The Radiant City (30 page)

I miss you,
Imma
. Tears are a blessing, her mother had said. Tears wash us clean, they are holy water, too, she said. And I am well blessed tonight, thought Saida, wiping her face with a teatowel. Everything into the pot, simmer and stir, simmer and stir. Steam on her face like a reassuring hand.

The kitchen smelled good, although the idea of eating felt like stones on her teeth. She set two bowls out and cut bread. She stirred the pot. Tasted. Added salt. Squeezed in lemon. And then the phone.

“He’s with me.”

She wanted to speak but there was only a sound, feather against air as something tethered took flight.

“Saida?”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Where was he?”

“He was at a party.”

“And where was this party?”

He hesitated for only a moment. “At an artists’ squat.”

“A what?”

“Sort of a commune.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she said.

“He’s okay.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

And now she sits, her hands folding napkins, curling up the edge of the tablecloth, picking at her clothes and dusting surfaces that have no dust on them. At the sound of feet in the hall she stands, looking at the door. She steps forward, reaching for the lock, and then stops, lets Joseph use his key. As the handle twists, she turns back to the stove, anxious that they find her doing something, anything.

“Hey, Mom, we’re home,” says Matthew.

She keeps her face over the cinnamon-and-garlic soup steam. She hears cloth against cloth, a coat being removed. She waits for her son to speak—the sound of his voice will inform her, give her a clue.

“Smells good in here,” says Matthew. “Doesn’t it smell good?”

Very good.” Joseph’s voice low, subdued, but by what?

“Are you hungry?” she says in Arabic.

“A little, yes.”

“Matthew, do you want some soup?”

“Oh, maybe I should be going. I’m pretty tired.”

“You should eat first. Sit.” She carries the soup to the table, ladles it into red bowls.

They sit at the table. Joseph blows on his soup. Matthew dips bread into his.

“It’s good,” says Joseph.

“Why do you make me send someone to look for you?” she says.

“You didn’t have to. Nothing was wrong.”

“
La
! Stop.” She slaps her hand on the table. “Do not play games with me, Joseph. You know what is right. What is wrong. You have done something wrong. It is not a discussion.”

“It was just a party.”

“You are not a cruel boy. But you are turning into a liar. I can smell the alcohol on you. You have been unkind tonight. To me. I have to tell you this?”

“
Tay-yib, Imma. Tay-yib
.
”
He glances at Matthew, who has his eyes on his soup and bread. Saida knows her son is embarrassed in front of the Canadian, but she does not mind that. He should be embarrassed. He should be ashamed.

“Okay? This is what you have to say?” If Matthew were not there, she would slap him; her hand is a thing with a mind of its own and it wants to slap him. She puts it under her arm to quiet it. “You are crossing a line, Joseph. Are you sure? Are you sure you want to cross it?”

“
La
.”

“And so?”

“Ana asif.”

“I hope you
are
sorry.” There had been so many words she had wanted to scream at him in the dark hours when she waited, not knowing. They are evaporating on her hot skin. “I was afraid, Joseph. I was afraid you were dead.”

“You worry too much.”

“Hey,” says Matthew. “You should be glad your mother worries about you.”

Joseph puts his spoon beside the bowl and leans back, his hands in his lap. There are little spots of red high on his cheeks and his eyes are pink and look sore. “You don’t remember what it was like when you were my age. I bet you wanted to . . . to have your freedom, too. Get away from your mother all the time looking for you.”

Matthew sucks his teeth. “I remember exactly what it was like.”

“So what are you taking her side for? Tell her it’s not good the way she keeps me too close. Your mother, she was the same?”

For a moment, it is as though a bird flies above Matthew’s face, casting shadows. “My mother died when I was about your age. She died of a broken heart.” He tears his bread into tiny pieces. “Don’t be a jerk. You’ll be out on your own soon enough. May not feel like it now. But it’s the truth. Before you know it.”

It is only the slight raising of Joseph’s eyebrow, the way he presses his lips together, as he has done since he was a little boy and something worried him, that shows feeling. A quick flick of his eyes back and forth. A feeling he does not want anyone to know he has, as though he is afraid they might catch him at something, might discover something. And Saida thinks that still, she knows her son, he is not such a stranger, yet.

He opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again.

“What?” says Matthew.

Joseph pulls his misshapen lip between his teeth and chews it.

“What?” Matthew says again.

“You . . . you broke your mother’s heart?”

“No, my father did.”

It is clear from the look on Matthew’s face he does not want them to ask any questions.

They eat their soup. Saida has a little, too. “It needs more salt,” she says, but they assure her it is fine.

When, not long after, Matthew says he is leaving, Joseph’s head droops on his chest.

“Make up your bed,” she says to him.

She walks Matthew to the stairwell.

“You are a good friend to us,” she says.

“Your family’s been good to me,” he says, and then he says, “Well.”

“Thank you. I cannot thank you enough. I do not know what I would have done.”

“He would have come home in a little while.”

“But you found him. And to know someone was looking for him, it made a difference to me.”

“Good night,” he says.

She takes him by the shoulders and kisses him on one cheek and then the other. “You are like family now,” she says. “Like a brother to me.”

His smile is uncertain and perhaps she has embarrassed him.

He nods. “Thanks,” he says, and then he is gone.

When she steps back in the apartment, Joseph is already asleep under the blanket, his back turned to her. His pants and shoes lie on the floor beside the couch, which he has not bothered to unfold. Here in the darkest part of winter it will not be morning for another hour or so. He sleeps with his neck on the armrest and she knows he will have a crick in it when he wakes.

