The Apartment (8 page)

Then, before I could change my mind, I slotted it into the keyhole and opened the door, calling out a tentative “hello,” although God knows what I would have done if anyone had been in there. My first impression—probably because of the stench of must—was that I'd just entered a mausoleum. It was larger than the Petits' apartment, with an open-plan living room and kitchen area, but it had that same dated feel to it. A set of matching flowery living room furniture lurked at a skewed angle in the center of the room, and a table was laid with dusty plates and a salad bowl containing a desiccated black substance—the remains of dinner perhaps? A
Le Monde
dating from 1995 was crumpled on the coffee table next to the couch. I peered into the master bedroom. The sheets were still on the bed and a pair of men's shoes lay toe to toe near the door. The other bedroom was empty of all personal belongings except for two bare single mattresses and scores of plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on the ceiling. Despite the sunlight coming through the dusty windows, every nerve ending was screaming at me to get the fuck out of there. I couldn't shake the sense that I'd stumbled into some kind of crime scene.

I fled, returning the key to its place, for once grateful to be inside the relative normality of the Petits' stark apartment. Blood roaring in my ears, I was about to slug back another Urbanol tablet when I heard Mark's voice, followed by a
thump
on the door. I raced to let him in, so full of what I'd seen that I didn't notice his demeanor until he'd pushed past me and slumped onto the couch. His eyes were unable to settle and he kept licking his lips. “Mark…what's happened?”

“Nothing.” He tried to smile—an unconvincing display. “Nothing. Really. I'm just pissed off with the bank. They won't unlock the card.”

But there was more to it than that. He looked shell-shocked. I tried again to get him to tell me what had spooked him, but he continued to insist that there was nothing wrong. Eventually, I gave up.

I still don't know what affected him that day. He never told me, not even when he had nothing left to lose.

The moment I step onto the street, I feel lighter. I'd like to say it's just because I'm out of that oppressive building and that stifling apartment, but I wonder if I'm also relieved to have some time away from Steph. It feels disloyal to think that way, but it's been ages since we've spent so much time together, just the two of us—there's always been work or Hayden interrupting, and I guess we've become used to that; an hour's absence will only make the heart grow fonder.

I'm in Paris at last; it's so familiar and so overwhelmingly exotic all at once. This ordinary little street with its gray, tagged walls and narrow sidewalks littered with cigarette butts and dog crap and scraped gum is a wonderland to me. Every ten paces there's something new: the entrance to an apartment or a hotel or a school; a greengrocer, a bakery, a bistro, a designer clothing shop, a café, a shop that sells only honey, a shop that sells only Iberian ham, a shop for pâté; look at the seafood on trays of ice in the fishmonger, scalloped shells and blue lobsters, glossy fresh pinkfish; here are strings of giant garlic and red onions and salamis and chorizo. I could walk for miles in the suburbs of Cape Town without seeing anything new, but here, fifty yards is crammed with a lifetime of sensations. This little street, with its jaunty angles and walls of pretty balconied windows and the crisp, refreshing wind coming up from the river, must seem mundane to its residents, but for me it's a joyous celebration of flavor and life.

I smile and nod and say
bonjour
to the shopkeepers and the serious women striding along the sidewalk and the retirees pulling shopping carts and the immaculately dressed children with their coats and scarves and boots and their calm, contained manner. God, Zoë would have loved it here. Already, at the age of seven, Zoë was turning out to be just as much an obsessive geek as me. Once, when we took the train down to Simonstown, she kept asking me to show her my watch, and I wondered why until I noticed her writing every station name down in her diary, along with the time we stopped there. That sweet, brave, inquisitive girl was meant to have a life filled with travel. For months, her favorite bedtime stories were pages from the atlas and the
World Fact File.
She not only knew most of the world's flags by heart but drew her own flags for Zoëland and all the other countries in her mind. I taught her how to say hello and goodbye in twelve languages, and she took ownership of Odette's foreign coin collection as soon as she was tall enough to nab it from the cabinet in her study. We'd find her muttering capitals and greetings to herself on her carpet, the coins all lined up in front of her. Zoë was just getting old enough for Odette and me to consider saving up to take her overseas. Odette got sick and Zoë never made it out of the country.

Odette and I would have had our bloody credit cards working, and we would have splurged on designer outfits for her, sauntered into our boutique hotel, and thrown our shopping bags on the plush bed like they do in the movies. But that was another life; I shove the memories into their well-worn corner.

