De Niro's Game (24 page)

FOR TWO MORE DAYS
, I did not hear from Rhea or the visa lady. The first morning, I took the metro and walked to the Eiffel Tower. Tourists like little ants strolled under the monster's metal feet. They looked up at it, protecting their eyes with small plastic cameras, posing underneath it like smiling statues, pressing their index fingers on tiny buttons to suck the light from their smiling faces, and to record the passing of time in latent images that were proof of their existence and the impermanence of their lives.

I sat and watched the pigeons feeding on sugary crumbs that fell from the children's lips. I saw tourists landing in their buses, bouncing like astronauts, with bags filled with maps and guidebooks that might give them clues to the mystery of
the moon. Those books talked about the importance of choosing the right restaurants and gave directions to the right museums, where the residues of history and the theft of empires were boxed in glass menageries suitable for their visits in the morning after tiny French breakfasts, which they ate while feeling nostalgic for lines at the buffet, and long stainless-steel containers, and wrinkled eggs, and over-easy eggs, and tasteless potato chunks, and neon-coloured jams, and chewy Wonderbread, and diluted coffee, which they sipped in sync with the big band music that filtered through from the kitchen, spiced by the humming of the black cook behind the swinging doors with the round boat windows that also swing on the Mississippi in ships that carry the tourists' flour, corn, and greasy bacon.

THE SECOND MORNING
, I stayed in bed, and Paris stood still and did not move or shift. I waited for the scenery to change outside my window, but it remained the same.

Down the street, a trail of soldiers returning from battle called me to march. So eventually I got up and marched to the Arc de Triomphe. I crossed the wide street swamped by impatient cars, running in circles. I passed under the arc and declared my triumph over my enemies. When I crossed to the other side, I decided to eat. I roamed the city looking for food. I sat at a café table and watched all the people rushing along the sidewalks. I ate what I was offered, paid, and walked back to my hotel.

Hakim at the front desk had a message for me: My suit was ready, and I was to come and pick it up tomorrow at the same hour, the same place.

That night, I had the urge to see Rhea. I walked to her place, and from far across the street I watched her bedroom. Her light was on, and every time her shadow brushed the window I would hide behind the wall, erasing my shape.

I watched her room until I ran out of smokes.

THE THIRD MORNING
, I met the visa lady. We walked to the park where we'd talked before. We sat on the same bench.

We have it, she said. Here is what you should do. In the plane, before you arrive in Montreal, you go to the bathroom. You tear up your passport and dump it in the toilet. Do not leave a trace of it. Then, when you get off the plane, you tell the officer that you want to ask for refugee status. Make sure you tear up the passport. Do you have any other identification on you?

Yes, a Lebanese birth certificate.

That you can keep. Now tonight, go to this address. It is a restaurant. Someone will come and give the passport to you there. Be there around eight in the evening. Good luck.

I watched the woman leaving. I watched her rushing through the crowd, melting with the coats and suitcases, never to be seen again.

IN THE EVENING
, I went to the restaurant. I ordered a beer, and smoked, and contemplated the night, like the Parisians do.

The place had small, round tables, crowded one next to the other, and everyone inhaled everyone else's smoke. The round tables in such close proximity to one another formed a series of overlapping circles. Occasionally the formation was cut by the waiter's white apron, crossing through and between tables
like scissors. I waited, and after an hour I started to get nervous. No one had approached me, nor had I talked to anyone except the waiter. Finally, the waiter came to give me the bill, leaned against me, and said,
C'est déjà dans ta poche
.

I walked outside and frisked my pockets. I felt the passport in one of them.

Now I am allowed to fly, I thought. So I flew over Paris, watching the citizens' hats bobbing like moving targets, the dogs sniffing one another's wet tails, headlights going in circles and chasing one another like the dogs. And the higher I flew, the smaller the people became, smaller and smaller, minuscule and insignificant, and the more the streets and houses were arranged in circles, cut and shaped like tables around which brooding artists puffed their cigarettes and contributed to the evolution of the thick Parisian fog that concealed their deep thoughts from flying humans and sniffing dogs.

