Is Rhea coming? I asked after the second sip.
No, she is not.
She is upset?
Yes, she is upset, but she also wants to help. Rhea is not for you. You have different lives.
Why does she still want to help? I asked.
Rhea has convictions and religious beliefs. She also considers you to be the closest thing to her brother. When you followed us that night, Roland said as he poured oil into a pan, we were discussing the possibility of bringing George here to Paris. Rhea is concerned about her brother. Though she has never met him, still her curiosity is slowly turning to some kind of. . how should I say it? Not love, but maybe obsession, if you ask me.
It is normal, no? I said.
Normal to be infatuated with someone you’ve never met?
I do not know. But I do understand, because maybe she feels she is alone, without a family.
What is your last name? I said.
My last name? He seemed surprised. Meusiklié.
The lighter was not yours, I said. The initials do not match your name.
It belonged to Claude, Rhea’s father.
He gave it to you.
No. I kept it after he died.
You were close?
Actually, we worked together.
Diplomats?
Yes, diplomats, Roland laughed.
Why are you laughing? I asked.
Rhea calls us spies.
Are you?
Well, maybe to some extent all diplomats are spies.
So, why did you invite me here?
Rhea asked me to help you. I was reluctant at first, but Rhea insisted. You have to leave France. You have no papers, and you will not get any for years to come, and the police will catch up with you sooner or later. You have no money, I assume, or you would not have been so desperate for cigarettes, if you know what I mean.
Roland winked at me. So, my dear little man, here is what I suggest to you. I hope you like escargots à la sauce au basilic? Bref, here is what I suggest to you. More wine?
He poured himself some more wine, chopped some parsley, then turned and washed his hands. Well, like I said. . Bring your glass here. . Here is what I suggest. Canada.
Canada, I repeated.
Yes. You call this man who knows someone, who knows someone else, who can get you a fake visa to Canada.
Now you are talking like a spy, I said.
Perceptive. Indeed, you are one perceptive young man. Did you come with a passport or just guns? Roland smiled.
Yes, a passport.
Good, not so irresponsible after all. You get on the plane, and when you arrive at the Montreal airport in Canada, you claim refugee status. I will give you the number of the person later. Rhea said she would pay for it all — the ticket and the other fees. She will contact you about it. Now, let’s eat. Oh, by the way, he added, did you happen to see George before you left?
No, I said.
Roland shook his head and led me to my seat at the table.
THE NEXT MORNING, I went to a public telephone booth.
I called the number Roland had given me. A woman answered. I told her that I was calling about the suit for the wedding that was taking place outside the city.
What is the colour and size of the suit? she asked.
It is blue, and the size is seven.
Good. Where can we meet? she said.
Metro Montparnasse. I will be wearing a white shirt with long sleeves that cover my hands.
Tomorrow morning at eight-thirty, she said. I will find you.
After I hung up, I strolled to a nearby café and ordered a cup of coffee. The waiter was polite and called me Monsieur. I opened a newspaper and went through it slowly.
There was news about a car bomb that had exploded in East Beirut, killing five people and injuring thirty. The photograph showed a woman covered with blood being rushed to an ambulance.
I moved closer to the café window and stared at the photograph. I tried to see if I could recognize the woman or anyone else in the photo. The caption read “Achrafieh,” which was where I had lived. The ground was covered with glass and rubble, and in the background a man pointed to the balcony above him. The story in the paper was disconcertingly factual, without story or investigation.
Try as I might, I could not recognize anyone in the photo. So I sipped my coffee, and when the waiter was looking away, I carefully ripped out the page, folded it with my hands under the table, and put it in my pocket.
I made my way back to my hotel and up to my room. There, I pulled the page from my pocket and laid it on the desk. Then I lay in bed and looked at the walls. After a while, I picked up my book. I was on the last few pages. I read, I informed him that I’d been staring at the walls for months, there was nobody, nothing in the world. . A life which I can remember, this life on earth. That is all I want from it.
I closed the book and looked at the sun, which had come into the room like melancholy consolation.
THAT AFTERNOON, I walked to Rhea’s place and waited near her building. I did not ring the bell, but I did make myself conspicuous. I stood in the light. I fretted like the leaves. I smoked, and puffed Native Indian signals, sending her a warning of my coming.
Soon I saw Rhea’s long coat and umbrella sliding above the sidewalks, slowly approaching me, slowly becoming bigger. She saw me, passed me, avoided my look, and went straight to her door.
I approached her and slipped under her umbrella. I talked to Roland, I said to her from under the rain.
Good. Now you can leave.
You want me to leave?
Look, what you did was unforgivable and, to tell you the truth, a little scary. Roland did not want to help at first. I asked him to.
Why are you helping me?
I am doing it for George.
She opened the door to her building, and before she could close it, I held on to the side of it and asked her if I could come in.
She did not answer, so I followed her inside. In the elevator she did not say a word; instead, she looked at her shoes the whole time. Her shoes were shiny black, flat and round, with a little heel, and the rain had beaded on them. I followed her shoes down the long hallway. I followed her black leather shoes like a wet puppy — one of those poodles that fill Paris’s streets with their leashes that expand like spider strings from their owners’ hands.
Rhea opened the apartment door and threw her keys in a bowl. She went to her room and closed the door behind her. Then she came back out and asked me if I was hungry.
No, I said.
Did you call the people?
Yes.
Good, so you decided.
No, but I did call them.
You have no future here; you have to leave.
I held her hand and drew her close to me. She tried to pull away, but I held her firm. She hid her face from me, veiling it with her soft hair. I lifted her hair slowly, and I caressed her face. She stood there, motionless, hesitant. I kissed her on the cheek, then on the neck. When I reached her lips, she kept them closed.
You are wet, she said. You’d better go home and change your clothes. She gently pushed me away. Call me when you get the visa. I will book the ticket.
I left her apartment and retraced my poodle-wet tracks along the hallway. When I looked back, I saw she was watching me from a small opening in her doorway.
THE NEXT DAY, I stood at the Montparnasse metro entrance. A woman in her forties pulled at my long sleeves and smiled. She walked ahead of me, and I followed her. We ended up in a small park with a few benches. She sat down and looked me in the face.
When did you get here?