The Apartment (22 page)

More out of twitchiness than hunger, I ate the toast, which was limp and chewy, and read the agent's note again. I managed to formulate a reply, accepting her offer, that I hoped didn't sound overeager and toadying.

I forwarded it to Mark and scanned the rest of the in-box. Karim had sent me a Facebook message, which didn't help with my growing shame. I deleted it unread. There was also a message from an Olivier. It took me a second to place the name before it clicked: the French real estate agent, responding to my inquiries about the Petits' building. I didn't feel any trepidation as I opened it; I was too distracted by the news from the book agent and my conflicting feelings about Mark.

Mme. Sebastian,

I am writing to give you the information you request, but please understand that after this I cannot help you anymore, and I respectfully ask that you do not contact me again.

I first encountered the building in question nearly twenty years ago when I was approached by M. Philippe Guérin to act as the agent for it. After many years during which it had remained derelict, M. Guérin had bought the building and renovated the apartments, and I was instructed to advertise for tenants.

At first I thought it would be easy. Many people were interested because the area was desirable and the apartments were spacious. But time and time again people would view the apartments and then decline to live there. Some of the people said they experienced
une mauvaise ambiance
, but most could not describe why it was exactly they were uncomfortable in the building. I myself could not understand it, as I did not experience this thing. We made the rent lower and lower, so of course we did attract the tenants, but anyone who did move in did not stay for long or renew the lease, and the building was never more than half-occupied. It was not enough. This went on for many years. Eventually, M. Guérin, who was in poor health, wanted to sell the building but could not, as he had overcapitalized on it and he would have lost even more money. At this time, France was in a recession also.

I was frustrated that I could not secure tenants and I know that later M. Guérin engaged many other agents in the hope that they would have more luck. As far as I know, they did not. A structural survey was done, but no source of what could be creating such a bad atmosphere could be found. Confused and also fascinated as to why so many people found the accommodation odious, I decided to explore the building's history.

I must say now that I did not believe in
les fantômes.
I still do not. I must also say again that I myself have never experienced bad things or feelings there in the years I acted as M. Guérin's representative.

The building had changed hands many times over the years, so I was having much difficulty obtaining reliable information. I decided to speak to the businesspeople in the neighborhood, and heard a rumor that something terrible had indeed happened in the building during the 1970s. No one knew all the details, but it was suggested to me that I speak to the proprietor of a nearby
tabac
who had been in the area for many, many years. I was also warned that he did not like to speak of it. I began to use the
tabac
as a regular place to drink at night, and soon the proprietor—who is now deceased—began to trust me. I am lucky, as I can be charming, and one night I used all of this charm and a bottle of good pastis to help loosen the man's tongue, as you say.

He said that during the 1970s the building fell into disrepair, but still many families lived there. One of them was the building's concierge, who lived in an apartment (I do not know which one) with his wife and two daughters. The proprietor of the
tabac
did not know this man well, but said he was a veteran of la Guerre d'Algérie and had been injured and very much traumatized there by the atrocities he had witnessed. He had returned to France with his wife, an Algerian, and found a job as a concierge. After several years, they began a family and had two daughters. The proprietor said that the concierge was a quiet man who depended on his wife for his strength and that the family was poor but seemed to be very happy. Then, the concierge's wife became very sick. It was a long illness. For many months she lingered between life and death. Thereafter, she died.

The concierge turned to drinking as solace and began neglecting his job and his daughters. He had many warnings from the patron of the building, but did not change his ways. The
tabac
proprietor said to me that it was as if he was a changed man. His wife and he had shared a grand passion. His spirit was broken. His heart was broken. He gathered much debt and was then told to leave. He had nowhere to go.

His body was discovered lying on the courtyard of the building by his oldest daughter when she returned from school. It is believed that he threw himself from one of the high windows.

The coffee turned to bile in my throat.
Mireille,
I thought. I continued reading:

This was not the most tragic part of the situation. The oldest daughter found the body of her younger sister in the cellar of the building. Her father had done things, terrible things, to the child before she died. Mutilations.

The proprietor did not know what happened to the surviving daughter after she made this discovery.