The fact that I was making such an issue about money before we came here just shows what a cramped rut I've got myself into. We're in Paris for one week and we can afford to get into a little bit of debt to enjoy ourselves properly. I feel like I've immediately gained perspective; all the shit at home seems so faraway. As I make my way down the hill toward the Starbucks, I peer into the windows of the hotels I pass. There are some lovely-looking two- and three-star places that are fairly reasonable. It's not too late to rescue this trip.

In the coffee shop, I order a giant Americano and a Danish, willfully not converting euros into rands. I put in my earphones, sign into the wi-fi, and Skype the bank's credit card helpline. As I hear the tinny waiting music, my heart clenches and I understand that those hotels, the shopping, a pleasant meal or two—Steph and me having a good time this week—are all riding on this call.

Once I've entered my account number, I'm put through to an agent. “Good morning, this is Jeandra speaking. Can you confirm your name and ID number and physical address for me?”

I rattle off my details, bracing myself for a fight, but to my surprise, the agent sounds smart and keen. “Good morning, Dr. Sebastian. How can I help you?”

“I'm overseas now, and I need my credit card unblocked to use here.”

“Which country are you in, sir?”

“I'm in France.”

“You're aware that you need to pre-authorize your card for use out of the country?”

I consider lying—if I told her that I didn't know, she might take pity on me—but I can't bring myself to. “Yes, I was, actually. But I forgot.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, sir. It happens quite a lot.”

I'm still suspicious of this woman's tone. She's probably instructed to placate the customer while still not doing a thing to solve the problem. “So, is there anything you can do? Can you authorize it now?”

“You know, sir, we're not really supposed to, but I can understand when you're on a trip, you need your card to work.”

“That's right,” I say, guarded.

“What we can probably do is just authorize you as if you're arriving today, and it should be fine.”

Okay. This is not my normal experience of bank call centers. “Great, thanks so much.”

“But I need my supervisor to override that transaction, and he's in a meeting now.”

“Oh.”

“But he's logged to be back at twelve o'clock. That's eleven your time.”

I check my watch: just over an hour.

“If you call back then, we'll get it done. Here's my direct number: it's Jeandra F.” I scratch the number into my napkin with the end of my plastic spoon.

“Thank you, Jeandra, you've been really helpful.”

“A great pleasure, sir. Speak to you soon, and enjoy your trip further.”

I take out the earphones and sit back and take a long, relieved draft of my coffee. What a nice, helpful person. It's good to remember sometimes that the whole world isn't against you.

I click on Steph's name in Skype and then remember: she won't have wi-fi up there. I can't let her know I'll be longer than expected, but it's hardly worth walking all the way up to the apartment and then coming straight down again to finalize the credit card. She'll just have to wait—or she can take a walk of her own if she wants; she's got the keys. What did people do before everyone had cell phones? They relaxed and trusted each other to be grown-ups, that's what. Steph'll be fine; instead of fussing and worrying, I should see her as an adult who can take care of herself. Besides, she's probably fast asleep, catching up on two years' worth of rest. Meanwhile, I'm on a Parisian boulevard and can certainly find something to keep me occupied for an hour.

Pocketing my phone, I take my coffee outside, strolling along the broad sidewalk and staring unashamedly like a tourist at the fingers of the bare trees pointing up at the intricate balconies of plush apartments, the chauffeured sedans cruising the wide road, the subtle neon and opulent façades of designer shops. Joggers and workers and children on their way to school pass brasseries with somehow familiar names and sprawling sidewalk enclosures packed with those famous little round tables. A short way up the road, I pass an ornate marble-tiled and vaulted shopping arcade and reach a doorway advertising the waxworks museum. The poster shows that they've got a Michael Jackson and a George Clooney, a Gandhi and an Einstein—and even a Hemingway and a Sartre. That'll be a good way to kill an hour.

I'm expecting a cluttered little curiosity shop, but the corridor is long and narrow, with glitzy mirrored walls and a bright red carpet. It's five past ten and the museum's just opened, but there's already a small queue ahead of me: a chic designer pair and a venerable couple escorting a small red-haired boy. An Italian-sounding family bustles in from the boulevard on gales of laughter, swapping jokes as we approach the security checkpoint. I smile down at the child, and he clings to his grandmother's leg. As I surrender my pockets' contents under a blast of hot air and I'm scanned by a security wand, I'm numbed by the foreign languages around me, peripheral and strange like an alien hermetically sealed in a space suit.

Once I'm through the entranceway, the corridor widens out into a plush red lobby with a low, dark ceiling. I check my coat and only then notice how expensive the entrance ticket is. But the truth is, I'm intrigued by the red room and the promise of what lies beyond, so I pay up; the credit card will be working when I'm out of here.

