Eyes Full of Empty (13 page)

“You heading home? Sick of me already?”

“No, I—”

“I could use a beer,” she interrupts, looking around.

We walk to a bar nearby. The tables are overwhelmed by hipsters. We squeeze into a spot at the bar and order two beers.

“It's packed,” Nathalie observes.

“It always is here. Get out of your tower a little more often, come and slum it up with us.”

We laugh, banter a bit with the guys waiting at the bar, waving for the bartender to come over and take their orders. Prettier by a long shot than all the boho girls crowding the joint, it still takes Nat a while to get the bartender's attention. I smile, shrug to show there's nothing I can do. That's how Paris is. The bartender's a rock star; fully aware of the power he wields, he'll get around to you when he feels like it.

We finally end up with beer in our glasses again and I'm conscious—in this very moment—that this evening drinking pints with Nat in a bar full of students is quickly becoming the best
night I've had all year. Without a doubt. Which either means I enjoy the simpler things in life, or that my life lately has been pure shit. But I pretend not to know which and leave the question hanging.

“Idir, you falling asleep?”

“No, no—just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Oh, I don't know—our lives, the paths we've taken since we finished school. Well, I mean, it was a little different for me. My course got a bit…altered.”

“I don't think so,” she says, sure of herself, like she's worked me out a long time ago. She goes on: “I knew you wouldn't finish school because school wasn't for you. It was obvious you were looking for something, that you were uncomfortable, not in your element around us. But I never knew what was wrong. What you really wanted out of life. What you would've wanted to do.”

I sip my beer and listen. What began as a simple swig turns into a glass-draining guzzle that gives me away before I confess, “I like doing nothing. I did look around. But that's the truth. I don't want a boss. I don't want to be my own boss. I'm not brave. I have no talents. I don't want a kid. That's it—all there is to it. After a while, it's pretty simple. If you haven't found the answer, it's because there isn't one.”

“Too bad.”

“Why? It's only too bad if you had plans. But I didn't. I always knew I'd never be a movie star.”

“It's sad, I mean.”

“No. You want me to tell you what's sad? Sad is when you believed in things, when you backed a man who turned out to be the wrong horse, when you wanted a career and wound up
with a guy who makes a living taking out other people's trash, getting philosophical over a beer on a weekday night. Sad is telling yourself you made the wrong choice every step of the way and you're going to pay for it the rest of your life.”

Tears well up in her eyes. She tries to smile the bad feelings away. She must know she can't. And so, without a word, she gets up and walks away, fast. I let her go, take one last long sip of beer. Long enough to realize how stupid I was and run off after her.

Outside, I scan the crowd of passersby all around and spot her in the distance. She's just crossed boulevard de Clichy. Cutting through the traffic, I almost get run over by a bus, but manage to reach her. She's paused on the sidewalk, looking for something in her purse.

“I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me.”

“It's nothing, Idir. You're right.”

“No, I swear, I don't know what came over me. I felt bad and I was looking for someone to hurt. Before that, it was a nice night. I don't want to ruin it.”

“Too late. Thanks for dinner.” She starts walking again. I follow her.

“You won't find a taxi right now. At least come by for a drink. Just one?”

We head back to my place. The beer that started off the evening was in fact the last, and there's nothing left to drink, just the dregs of a bottle of whisky that must've been hanging around for months. Still, I manage to pour us two decent-looking glasses.

I carry them to the living room, set them down on the coffee table, and sit on the sofa next to her. “Thanks for coming back.”

She gives me a vague smile. I can sense something's broken in her. I reach out for my glass. She stops me, takes my forearm,
and pulls my hand to her, to her chin, then the hollow of her throat, and then down onto one of her breasts. My fingers tense. She whimpers. I didn't mean to hurt her; I thought I was caressing her. I pull my hand back, ashamed. She comes toward me and kisses me. The rest doesn't look like much, just two bodies mingling to keep the cold night air at bay and the feeling of having missed out on so much.

Only on waking the next morning and looking at her naked in my bed do I notice the bruise on her breast. She draws the sheet up in an act of modesty that surprises me given our romp the night before.

“Coffee?”

She gives me a shy nod.

I return from the kitchen with a cup and bring it to her; she's still in bed. She blows on it and smiles. Is she used to mornings like this? A married woman waking in a lover's bed. I wonder how many coffees just like mine she's sipped to look as natural as she does right now, to succeed in making me believe everything's normal, that sleeping with your friend's wife isn't that bad, that after all, life is complicated enough already without adding another layer to it.

“I'm going to take a shower,” I tell her, leaving her alone, blowing on her coffee.