Mireille? Was Mireille the missing daughter? I did the math—it was possible she was born in the sixties. And after reading this, how could I not think of Mireille's attic room and her paintings of the sad-eyed child? Then there was the scrap of paper I'd found in the kitchen drawer in the Petits' apartment. The child who'd written it—Mireille's younger sister perhaps?—had implied that her father blamed her for her mother's illness. Could this be a possible motivation for why the concierge had murdered his youngest child?

At the bottom of the email the real estate agent had written,
As I say before, I cannot help you more. It is possible that you can verify this tragic story by exploring the records of the Paris newspapers. Also, I do not know if the building is still owned by M. Guérin nor do I have information about
la famille Petit. He signed off with,
This is the last telephone number that I have for M. Guérin. Perhaps he can help you more.
The number signed off the email. I googled the prefix code 02. It covered the area on the outskirts of Paris.

The B and B's wi-fi wasn't strong enough for me to use Skype, so I snuck downstairs, grabbed the cordless house phone from the kitchen, and slipped back up to my room. Without planning what I was going to say, I dialed. It rang and rang, and I let it ring, not sure whether or not I really wanted anyone to answer it. My hand grew sweaty on the receiver. I counted twenty rings, twenty-five; then came a click, the sound of a throat clearing, and,
“Oui?”

I jumped, flustered. “Oh, hi…hello,
parlez-vous anglais
?”

A long pause. “
Oui.
A little.” A cough. “Who are you?” A man's voice, elderly, interspersed with a hissing sound as if he was breathing through an oxygen mask.
Darth Vader. You're talking to Darth Vader.

I bit back the humorless giggle. “My name is Stephanie. Stephanie Sebastian. Is this Monsieur Guérin?”

“Oui.”
Pause,
hiss.
“C'est moi.”

“Monsieur, I am sorry to disturb you, but could you tell me, do you still own property in Paris?” I rattled off the address.

“Oui. Pourquoi?”

“I stayed in one of the apartments in your building recently and I was hoping you could—”

“No, madame. This is not possible.”

“Excuse me?”

“The building is empty. No one stays there.”
Hiss,
pause, then, “Ah…
un moment.
” Another pause, longer this time, followed by a flurry of mumbled voices in the background—I made out the words “Papa?” and
“anglais”
—and then a crackle and a fumbling sound. A younger male voice came on the line: “
Allo? Qui est-ce?
Who is this?”

I repeated my name.

“My father does not know people from England. You have the wrong number.”

“Wait! I'm not from England. I'm South African.
Afrique du Sud.
”

“This telephone number. How it is that you have it?” The voice had become guarded, less irritable.

“It was given to me by Monsieur le Croix. He used to be Monsieur Guérin's”—I searched for the word—“
immobilier.
I was hoping to talk to Monsieur Guérin about—”

“This is not possible. My father, he is very sick.”

“I understand, but…monsieur, please, it's important. Will you help me then?”

“Help you?
Non.
I cannot help you, and now I must go—”

I jumped in, praying that he wouldn't hang up. “Please.
Please.
Five minutes, that's all I ask. I need answers.”

A sigh hissed down the line. I took this as encouragement. “One of the apartments in your father's building near Pigalle was advertised on a website by a couple who called themselves the Petits. My husband and I stayed in their apartment and they were supposed to come to South Africa and stay in my house but they never showed up.”

Silence. Now I couldn't even hear him breathing. “Hello? Monsieur? Hello?”

“I am here.”

“It seems the Petits don't exist. I know the police have probably been in contact with you or your father, but while we were staying there, a woman, Mireille, died. She killed herself. Monsieur Petit, I…”

A sharp indrawn breath. I hadn't meant to call him that; it slipped out.

“I cannot talk to you, madame. I cannot help you.”

“Please.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know about the building's history. I know that something bad happened there. I know…”
I know that after we stayed in your building, my husband—my already fractured husband—has gone completely fucking mad, and there's something vile, something dangerous, lurking in my house.
“Were you the one who contacted us? Are you Monsieur Petit?”

“That is not my name.”

The voice was cold, but he hadn't yet hung up on me. “Why did you want us to stay in the apartment? Please, Monsieur Petit—Monsieur Guérin—tell me why. Help me. You don't understand, my husband, he's…he's…”
Mad. He's gone mad.
We brought something back, we brought something back from your building.