When I landed, I passed the Senegalese concierge at the hotel desk, forgot to greet him, and ran straight up to my room. I opened my passport: A Canadian visa was stamped in it.

THE NEXT MORNING, I WOKE UP EARLY, RUSHED TO RHEA'S
apartment building, and rang her bell. Her sleepy voice came through the intercom.

I have the visa, I said.

Tu veux du café?
she asked.

Oui
, I answered.

She buzzed me up, and I found her walking slowly around her kitchen. Her nightgown was thin, white, transparent. She must have felt my eyes penetrating her short robe because she looked back at me and caught me staring. She quietly went to her room, changed into regular clothes, then came back and sat facing me. What are you doing these days? she asked.

I am reading and walking, I said.

She nodded. What are you reading?

A story about someone who kills an Arab in Algeria.

L'Étranger
?
she asked.

Oui, c'est ça
.

She smiled. Come, let's sit on the balcony, she said. It will be a few days before we get the air ticket. I will check today with Monique, the travel agent. Are you going to keep out of trouble until then? I do not appreciate being stalked.

I finished my cigarette.

I would like to sleep with you again, I said.

Maybe, just before you leave, Rhea said. Not today or tomorrow, but maybe the night before your departure. There is a party tonight over at the house of some of my friends. You can come if you promise to behave and ask for what you need politely.

THAT EVENING, I
went again to Rhea's place. Together we took a taxi and went to a party in a long loft containing a few red hallway lights and fuzzy purple sofas. The entranceway was filled with a blasé crowd, the kind that intently ignores your passage, like houseplants in permanent poses. Painted-hair owners and tight-leather-pant fillers danced in a corner, using moonwalk moves. Rhea disappeared, and I stood against a wall holding a bottle of beer in my hand. I watched the purses, the high, thin heels, the black lace stockings, and the flamboyant hairstyles of the women.

After a while, I spotted Rhea talking to a man, and then he followed her up a set of stairs. She led, and the man walked behind her, swaying to the loud music.

A man with black lipstick on his lips and wild hair approached me. Hey,
t'es l'ami de Rhea
?

Yes, I answered.

I am her
coiffeur
, he said.

And her mother's, I presume?

Bien oui, je connais la connasse
, he laughed, rocking his thin, silky body back and forth.

What is upstairs? I asked.

Ah, this is the place to go up, up, he answered and looked at the ceiling.

I finished my beer and walked farther inside the loft. Everyone here affected a nonchalant air of importance, a kind of modern pseudo-aristocratic persona. If only I had my gun, I thought sadly, I would shoot them on the steps of their palaces.

Half an hour later, I was bored with the collective act of coolness, the languid conversations, the statuesque poses. I grabbed hold of the
coiffeur
and said to him, Listen, could you go up and tell Rhea that I am leaving?

And what do I get if I do this? he smiled and put his hands on his hips.

Nothing, absolutely nothing. You get to do me a favour only, I said, and I might not spear your head when the revolution arrives.

I will do it for your accent, and your wide eyes, and long, long lashes, the
coiffeur
replied and swiftly turned and climbed the stairs gracefully, like a lama.

I could not find her, he said when he returned. Jinni said that she must have left.

I went downstairs and into the street, and there I saw Rhea talking to the same man she had been with inside. There was tension between them; Rhea looked agitated, and the man looked angry. I waited and observed from afar. Suddenly, the man grabbed Rhea's arm and dragged her toward a car.

I ran over and pushed him away from her.

Rhea started to cry. The man pulled a knife from his pocket and brandished it at me. Rhea ran to him and begged,
Non,
Moshe.
Arrête!
C'est un ami à moi
.

Go away, Bassam! she shouted at me. Why are you following me?

I stood still.

