to feature in his world. But the young woman’s expression, so full of hope, had persuaded him to say yes. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings, perhaps a sign that a chink was developing in his armor and that—who knows—with a little more patience . . . Laura was nothing if not patient. But the long game being what it is . . . Who could have predicted it? Now she’s as dead as her orchids. All that Ahmed has left of her is a bit of strawberry jam, an iPod, and a burning desire for revenge.
To return to the fray he must piece together the broken fragments of his existence. He can trace the precise moment it all fell apart back to the night when, paralyzed and unable to act, he looked horror straight in the face. Two names enter his mind: Al and Dr. Germain. Let’s begin by taking a walk across town. It’s 11:00 a.m. Al never surfaces before midday, and there’s no need for a heads-up. Ahmed no longer owns a telephone anyway. If he walks slowly along the canal he can grab some croissants and get to Al’s around 1:00 p.m.
His window is open and the sun is streaming into the apartment. June 19. 71°F. Jeans, T-shirt, and into the elevator. After a few yards he runs into Sam—a sixty-year-old Jew from Tiznit—smoking a cigarillo on the step outside his barber’s shop. He acknowledges his loyal customer with a slight nod—he’s cut Ahmed’s hair since he was four. The young man detects a glimmer of irony at the back of the barber’s little light-brown eyes, and files it away in a corner of his mind for later. Three years of psychoanalysis has at least taught him to keep his paranoia in check. He heads for parc de la Villette to pick up canal de l’Ourcq, then straight down to Bastille.
Jaurès. He thinks of the red-headed policewoman as he crosses the boundary of the nineteenth. “I never leave the nineteenth arrondissement.” “Stick to that.” Rachel’s face comes to him with great clarity. So many women in his life all of a sudden! Laura, who disappears leaving behind Beth Gibbons. And Rachel Kupferstein, who brings back the forgotten memory of Esther Miller, the first in a short line of doomed encounters. As he makes his way he rediscovers Paris. This city—with its canal and its stairway-bridges dotted with languishing lovers—is his.
Hôtel du Nord has reopened. Nostalgia still the order of the day. The building, which had its glory days back at the start of the twentieth century, is beyond dull. Why erect a mausoleum in the form of a trendy café in honor of such a depressing film? Nevertheless, Ahmed takes a seat on the terrace to soak up the vibe and orders an espresso, the bitterness helping to revive his spirits. All these years he has spent without thinking, book in hand more or less constantly. The only time he was forced to look at himself was during his sessions with Dr. Germain. And he didn’t like what he saw. He’d come to the conclusion that he couldn’t bear himself; that he would never bear himself. Better, then, to forget himself entirely. This is what he had been working on. Until Laura’s murder. He puts two dollars down on the table and leaves.
At Bréguet-Sabin, Ahmed takes a left. Rue Boulle, rue Froment, rue Sedaine. The baker’s beneath Al’s is open. A Chinese woman smiles at him.
“What would you like?”
“Two croissants and two pains au chocolat, please.”
“Three dollars forty cents, monsieur.”
Five-dollar bill. Change.
“I have a favor to ask.”
She shoots him an inquisitive glance.
“I’m visiting a friend upstairs but I’ve forgotten my address book with his door code. Would you mind giving it to me?”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“This might seem strange, but I don’t have a telephone.”
The lady looks at him, sussing him out.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Al.”
Her expression changes. She pauses momentarily, staring into space. Her bottom lip moistens slightly, glistening. She snaps out of it and gives him
To return to the fray he must piece together the broken fragments of his existence. He can trace the precise moment it all fell apart back to the night when, paralyzed and unable to act, he looked horror straight in the face. Two names enter his mind: Al and Dr. Germain. Let’s begin by taking a walk across town. It’s 11:00 a.m. Al never surfaces before midday, and there’s no need for a heads-up. Ahmed no longer owns a telephone anyway. If he walks slowly along the canal he can grab some croissants and get to Al’s around 1:00 p.m.
His window is open and the sun is streaming into the apartment. June 19. 71°F. Jeans, T-shirt, and into the elevator. After a few yards he runs into Sam—a sixty-year-old Jew from Tiznit—smoking a cigarillo on the step outside his barber’s shop. He acknowledges his loyal customer with a slight nod—he’s cut Ahmed’s hair since he was four. The young man detects a glimmer of irony at the back of the barber’s little light-brown eyes, and files it away in a corner of his mind for later. Three years of psychoanalysis has at least taught him to keep his paranoia in check. He heads for parc de la Villette to pick up canal de l’Ourcq, then straight down to Bastille.
Jaurès. He thinks of the red-headed policewoman as he crosses the boundary of the nineteenth. “I never leave the nineteenth arrondissement.” “Stick to that.” Rachel’s face comes to him with great clarity. So many women in his life all of a sudden! Laura, who disappears leaving behind Beth Gibbons. And Rachel Kupferstein, who brings back the forgotten memory of Esther Miller, the first in a short line of doomed encounters. As he makes his way he rediscovers Paris. This city—with its canal and its stairway-bridges dotted with languishing lovers—is his.
Hôtel du Nord has reopened. Nostalgia still the order of the day. The building, which had its glory days back at the start of the twentieth century, is beyond dull. Why erect a mausoleum in the form of a trendy café in honor of such a depressing film? Nevertheless, Ahmed takes a seat on the terrace to soak up the vibe and orders an espresso, the bitterness helping to revive his spirits. All these years he has spent without thinking, book in hand more or less constantly. The only time he was forced to look at himself was during his sessions with Dr. Germain. And he didn’t like what he saw. He’d come to the conclusion that he couldn’t bear himself; that he would never bear himself. Better, then, to forget himself entirely. This is what he had been working on. Until Laura’s murder. He puts two dollars down on the table and leaves.
At Bréguet-Sabin, Ahmed takes a left. Rue Boulle, rue Froment, rue Sedaine. The baker’s beneath Al’s is open. A Chinese woman smiles at him.
“What would you like?”
“Two croissants and two pains au chocolat, please.”
“Three dollars forty cents, monsieur.”
Five-dollar bill. Change.
“I have a favor to ask.”
She shoots him an inquisitive glance.
“I’m visiting a friend upstairs but I’ve forgotten my address book with his door code. Would you mind giving it to me?”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“This might seem strange, but I don’t have a telephone.”
The lady looks at him, sussing him out.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Al.”
Her expression changes. She pauses momentarily, staring into space. Her bottom lip moistens slightly, glistening. She snaps out of it and gives him
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