“I am sorry.” He was whispering now.

“What are you sorry for, Monsieur Petit?”

Another long pause. “I am sorry it had to be you.
Merci,
and goodbye.”

A click, followed by dead air. I tapped in the number again, but it wouldn't connect.

Merci.
What was he thanking me for?

Je suis désolée.

What was Mireille sorry for?

Mark. I have to talk to Mark.

Once more, his phone went straight to voice mail. I tried him again. And again. Still no answer. I sent another text. Then, in desperation, I called Carla. She didn't answer either—perhaps she was with him. For once, the thought of them together didn't make me anxious; this time it was reassuring. I left a message saying that I was worried about Mark as he wasn't answering his phone, asking her if she'd mind checking on Mark and letting me know how he was. I didn't tell her exactly why I was worried about him—
you might want to hide the scissors if you go round there
—although now I wonder if things would have turned out differently if I had.

Should I blame myself for this? I still don't know.

All I could do then was wait and think about what had come before.

A car's lights scan into the living room, over my books, the TV, across the glaze of the photographs on the shelf, over the masks and wire sculptures Steph brought here. I realize I've been sitting in the dark for several hours. The German shepherd next door starts blaring, but I'm not afraid when Steph and Hayden aren't here.

The stamp of the men's boots, the sharp ooze of their voices. I wasn't afraid for myself—the only point of my focus was Steph and Hayden. I directed all my psychic energy to protect them. It sounds stupid, I know, but when the men left, and Steph and Hayden were unharmed, I felt I had done my job. That was all that mattered; it's still all that matters.

But now it's just me. I haven't set the alarm. They can come in; I have nothing left to take.

On another night like this, I might have a drink beside me, but tonight I don't. I can't swallow because the darkness is heavy enough to crush my windpipe. I think idly about killing myself, but I don't have the fortitude. I can't even get up; I wouldn't know where to start. Perhaps if I sit here for long enough, the darkness will snuff me out. I smell the acrid tang of old smoke. I am decamped.

The students next door laugh on the sidewalk as they return from their Saturday night out. Later, the gate across the road squeals as the nurse leaves for her predawn shift. Birds cackle at one another. I am finally provoked enough by this reminder of time to stand. I piss, avoiding my face in the bathroom mirror, then make for the pantry. In the kitchen, even though my eyes are accustomed to the blackness, I crack my hip bone on the corner of the butcher block as if it has deliberately been moved into my way.

When I was about five years old, I was terrified of going into our pantry at home. There was a banshee who lived there, and, my eight-year-old cousin James told me, banshees suck out your soul as they scream. I could hear the banshee some nights as I lay in bed, an interminable low drone. I told my mother once and she said there was no banshee; my father laughed.
You want to get a tin of fruit from the pantry, Markie, you're going to have to brave the banshee.

James and his parents came for lunch one Sunday. He locked me in the pantry and didn't come back. It felt like hours, trying not to move in case I woke it. I tried not to cry, knowing that banshees loved fear and sadness more than anything.
They can smell your fear,
James had told me. I could smell the roast chicken coming in from the kitchen, Mom and Aunt Petra chatting, James outside, playing with the dog. They had forgotten me, and the banshee would wake if I moved. Finally, about to sneeze, about to wet myself, my legs cramping, I needed to escape. Eyeing the small window above the top shelf, I pushed up to the first rack, not looking back because if you don't look back what's breathing down your neck doesn't exist, it can't hurt you. I couldn't breathe, trying to keep in my body's noise.

Don't think of the fear, close your eyes, climb.

I darted my short arm up, just reaching the next shelf. A bag of rice flopped over, rattling over two bottles of orange soda—a little intrusion of noise, settled as quickly as it started. A final roll of something; then I heard it. The banshee, it's drone louder than I'd ever heard it.

It's awake.

It's right behind me.

Cupping my hands over my ears, I fell, curling fetal.

I probably screamed. I probably cried. I remember Dad coming in and yelling at me, “Would you calm down? It's only a bloody toy.”

The banshee was a plastic battery-operated keyboard with a stuck E. The banshee didn't exist. I don't remember eating roast chicken with James and Aunt Petra and Uncle Leon.

Now I close the door behind me and will her to emerge from the enveloping void.

