Douglas Kennedy - Woman in the Fifth

But Omar’s blackmailing note also emboldened me. En route to work I walked directly into the little bar on the rue de Paradis. Yanna was serving the usual crew of drunks (many of whom were her husband’s chums). Her eyes grew wide when I entered her establishment — a case of the guilty jitters which she tried to temper with a tight smile as she pulled me a pression and simultaneously filled a shot glass with bourbon.

‘What brings you here?’ she said in a low whisper, glancing at the half-cocked clientele, wondering if they were picking up her nervousness.

‘We need to talk,’ I whispered back.

‘Bad time.’

‘It’s somewhat urgent.’

‘I can’t leave the bar with all these creeps watching us.’

‘Make an excuse. I’m going to finish these drinks and leave. Meet me in ten minutes up on the corner of the rue de Paradis and the rue du Faubourg Poissonniere. What I need to say can’t be said here right now.’

Then I threw back the whisky and drained the beer and left — all the other clientele glaring at me as I hustled myself out the door. As expected, Yanna did show up ten minutes later at my proposed rendezvous spot. She had a cigarette going when she arrived and appeared hyper-tense.

‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’ she hissed at me. ‘Everyone in the bar saw you were trying to talk to me.’

‘It was an emergency,’ I said. ‘Omar …’

And I told her how he saw us and what he was now threatening.

‘Oh fuck,’ she said. ‘My husband will first kill you, then me …’

‘Not if you do what I tell you.’

That’s when I outlined the idea that Margit gave me (though not telling her that another party had cooked up this scheme). Yanna didn’t seem convinced.

‘He’ll still believe that fat slob,’ she said, ‘because he’s a fucking Turk. It’s an idiotic Turkish male code-of-honor thing. If the slob tells you that your woman is a slut then, without question, she is a slut.’

‘If you go to your husband crying, saying how Omar forced himself on you, how he had his hands everywhere, how he was so drunk he obviously didn’t know what he was doing, but still did vast amounts of improper things to you—’

‘He’ll still beat me.’

‘Not if you sell it properly to him.’

‘He’ll do it anyway — even if he totally believes me. And his justification will be that — as it was me acting like a slut which prompted Omar’s “attentions” — I deserve to have my eyes blackened.’

‘You should get out of this marriage.’

‘Thank you for such intelligent advice. My husband gets back tonight. If you value your life I would lay low for a few days — just in case he does believe his fellow Turk and decides to come looking for you with a sickle.’

‘I’ll make myself scarce.’

‘One last thing: don’t come into our bar again. I want to erase you from my life.’

‘The feeling is entirely mutual,’ I said, then turned on my heel and left.

Some hours later, at work, the thought struck me: ‘laying low’ was not going to be the easiest of tasks, especially in an area where everybody knew each other and in a job where an unexplained absence from work wouldn’t be tolerated. There was a part of me that wanted to return to my room, pack up all my possessions (a process that would take no more than ten minutes) and vanish into the night. But once again, I was plagued by the question: Then what? I also knew that if I did do a bunk, I’d severely disappoint Margit. Earlier that evening — after I had finished telling her what had happened to Shelley — she had returned to the subject of Omar’s threat, saying, ‘It would be far simpler for all concerned if Omar simply disappeared from view before the husband got home.’

‘Sure it would. But from what I’ve heard, he has no family back in Turkey, and no life to speak of outside of his job and his chambre de bonne . And he’s completely legal here. Even flashed his French passport in my face.’

‘A pity, that. Had he been illegal, you would have been easily able to turn the tables on him. One phone call to the Immigration Authorities—’

‘But he could have ratted on me too. After all, I am working here without a carte de sejour .’

‘But your job doesn’t really exist, does it? You live beneath the usual Social Service radar that would get you found out if you were legitimately working. Anyway, if forced to choose between the story told by an educated American and an illiterate greasy Turk, who do you think they are going to believe?’

‘Racism has its virtues, I guess.’

‘Absolutely. And you’re just as racist as the cops.’

‘Or as you.’

‘That’s right. But remember this: though an immigrant like Omar, living on the margins in this city, might despise all the people here having plush, proper lives, his real scorn and despair are aimed at those in closest proximity to him. Zoltan always used to say, “ Never trust another immigre. They wish for your downfall in order to reassure themselves there is someone lower than themselves .” So, yes — Omar will rat you out. Which means you should go home right now and pack a bag and flee the rue de Paradis. But if you do that—’

‘I’m running away again.’

‘As you ran away after your friend’s suicide … even though you weren’t to blame for what she did.’

‘I will always blame myself for what happened.’

‘As a way of hating yourself. But suit yourself. You haven’t finished the story, Harry. So … tell me about the suicide.’

Margit poured me another glass of whisky. I tossed it back. Even though I had already downed half the bottle, I still felt nothing.

‘First I have to tell you about the abortion business,’ I said.

‘Your friend had to have an abortion?’

‘No. It was alleged that I was trying to talk her into having an abortion … which was certainly news to me. That day — the day I woke up on Douglas’s couch to find his front lawn under siege by reporters — all hell broke loose. By six that evening, it was a major story across Ohio: Professor Tries to Force Freshman Student to Have Abortion After Affair.

‘Now, you have to understand that I never, never , spoke with Shelley about an abortion. Nor was I even aware that Shelley was pregnant. In fact, it struck me as virtually impossible that she was carrying my child, as I had used a condom when we slept together.’

‘So how did this fantastic story about you trying to talk her into a termination go public?’

‘It seems that Shelley had kept a journal since we’d started seeing each other. When all the shit hit the fan, the Proctor in her dormitory — a real little goody-goody Born-Again Christian type — carried out her own raid on Shelley’s room, found the journal and dutifully turned it over to the Dean of the Faculty. As it turns out, Shelley’s journal was full of crazy romantic stuff: about me being the love of her life, about me telling her that I had never felt so passionate about anyone before — something I never said — and also promising her that I’d leave my wife and daughter to marry her — another complete fabrication. This romantic fantasia went on and on for pages, and recounted, in prurient detail, the afternoon we spent together in that Toledo motel — something the press leaped upon after the diary was leaked to them …’

‘Leaked by Robson?’

‘As I found out later. But though the media loved all the graphic stuff in the diary about our afternoon of love — Shelley’s exact words — they really went crazy when they read a long sequence of entries about her wanting to be the mother of my baby. Then, after I decided to break it off with her, her imagination went wild. Suddenly there were statements in the diary like, How could he do this to me when he knows I’m pregnant? and, All I want is to have our child, but Harry tells me he will never allow that . And then there was the kiss of death: I got the results of the pregnancy test today. I am a Mom-to-Be! I raced to Harry’s office to tell him the good news. But his reaction was horrible and absolute: the baby must die. And he picked up the phone and called an abortion clinic in Cleveland and made us an appointment in three days’ time. But there’s no way I will kill our baby.