Over coffee, Genevieve said that she would ask the family lawyer, Maurice, about whether they could do anything to help George. Again I felt a pang of guilt for not telling them everything I knew, but the words would not come to me.

Genevieve turned to Rhea and asked her to follow up with Maurice; she herself was leaving the next day to spend some time at their house in the south of France.

Rhea argued with her mother, calling her irresponsible.

Franchement , Genevieve said, mais franchement .

The women offered me cake, but I declined, thanked them, and took my leave. Rhea followed me down the stairs.

Will you come back? she asked, and her voice faintly echoed in the large void of those high walls and marble stairs.

I don’t know. I am looking for a place to stay, I said.

Do you need money?

No, but I do not have the right papers to rent a room.

Well, we can take care of that, she said. Wait here. She rushed back into the apartment, picked up her bag, then followed me down the stairs and into the street. For several blocks, she held my elbow and guided me. We entered a small hotel. She booked a room under her name and paid for it. Two weeks, she told the receptionist, and turned and looked at me with a mischievous, triumphant smile.