Waiting, I run my tongue over my lip where it's split. I press my fingernail into the cut, use my thumb to pare it open, concentrate on the ragged sting. But she doesn't come.

Later, the sun shines in, so I close the curtains. But in Hayden's room, the Disney princesses still glow too brightly and I tear them down.

I crawl on the living room carpet, gathering up the hair where we all left it.

This bed is Odette's. She owned it first. When we were young and amorous and could still express desire without pain or guilt and before Zoë was born, she made it hers in countless ways. Steph insisted on a new mattress and new sheets, but this bed is Odette's.

I sit at the edge of Steph's side and open the drawer in her nightstand, like an intruder, careful not to disturb anything. A forgotten paperback, the sort she prefers to hide from me, a notepad scrawled with plotlines for her children's book, a tangle of necklaces and bracelets she hasn't bothered to unknot after Hayden played with them, balled tissues, a cracked lipstick with the lid missing. I'm looking for clues to her that don't exist.

I close the drawer and stare around the room, trying to feel something other than this. So much has happened in this bedroom, but it's all dust-caked now. Just me now; it's all led to this. None of the love or joy or anguish or impassioned argument I've wasted my life on can counteract the fact that I am here, alone. It all seemed so important, life.

I sit awhile and wish for her to come, and for a moment I think she has because I see something moving under the dresser. But it is not her. I go toward the shadow and crouch down, but there's nothing there but dander.

Then there is a crash of glass to rouse me. I want them to come in, finish the job, take away the nothingness. When they don't, I push myself up and limp through to the living room, my hands aching, the skin on my knees grazed, a bruise on my forehead. It is dark again and all that has happened is that the photos have been pushed off the bookshelf again.

I sit down, bare foot bleeding from the glass.

The dog barks; I have a pain in my stomach. The gate across the road shears on its hinges. Birds shout. Someone swears. It is light. I stand up to close the curtain. Nobody comes. Something dark looks at me with many red eyes from the vacant shelf. I curl up around the ache.

Bang, bang, bang. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
That annoying sound of a chunky ring smacking against the window. It's going to crack.

“Open the bloody door, Mark! I know you're there.”

I force myself up to sitting, my spine crackling. For a moment I don't know where I am; the drawn curtains across the bay window seep tepid light and I feel like I'm in a cave.

Carla rattles and calls again and I get myself up and shuffle to the front door.

As soon as I open it a crack, she shoulders through. “God, it's rank in here, sweetie,” she says, bustling down the hall, dumping bags on the kitchen counter. “And you look like shit. Go and take a shower.”

“What are you doing here?” I drag my hand through my hair and over my face, trying to wake myself up.

“Your wife called me. She was worried about you. Said you hadn't answered your phone for more than a day. I tried too.”

“My phone?” I don't even know where it is. It must be dead, I don't know.

Carla hustles into the living room and opens the curtains and windows, flaps them pointedly as if to draw out the stink in here. As I approach and smell the freshish evening air coming in from outside, I realize she's right—I could do with a shower.

“Okay,” I say, grabbing a clean pair of jeans and a shirt from my room and heading toward the bathroom.

The water does improve my mood. I feel more than sticky sweat washing off me. I have been acting crazy. I don't really know what I was thinking, trying to cut Hayden's hair, and Steph was right to react like that. And if she's been trying to get in touch with me, it means she's willing to work it out. I can stop all this nonsense and start being her husband and Hayden's father again.

A short knock and Carla ducks inside the bathroom and picks up my dirty clothes, then darts out again.

The odd thing is I really can't remember what seemed so urgent a few days ago. Picking up dead animals, drifting around town chasing ghosts. Maybe this long, dark night of the soul is just what I've needed to gain some perspective again, sweating out my horrors.

I soap myself all over, scrubbing until I'm red and tingling. Until I'm almost new. I dry myself off and get into my fresh clothes and find Carla wiping down the counters in the kitchen, clean dishes aligned on the drying rack, the washing machine going.

“This isn't just a weekend's worth of mess,” Carla comments, not turning to face me. She's wearing jeans and a hooded jacket over a casual silk blouse—obviously she hurried over, but I can't help thinking that she looks good. “She's not looking after you very well.”

