A quick chat, just to make sure they’re on the same page, the same wavelength. And to tell this pig from Brittany a thing or two about what impurity means to Semites. Pork, menstrual blood . . . that sort of stuff.
5
10:15 a.m. Ahmed is still asleep. Gainsbourg on the iPod.
What are his dreams made of? Chi lo sa? Distressed sleep. Restless. Tongue grating against teeth. Every muscle in his body tensed up. Jolts, twisted arms, eyes clenched shut. A fixed snarl. Ahmed is still fighting himself. But this morning, for the first time in five years, his confused mind can conceive of a way out. A glimmer of blinding white light in the depths of the thick darkness. As he moves toward the brightness, the battery on the iPod shuffle is starting to fade. Portishead.
The song cuts out harshly in the middle of the final riff. Ahmed opens his eyes. Beth Gibbons’ lilting vocals, so untamed yet somehow controlled, are looping around his head. He’d always loved her voice. For him, “Glory Box” was the soundtrack to desire.
He’s got to pull himself together before he can begin his investigation. Grubby from his morning jog, Ahmed heads for the shower. The water is almost burning, only just bearable. His senses tighten. Feelings return. Why do autistic people bite their hands? Shampoo. Shower gel. Rinse thoroughly, all parts. He hasn’t spoken to anyone for years, with two exceptions. A few exchanges with Monsieur Paul about James Hadley Chase, a writer highly skilled at describing wasters, and for whom they’d always shared a sort of guilty fascination. Last time things nearly got out of hand. The bookseller went a bit over the top and asked Ahmed to do him a favor: to go and fetch a box of books from the back that was too heavy for him to lift. While Monsieur Paul respected Ahmed for his “nonaction,” the bookshop owner had in spite of everything hinted that he’d pay him if he came to help out on a regular basis. At his age he couldn’t run the show all by himself, and he’d rather delegate to a proper fan of noir fiction. Then he went quiet. So did Ahmed, who didn’t feel ready to take on anything resembling a job. Next time, Monsieur Paul had discreetly kept their conversation to a bit of news about Horace McCoy.
Laura was the other human being with whom he spoke from time to time. She didn’t read detective novels, and their first conversation had, surprisingly enough, been about orchids. Shortly after the young woman’s arrival in the building, Ahmed had bumped into her carrying an orchid. He let out an involuntary gentle sigh when he noticed the flower. In response to the mildly concerned question put to him by his new neighbor, he briefly explained that once upon a time he had looked after a South American orchid—a cattleya. Laura had assumed that there was a woman hidden among all this, but hadn’t pushed him. She simply gave him updates on the plant—hers was from Madagascar—whenever she saw him. Then, one day, she plucked up the courage to ask Ahmed whether he would be willing to take care of her plant during her frequent trips abroad, since the concierge—despite her best intentions—lacked the necessary lightness of touch. After a pause, Ahmed had agreed. The orchid had settled in so well that it had been joined by a friend, and then by another. That was when he had suggested to Laura that she call it a day, since he didn’t feel capable of taking responsibility for so many other living beings: a lily and three orchids . . . Enough is enough! On several occasions his neighbor had invited him up for a Lapsang souchong, or even an oolong, with a slice of blueberry, pear, or peach tart depending on the season. He had always declined on some vague pretext, promising that next time he would gladly accept. Laura would make him jam in anticipation of this hypothetical next time. Then, more recently, there had been the thing with the iPod that Ahmed had almost turned down, since music had ceased
5
10:15 a.m. Ahmed is still asleep. Gainsbourg on the iPod.
What are his dreams made of? Chi lo sa? Distressed sleep. Restless. Tongue grating against teeth. Every muscle in his body tensed up. Jolts, twisted arms, eyes clenched shut. A fixed snarl. Ahmed is still fighting himself. But this morning, for the first time in five years, his confused mind can conceive of a way out. A glimmer of blinding white light in the depths of the thick darkness. As he moves toward the brightness, the battery on the iPod shuffle is starting to fade. Portishead.
The song cuts out harshly in the middle of the final riff. Ahmed opens his eyes. Beth Gibbons’ lilting vocals, so untamed yet somehow controlled, are looping around his head. He’d always loved her voice. For him, “Glory Box” was the soundtrack to desire.
He’s got to pull himself together before he can begin his investigation. Grubby from his morning jog, Ahmed heads for the shower. The water is almost burning, only just bearable. His senses tighten. Feelings return. Why do autistic people bite their hands? Shampoo. Shower gel. Rinse thoroughly, all parts. He hasn’t spoken to anyone for years, with two exceptions. A few exchanges with Monsieur Paul about James Hadley Chase, a writer highly skilled at describing wasters, and for whom they’d always shared a sort of guilty fascination. Last time things nearly got out of hand. The bookseller went a bit over the top and asked Ahmed to do him a favor: to go and fetch a box of books from the back that was too heavy for him to lift. While Monsieur Paul respected Ahmed for his “nonaction,” the bookshop owner had in spite of everything hinted that he’d pay him if he came to help out on a regular basis. At his age he couldn’t run the show all by himself, and he’d rather delegate to a proper fan of noir fiction. Then he went quiet. So did Ahmed, who didn’t feel ready to take on anything resembling a job. Next time, Monsieur Paul had discreetly kept their conversation to a bit of news about Horace McCoy.
Laura was the other human being with whom he spoke from time to time. She didn’t read detective novels, and their first conversation had, surprisingly enough, been about orchids. Shortly after the young woman’s arrival in the building, Ahmed had bumped into her carrying an orchid. He let out an involuntary gentle sigh when he noticed the flower. In response to the mildly concerned question put to him by his new neighbor, he briefly explained that once upon a time he had looked after a South American orchid—a cattleya. Laura had assumed that there was a woman hidden among all this, but hadn’t pushed him. She simply gave him updates on the plant—hers was from Madagascar—whenever she saw him. Then, one day, she plucked up the courage to ask Ahmed whether he would be willing to take care of her plant during her frequent trips abroad, since the concierge—despite her best intentions—lacked the necessary lightness of touch. After a pause, Ahmed had agreed. The orchid had settled in so well that it had been joined by a friend, and then by another. That was when he had suggested to Laura that she call it a day, since he didn’t feel capable of taking responsibility for so many other living beings: a lily and three orchids . . . Enough is enough! On several occasions his neighbor had invited him up for a Lapsang souchong, or even an oolong, with a slice of blueberry, pear, or peach tart depending on the season. He had always declined on some vague pretext, promising that next time he would gladly accept. Laura would make him jam in anticipation of this hypothetical next time. Then, more recently, there had been the thing with the iPod that Ahmed had almost turned down, since music had ceased
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