Rhea held the man's arm.
Va t'en!
she kept screaming at me. Then she opened the car door and said to the man,
Bien voilà
, I will come with you.

The man shoved her in the car and walked to the driver's side. I will take care of you later, he said, pointing his finger at me. He drove away.

I memorized the car's plate number and went back to the party, reciting the number like a mantra. I sought out the
coiffeur
, snatched his bag, pulled out his kohl pencil, and quickly wrote the number on the wall. Then I asked him if he would find me some paper. He disappeared and came back with an empty box of cigarettes. I tore it up and wrote the number on it.

As I left for good, the
coiffeur
asked me if I would not write down his number as well.

Putain de macho!
he shouted after me, and his words echoed down the spiral stairs.

On the way back to my hotel, the idea of calling Roland came to me. Perhaps he could help Rhea. I called him from my room and woke him up. I told him the story.

It is better not to interfere, Roland said and hung up on me.

BY NOON THE NEXT DAY
, I was still in bed. I had called Rhea in the morning, but no one had answered.

Finally, in the afternoon, I went to the desk downstairs. Hakim, I said, you are my friend, no?

Hakim laughed and said, What do you need?

Just a small question. Could you find out the address and name of someone from their car's licence plate?

Leave me the number. It might cost you something, he said.

How much?

Later, he smiled. I will see what I can do for the brother.

I CALLED RHEA AGAIN
, and this time she answered.

I am coming to see you, I said.

No! she shouted.

I am coming to see you, I repeated.

No, she said. I will not open the door.

I walked to her building and buzzed the intercom. She answered, Go away!

I held my finger on the buzzer.

Then, through the glass of the thick door, I saw an old lady with two tiny sausagelike dogs coming toward me from the elevator. I walked to the door, and when she opened it, I said with utmost politeness
, Laisse-moi vous aider, madame
.

I held the door for the old lady and entered the building.

I took the elevator up, and ran to Rhea's door, and knocked.

She opened her door, but when she saw it was me, she tried to close it. I forced my foot inside and pushed the door wide open.

Get out! she said and ran to the kitchen. Get out, she shouted. Out!

I could see that she had a black eye. Her hair was a mess, and she was clearly tired.

Who is the man from last night? I asked her.

Get out, she repeated and opened a kitchen drawer, plunged her hands inside, frantically scraped metal on metal, then pulled out a knife and brandished it at me. I told you not to follow me and not to interfere in my life.

I approached her, and she slowly retreated. I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled the knife from her hand. Then I dragged her back to the living room. I threw her on the sofa and said, I know that George would want me to protect you, and I will do so as long as I am here.

George! she screamed. George does not even know of my existence. I am free, do you understand? You do not interfere with my life! I will tell the police about you, and send you back to George and wherever you came from! She waved her hands at me. Then she took a deep breath, her hands fell, her voice softened, and she said, Leave. Please leave. You are causing me trouble. She gently pushed me.

Who is he? What is his full name? I said.

Vas te faire foutre
, she said.

No one hits George's sister, and no one pulls a knife on either of us. I will find your Moshe, I said and walked out the door.

Yes, go! she said, following me. And take this with you. She threw an envelope at my back. Leave, and mind your own business.
Collant de merde!

I picked up the envelope and ran back down the stairs. The envelope contained a ticket to Canada. The flight was in six days.

I walked slowly back to my hotel, and when I arrived, I called my generals and told them, We need to find the man from last night, and lay a plan.

At the hotel, I sent an officer to interrogate the man at the desk, to ask him if he had the information on the plate number. He came back with a negative answer. My officers and I paced and smoked pipes. Some of my officers had their feet on the table, showing their boots. The campaign room was filled with smoke, and maps on the table that detailed flowing rivers, mountains, and long plains.

We should attack soon, before your voyage to the new continent, comrade, one general with a droopy white moustache declared.

I agreed. We decided to dismiss the meeting and to each go on our own way and wait to hear of the enemy's whereabouts.