I click my tongue. “I don't need looking after, and that's not her job.”

Carla shrugs, as if what I've said doesn't make any difference. “I'm not trying to stir, but you're out at work all day, and she stays here, doing what? The laundry's piled up; the dishes aren't done.”

“Christ, Carla, that's a bit old-fashioned of you.”

“Don't be absurd, darling. You know it's got nothing to do with gender roles—it's about sharing the workload. If she were out working all day and you were here, you know you'd keep the dishes clean.”

I suppose I would, but I say, “She's been busy with Hayden. It's draining, looking after a kid, especially a two-year-old. You're constantly walking after them, keeping them out of danger…”

I stop talking as the air ices over. I don't want to discuss this, but Carla doesn't let it go. She finally turns to face me, color in her cheeks. “Yes, I'm quite aware that I haven't had the
privilege
of motherhood, but from what I can see, looking after a two-year-old without working for a living involves a lot of sleeping.” She slaps the cleaning cloth into the sink, surprising herself, I think, because then she composes herself again, takes a tumbler off the dryer, and reaches for one of the bottles of wine next to the window.

I know it pains her to be vulnerable, and I go and take a glass for myself. “Some for me too.”

She pulls out a stool at the kitchen counter and sighs as she sits. “It's not my business, I know. But you're my friend, and I don't like the way she undermines you.”

I join her at the table, soothed to have someone on my side. I can't tell her what I did to Hayden to make Steph take her and leave. “She doesn't. I owe her a lot. You know Hayden was quite difficult when she was small—she had colic, she was really uncomfortable, she hardly slept—and I didn't help Steph with her.”

“Did she let you?” Carla snaps. “No, hang on, let me answer that. No, she didn't let you. I see how she is with her, so possessive, of course you can't find your way in.”

“It's not like that. I feel so guilty about—”

“What you need to do, Mark,” she interrupts, “is
stop
feeling guilty and start asserting your place in this family. Hayden's
your
daughter, and you need to stop living here—in your own bloody house—like you're an unwelcome lodger. For Christ's sake, you're the sole breadwinner; you're the man of the household. Start acting like it.”

I could choose to be offended or inspired or enraged, but I'm simply embarrassed. I sip my wine and slump my forehead into my hand. “Acting like a man. Jesus, there's a fraught topic.”

Carla pauses long enough to let the air settle. “As I say, it's none of my business.”

“When those men broke into our house, I was immobilized. I just sat there while they took Steph away from me. I couldn't even look at the guy who stayed with me, just stared at my feet while he rooted through our stuff. If I had owned a gun, would I have shot them?”

“Mark,” Carla starts, trying to steer me onto another course, regretful of having spoken her mind. But then she recognizes that my tone is meditative, not angry or defensive. I'm really wondering aloud here, telling things to my oldest friend that I can't share with anyone else.

“I don't think I would have,” I continue. Now I look into Carla's eyes. “My only role, I think, the only thing I know how to do, is mourn.”

Carla puts her hand on mine.

“I miss Hayden,” I say.

“They'll come back soon,” she says. “Then you can start again.”

I know I'm out of chances to start again, so I say nothing.

We go to the couch and Carla puts on a soothing cooking channel, an elegant woman in her dream house with a fragile, seductive smile and sad eyes, then two life-weathered and time-sweetened old men driving around Italy. At some point, Carla puts her head on my shoulder and I let it stay, smelling the fresh shampoo and salty grass of her hair. My hand's on her hip, just for comfort's sake. I have the sense that things are going to work out just fine. None of this is a matter of life or death—it will all come out in the wash.

Her hand's on my chest, under my shirt, because it's getting cool in this room, her foot brought up to nestle under my calf. Her lips on mine, my fingers along her back. I turn onto my back and Carla covers me, her hair draped into my face, and it's then I see her, Zoë, standing in the corner of the living room, watching.

A slant of light from the hallway falls into the angle where she stands, slicing across her face so that I can see her chin and her mouth, and half of that yellow hair, a languid finger curling a skein of it. Her jeans and T-shirt could do with a wash, I notice, and there's a rancid smell in the air. I'm about to say something to her, but then she smiles and glides her tongue over her lips, still twisting, twisting the hair around her finger.

Carla pulls back. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing. It's just…”