She does not get him a pillow. Serves him right, she thinks.

Two days later Matthew goes back to the New Friends hostel. A tree with flickering lights stands in the lobby. It is topped with a beer can rather than an angel. There is grime in the corners of the room and the paint peels off the ceiling. This time finds Jack sitting in his place behind the reception desk. A girl leans on the counter talking to him and when she turns to look at Matthew he sees it is the girl with the purple eyes. She has dyed her hair a bizarre shade of aubergine.

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” says Jack, rising.

“Thought we should have a talk.”

Jack nods. “You want a coffee?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll get ’em. Karen, take off, okay honey? I’ll catch you later.” Jack comes around the counter and pats the girl on the behind.

“You’ll remember what I said?”

“Yeah, sure I will.”

“Thanks, Jack.” Purple Eyes reaches up and gives Jack a peck on the cheek. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“That’s me.”

Matthew waits while Jack gets the coffee from the bar. He hears voices and a group of Spanish travellers, three boys and two girls descend from the rooms above, ignore him and leave in a whirl of laughter and Gitanes smoke.

Jack pushes the door open from the bar with his back, holding two coffees in plastic cups. He hands one to Matthew and motions for him to come back around the counter. He pulls out a chair for Matthew, beside a small wooden table. Matthew sits, but Jack remains standing at the counter.

“So, have we got a problem?” Jack licks his thumb and leafs through a stack of paper.

“I hope not,” says Matthew.

“So do I. Joseph’s mom settled down?”

“She’s fine.”

“Good. Look, Matthew. I consider you a friend. I don’t have many of those. You’re a good guy. You’ve got a lot of integrity. That means something.”

“Jack—” He is in no mood to be conned.

“No. I mean it. Guys like you and me, we’ve been through some shit, right? And we understand each other.”

“I just want to be clear about Joseph.”

“You made yourself clear.”

“I hope so.”

Jack turns his back to Matthew and seems fixated on the papers in front of him. Matthew wonders if he’s reading. Jack’s head twitches, and he lifts one shoulder and then the other, as though to loosen the muscles. Finally, he says, “He’s all yours, Dad. All yours.”

There is bitterness in Jack’s voice and something suppressed, clenched between his teeth, but before Matthew can respond he turns, smiles as though nothing is wrong and says, “Let me show you something.” Jack reaches under the counter and pulls out a portfolio case. “You never ask to see my work, you know that? I want to show you my work.”

The mood shift is so swift Matthew decides he was mistaken.

Jack unzips the case and lays it on the table for Matthew to see. The photo is of a wino on the banks of the Seine. He sits with his back up against the stone wall, his feet straight out in front of him. He is a tatter of rags, newspaper stuffed beneath his open shirt. His hair sticks out and he grins at the camera like a lunatic. His hands are between his legs. His fly is open and his penis, surprisingly large, is in his hand. In the foreground the river carries the flotsam and jetsam of Paris. The next shot is a stone figure, the one from the Passy Cemetery. Her head is bowed under the weight of grief, the folds of her dress heavy as wet velvet, hair falling like a hood and hiding her face. Light filters through the branches of a nearby willow tree and combines with the lines of the draping fabric of her garment to create a mood of mourning.

Matthew blinks and looks again. The photo emits a sense of chances lost, grief and decay. “Good light. Who does the developing?”

“I do. At the squat. They have a darkroom. And yes, Joseph’s been around. He’s interested in this stuff, he says. But that’s all. And I hadn’t seen him for a while before the party. That was just a coincidence, all right?”

Matthew concentrates on the photos. The next is of Anthony with Paweena and Jariya in a booth at a café. Anthony and Paweena sit on one side, Jariya on the other. The contrast is dark, making the booth, the wall and the table all look slightly unclean, sordid—and the girls’ faces look sinister, secretive. Anthony’s face is the one bright spot, paradoxically, given the darkness of his skin. It is as though he was in the presence of unknown entities. Matthew doesn’t want to look too closely.

There are a series of shots of circus performers from one of the Romany circuses that set up from time to time on the outskirts of the city. A young girl wearing an outfit cobbled together from a bikini and a pair of tights. Her makeup is very thick and doesn’t hide her pimples. She stands in front of a trailer. A grinning man, his teeth broken, holds out a thick snake. The man wears a tattered top hat. A circus horse, his legs splayed with age or fatigue, eyes the camera warily. A dwarf scowls, his stubby fingers under his nose.

There are other photos, of cemeteries, funerals, prostitutes in white vans by the porte Dauphine, crack addicts in the metros and back alleys. Skulls lining the catacombs. A woman dancing in a church. All the lighting is at once dark and unforgiving—every mangled defect showing, merciless and frail. Reality peels away layers from the subjects, exposing them in all their unconscious vulnerability.

There is one of Joseph. He is standing in a shop doorway. Slouching, his eyes half-closed. The room behind him is all darkness. In front of him the street is littered, with broken glass and dog shit in the gutter. A sign in the shop window says, “
A louer
.” For rent. Matthew winces.

The last is a triptych of Jack himself. In the centre panel he stands knee-deep in black water, looking straight at the camera. Shirtless. Powerful and battered. There are scars on his chest. Old wounds from knives, at least one that may be gunshot. To the left is a scorched landscape, still smouldering, strewn with bodies. To the right is a graveyard with three newly dug, as yet unoccupied graves. There is no expression on Jack’s face, his mouth is open and slack-jawed; his hands droop at his sides.