Douglas Kennedy - Woman in the Fifth

I smiled.

‘A complete fool,’ I said.

I returned to my room and crouched down by the sink and removed the tile and pulled out the plastic bag. Then I stuffed every pocket of my jeans and my leather jacket with the rolled-up money. I felt like a drug dealer. It was around 5 p.m. Night was falling, and I moved quickly through the streets, terrified that irony might strike me at any moment, in the form of the first mugger I’d encountered in Paris — a thug who would have hit the jackpot had he decided I was a suitable target this evening. But my luck held all the way to the boulevard de la Villette. At the little Western Union branch, the clerk behind the grille — an African woman with an impassive face and eyes that showed her suspicion — said nothing as I dug out roll after roll of banknotes. When she had counted them all, she informed me that the cost of sending four thousand euros to Ankara would be one hundred and ten euros — and did I want this sum deducted from the four grand?

I did want it deducted, but …

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll pay for that on top of the four thousand.’

After finishing the Western Union transfer, I returned to Kamal’s cafe and had him email Mrs Pafnuk with the reference number she required for collecting the money. When he finished sending this communique, he got up and went behind the bar and produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker Scotch, and said, ‘Come on, we drink to your honesty and your stupidity.’

Over the next hour, we drained most of the bottle of Scotch. It had been a very long time since I had downed so much alcohol in one go — and it felt pretty damn good. Kamal told me he was born in Istanbul, but arrived in Paris three decades ago as a five-year-old. ‘My parents were legal immigrants, so there was no problem with the authorities. But being sent straight into a French school in Saint-Denis was a nightmare. I didn’t speak a word of the language. Happily, nor did half the other children at the school. Still, I caught on to French quickly — because I had no choice. And now … now I have a French passport.’

‘But are you French?’

‘I see myself as French. But the French still see me as an immigre . You are always an outsider here unless you are French. It’s not like London, where everyone is an outsider — the English included — so the city is a big stew. Here the French keep to the French, the North Africans to the North Africans, the Turks to the Turks. Tant pis. It doesn’t bother me. It is just how things are.’

He didn’t reveal too much information about himself. There was a wife, there were two young children, but he mentioned them in a passing sort of way, and when I asked their names, he steered off that subject immediately, turning it back to me, finding out what I did in the States, and discovering that my marriage had recently ended.

‘Who was the other woman?’ he asked.

‘That’s a long story.’

‘And where is she now?’

‘That’s another long story.’

‘You are being reticent.’

‘Like yourself.’

A small smile from Kamal. Then: ‘So what do you do now?’

‘I’m trying to be a writer.’

‘That pays?’

‘No way.’

‘So how do you live?’

‘With great care. Six weeks from now, my money will run out.’

‘And then?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Are you looking for work?’

‘I have no carte de sejour — and it’s very difficult for Americans to get work permits here.’

‘You could ask around at the various universities and colleges.’

No, I couldn’t — because that would mean them checking up on my background, and demanding references from the college where I taught for ten years. And once they found out what happened …

‘That would be difficult,’ I said.

‘I see,’ he said quietly, then reached for his cigarettes. ‘So you are in a bad place, yes?’

‘That’s one way of saying it.’

‘So … might you be interested in a job?’

‘Like I said, I’m illegal …’

‘That wouldn’t matter.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the job I’m proposing wouldn’t be legal, that’s why.’

THE ‘JOB’ WAS an easy one.

‘It is a night watchman’s job,’ Kamal said. ‘You come into an office, you sit there, you read, you write, you can even bring a radio or television if you like. You show up at midnight, you leave at six. That’s it.’

‘That can’t just be “it”,’ I said. ‘There must be more to it than that …’

‘There is nothing more to it except what I said.’

‘So what kind of a business is it?’

‘That is of no concern of yours.’

‘So it’s a completely illegal business then?’

‘As I said, that is no concern of yours.’

‘Is it drugs?’

‘No.’

‘Guns?’

‘No.’

‘Sex slaves?’

‘No.’

‘Weapons of mass destruction?’

‘The business in question is nothing more than a business .

But in order to keep you free of questions about this business , it is far simpler that you are informed about nothing to do with it.’

‘And if the cops bust it?’

‘That will not happen. Because they are unaware of its existence.’

‘Then why do you — they — need a night watchman?’

‘Because they do. End of story. But listen, my friend, if you have any doubts, then you do not have to accept the offer — even though it does pay three hundred euros for a six-night week.’

‘Fifty euros a night?’

‘Your math skills are impressive. It works out at a little more than eight euros an hour — and there’s nothing to the work except sitting at a desk and picking up a telephone on the rare occasion that someone shows up, and then clearing them for entry. That’s it.’

Of course that wasn’t it . I knew that there was something completely sinister about his proposition. I was certain that I might be landing myself in a situation which could be potentially dangerous, or could jeopardize my future freedom. But I found myself being won over by a bleak, but consoling thought: Nothing matters. When everything that once mattered to you has been taken away, what’s the point in worrying about a further descent into shit?

Nothing matters. What a liberating idea. Nothing matters, so everything can be risked. Especially when you need the money.

‘I’d prefer sixty-five euros a night,’ I said.

A small smile from Kamal. He had me.

‘I’m certain you would,’ he said.

‘I really couldn’t do it for less.’

‘You’ll take the job no matter what,’ he said.

‘Don’t be too sure about that.’

‘You’ll take it — because you’re desperate.’

There was no hostility in his voice, no smug triumphalism.

Just a cool assertion of the truth. I said nothing. Kamal refilled my glass. The whisky went down without burning me — my throat having already been anesthetized by the half-bottle of Johnnie Walker that had preceded it.

‘Do not fret so much,’ Kamal said, lighting up a cigarette.

‘I didn’t realize I was fretting.’

‘You are always fretting. Go home, sleep off the whisky, then be back here at six tomorrow evening. I will have news by then.’

I returned as requested the following night. When I arrived, Kamal was on the phone, but he motioned me toward a computer. There was one email awaiting me. It was from Adnan’s wife. After hanging up, Kamal translated it for me.

Dear Mr Ricks

The money arrived this morning. I was stunned by the sum involved — and once again send you manifold thanks for sending it to me. It has, literally, saved our lives. May God bless you and those close to you.