When I come out, a towel around my waist, I can feel the apartment is emptier. She's gone.

The next day, I call her in the early afternoon. She doesn't answer. I leave a stupid message, a mixture of “ums” and “uhs” between apologies for calling her, apologies for bothering her, dozens of apologies, all for a single, fearful “call me if you get a chance.”

I don't think anything will come of it, but she calls me just
half an hour later. I ask her out for a drink. She says yes. We meet in a crowded bar by the Canal Saint-Martin. She's early. When I get there, I see her waiting for me outside, getting ogled by guys out for a smoke, glasses in hand.

“Is this OK?” I ask.

I don't lean in to kiss her cheek. Neither does she. She seems embarrassed.

“Shall we go in?”

She nods, and I find myself holding the door for her, then clearing a path for us to the only open table in the room.

“You OK? You don't look so great,” I say as she takes off her coat.

She doesn't answer.

“You know, if you're not comfortable, we don't have to—”

She cuts me off. “Can I sleep at your place tonight?”

No question could've made me a happier man.

We stay naked, kissing in the shadows for a long time. My hand is on one of her breasts when the first sob hits me, making me seize up. Like a hiccup you try to stifle, so as not to draw attention. I start sniffling. No go; the first tears are running down my cheeks. She hears me sigh heavily, feels my face in the dark.

“Is it OK?” she whispers.

This is such bullshit
, I think. “No, no, it's great,” I breathe out in an asthmatic voice.

She's getting worried. “Is it me?”

“No.”

“Thomas? Do you feel guilty?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

I can talk again. The tears are passing, almost over now. “It's nothing. There's no reason for it. I—I've always had this. It's—it's like a condition. I know I look like an idiot, crying like a little kid, but that's how it's always been.”

“Thomas never knew?”

I shake my head. “I hid it as much as I could.”

She gives me a long kiss, her hand behind my head. I dry my tears on her face. She pulls me inside her. I don't know what happens after that. No sensation, no memory of anything. Not of coming, nor of falling asleep.

I spend the week with Nat. She shares my bed every night. Cravenly, I ask her if her husband suspects; she makes it clear that everything is under control and that it isn't any of my business. She leaves in the morning, and I stay and sleep. When I get up, not that unhappy to be alone again, I finish the coffee she's made.

Soon it's the weekend and Cherif's birthday. When I had asked him if I could bring someone to the party, he said no. So I decided to take Nat, because how could he say no to her? As for Nat, I struggled with how to bring it up to her: “My best friend's having a party tonight. You'll probably be the only girl there—well, what I mean is there'll be a few other girls: hookers, or girls who can lay me out with one punch, the line between the two being thin, maybe they're really the same kind of woman. Most of the guests will be men: felons of every stripe; best-case scenario, ex-cons out of the life or still practicing. I think
that about sums it up—wait, no, one last thing: if anyone offers you anything to swallow, snort, smoke, or even drink, say no politely. And if you really want to say yes, out of actual desire or just fear of offense, come and ask me first; I'll tell you what you're getting into. Or warn me, at least, so I know why you're high all of a sudden. That's it! If someone tries clumsily to hit on you, you handle it. I can in no way get in a fight with anyone at this party. I like my teeth the way they are. Any questions?”

On second thought, I decide not to say anything and just tell her it's an old friend's birthday, that I have to go, and we can leave whenever she wants.

If Cherif has rented a bar out for the night, it's because he's totally paranoid and never has anyone over to his place, not even me—I only ever see him outside, at the apartments of his “associates” or in one of the safe houses he rents, sublets, or owns, I never know. I don't even know where he actually lives.

We show up late. I try to make my way through the delinquents, who seem pumped full of alcohol already. Nat follows me. Everyone stares. A peroxide blonde is already prancing around in a bra and lacy boy shorts, spilling a little more champagne onto the floor each time she laughs. I find Cherif alone behind the bar, pouring himself a drink. He smiles when he sees me. He smiles even more when he sees Nat beside me. He's plastered. He takes me in his arms, kisses me as I murmur, “Happy birthday.”

He loosens his embrace.

“Cherif, may I present Nat.”

“Happy birthday,” Nat says with a smile that would make any man happy.

“Thanks. Nice of you to drop by.”

I pull the wrapped gift from my coat and hand it to him.

“Oh, you shouldn't have.”

He seems genuinely moved. The alcohol's probably helping, but still.

“Cut the crap, it's your birthday.”

“What is it?”

“A book.”

He makes a face. I see the vodka has killed his sense of humor but not his manners. “Oh, thanks.”

“Kidding, Cherif! I know you can't read worth shit. It's a DVD.”

He lets fly a crooked grin and tears the package open.