I follow the others through a cramped tunnel lined with curved funhouse mirrors and totems made of wax faces and glance ahead at the little boy—I'm sure Hayden or Zoë would find this creepy, but he's laughing and skipping ahead with his grandparents; no doubt they've been here before. I tell myself to stop worrying and try to enjoy this for myself.

Around the next turn, we enter a surprisingly lofty, bright room, like a small version of a grand opera's lobby. The walls are covered with frescoes and baroque gilt-framed mirrors. We're ushered up a sweeping marble staircase to a black door lit with a sign:
LE PALAIS DES MIRAGES
. The chatter in the group has died down and we file into the darkened room. It's a square about the size of our bedroom at home, with a double-high ceiling and walls glinting with mirrors. I crush down an itchy sense of panic. What if these people are conning us? What if they're planning to rob us? Surely we're perfect marks—blithe tourists with too much money and too much trust. We've herded in here so obediently, like animals to the slaughter.

Don't be stupid, Mark.
It's not Steph's voice my mind conjures to berate me; it's a mixture of Odette's and Carla's disapproval—ancient, deeply rooted, formative.
It's just a show. What's happened to you?

I was attacked, in my home, in the darkness,
I want to say to them.
That's what happened to me!
But I know that whatever's been eroding me has been happening since long before the invasion.

In the darkness, the little boy whispers and his grandmother returns a comforting response. He giggles. An announcement comes on in English and French, asking us to turn off our cell phones and not to take photos. The usher leads another group inside, signals for us all to stand against the side of the room, then retreats, closing the door behind her.

Bulbs set into the domed ceiling start to flicker; then tubes of colored lights arrayed around the walls flash on and off in time to an urgent drumming. A crash of lightning is timed to a bright strobe that illuminates four figures set on pedestals high up on the wall in each quadrant of the room, reflected countlessly in the opposite mirrors. Instantly, the music changes to a sensual bolero as the figures are bathed in undulating light from spots placed in hidden crevices in the ceiling. It looks like they're moving, although they're nothing but wax models. Three women in tribal outfits—African, Polynesian, and Indian—are presided over by the glowering eyes of a malignant swami.

I'm constructing a mental critique of the inherent sexism and racism in the portrayals of these figures—the colonialist penchant for exoticizing the “primitive” body—when the lights shut off with a resounding crash and a whole different set of lights comes on. There are green snakes and tendrils and the ceiling has somehow been quilted with a layer of patterned silk that ripples to hidden currents of air in time to the urgent susurration of jungle insects. A roar of a tiger, and I glance over to where the little boy is standing, fearing for him, but he's smiling, rapt, up at the leaves of the canopy.

The lights go off, and now the ceiling is a star-spangled night sky. The tribal figures have disappeared and been replaced on their pedestals by revelers at a masked ball. The stars twinkle over them as they dance motionlessly to a waltz. Gradually the lights come up, rose and orange, as if dawn is ending the party. Another announcement invites the group to continue through the far door and enjoy the rest of the museum.

As the other visitors file out, I linger, studying the room, wondering how they achieved their effects. It's clearly an antique exhibit, but it's still very impressive and clever. They must have used a rotating base on each pedestal that swaps the figures around while the lights are down. I'm scanning the ceiling to trace where the ropes of lights are laid and where the fans and spots must be housed when the lights flick out. My eyes have been narrowed by the brightness of the false dawn, and now I can't see a thing. Muttering something meaningless to indicate that there's still someone in here, I feel my way around the wall toward the exit. But I can't find the door. There's not a seam in the surface, just the feel of slightly tacky velvet. I trail farther around, sure that I've circled way beyond where the door was. It's a small room and the door was just to my right. Even if it was—

A
thump
somewhere above me, answered by a groan from the other side.

“Hello?”

They're in the house, Mark.

They can't be. They're…it's probably just…

Thump. Thump.

They're inside. Oh fuck.

Steph, don't.

My throat stops working and my chest starts to ache. Trying to suck in some breath, I feel my way urgently around the room toward the entrance side, but I can't…I still can't find…

The lights blare on, the mirrors jagging the beams around the room. I'm alone in here.

But that groan again, behind me.

I turn and look up at the pedestal. No tribeswoman, no dancer, but a tall teenage girl with long blond hair. She's not part of the old display; she's wearing jeans and a red T-shirt and sneakers with Scooby-Doo on them. She's lean and striking, a lot like Odette, but not exactly.
Look again, force yourself. It's a wax model, and she's looking at you. Look into her eyes.