The Apartment (4 page)

“This can't be the right place. It's a dump.” I was still whispering.

“The keys fit. And it said 3B.”

“Maybe the apartments all have the same lock?”

“Wait. I'll double-check.”

I stood in the center of the room while Mark went back out into the corridor. A single framed picture on the wall above the couch caught my eye: a photograph of a young woman, freckle-faced, wisps of raven hair blowing across her cheeks. She was smiling, but her eyes were blank. On closer inspection it turned out to be one of those mass-produced frame-filling prints.

“It's definitely the right one.” He attempted a smile. “Hey. It's not too bad.”

“Seriously?” I grinned to show him I appreciated his stab at reviving the levity between us.

“It's big enough. Most apartments in Paris are the size of shoe boxes.”

I scuffed a foot over the floor. “They could have bothered to sweep it.”

“Yeah, it wouldn't have taken long.” He sat on the couch and pulled out the iPad.

“What are you doing?”

“Setting up the wi-fi. That okay? You need me to do anything for you?”

“I have to pee.”

“Okay if you manage that by yourself?” he teased.

“Ha-ha.”

The bathroom did, in fact, contain the same claw-foot bathtub I'd seen in the photographs (along with what looked like the same burgundy towel, and a solitary squirl of gray pubic hair next to the plug hole) but was as disappointing as the living room. The walls were covered in white, institutional tiles, the sink's porcelain was chipped and stained with rust spots, and a section of the ceiling was dotted with black mold. The toilet bowl was livid with limescale, and although the seat looked clean enough, I wasn't prepared to come into contact with it until I'd disinfected it myself, so I balanced above the seat, thighs aching. There was a single meager roll of crispy toilet paper, like the kind we used to have at school. With a sting of resentment, I thought of the twelve-pack of three-ply I'd bought for the Petits.

Jet lag had started to get to me: dizziness muddied my vision, and the floor seemed to tip. I walked unsteadily back into the living room. Mark was staring down at the iPad, his brow creased. I tried texting Mom again, but the message wouldn't send.

“I don't get it. I put it on roaming before we got on the plane. Maybe there's no signal here or something.”

Mark didn't look up. “We're in the middle of Paris. How can there be no signal?”

“At least there's wi-fi, right?”

“Nope.”

“What? There must be. Didn't the Petits send you the code?”

“I've been through the list. Their username isn't on here. The only one with a strong signal is secured. It must belong to one of the other residents.”

“Great.”

“The modem might need rebooting.”

“Where is it?”

“Must be here somewhere.”

The shelves around the ancient TV were empty, so I checked the bedroom—the closets were locked—then the kitchen, a space as shabby and neglected as the bathroom: peeling linoleum, an ancient, grumbling fridge, and cupboards made of dark, brooding wood. The only appliances I unearthed were a broken kettle, an iron, and a coffee machine with a chipped pot.

“No modem, unless it's locked away somewhere. How am I going to call my folks?”

“Let's get ourselves sorted here, take a nap; then we'll make a plan, okay?” Without waiting for me to agree, he kicked off his shoes and padded into the bedroom. I followed.

“But what if there's an emergency? What if Hayden is sick? What if they need to get hold of us urgently?” The dread was back.

“She's fine, Steph. You know she's being spoiled rotten by your parents.” Mark lay back on the bed and thumped the mattress. “It's not too bad. Sheets are clean.” He grabbed one of the pillows and sniffed it. “Musty.” Then he cracked a huge yawn. Bad move—it infuriated me.

“Mark, can you not just fucking listen to me? I need to call Hayden!” I knew I was being whiny and irrational, but I couldn't stop myself. I hadn't realized how exhausted I'd become by the trip, and Mark telling me how I should feel about my daughter was the last straw. It was as if the fun we'd had on the journey had all been an illusion and this paranoid harridan was the
real
me.

Instead of snapping back at me, he blinked, scrambled to his feet, and put his arms around me. “Hey…” He stroked my neck like he used to do when we first met. His shirt stank of sweat and airline food, but I didn't care. “She's fine. Hayden's fine. We'll find a café with wi-fi after we've had a shower and a nap. I promise. I'll get hold of the Petits, find out what the hell is going on, and you can call your parents.”

I drew back from him. “I dunno, Mark. This place…do we really want to spend a week here?” I glanced at my reflection in the full-length mirror stuck onto the closet door. I looked fatter and shorter than I usually did; my hair greasy, face puffy and pasty. Troll-like. “The building's front door…anyone could get in here. It wasn't even locked.”

He winced at that. “Steph, come on. Let's rest for a bit. See how we feel after that. We can always go to a hotel.” But he knew as well as I did that we couldn't afford that.

He lay back on the bed again and patted the space next to him. “Come on.”

I hesitated, then did as he asked. The mattress was comfortable, which was something. Mark fumbled for my hand. Within seconds, he was snoring softly, leaving me to stare up at the stained ceiling.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I remember what woke me up: the sound of a fist slamming on the apartment's door.

“It's okay. It's okay,” I'm whispering to Steph, pushing my hand down on her hip so she doesn't get up and run into them as they wait in the corridor. “I'll check on Hayden.” It's only when I'm halfway across the floor, my shin crashing against the sharp lip of a low coffee table that shouldn't be there, that I remember we're not at home. Still, I can't see anything and I can't exactly remember right now where we are.

“Where is she?” Steph's saying behind me, somewhere in the dead darkness. I hear her fumbling, something clattering onto the floor, and at the same time I'm feeling around the unfamiliar walls, which are tacky with an icy sweat. I find a light switch, but when I push it, nothing happens. My hand bumps into a picture frame and a mantelpiece and then at last Steph's found her phone and the light from it is startling.

We both remember where we are at the same time, and Steph sighs out the breath she's been holding. “Why's it so dark?” she says.

“Lights must've tripped.”

I find I've been clutching my own phone like I've done ever since the attack. It's my emergency weapon, as if it's going to save me. It's 11:08 a.m. and inky dark. I rip open one of the heavy curtains, but the windows are shuttered with grim metal slats that let no light in.

“What was that noise?”

“I don't know. Probably just a door slamming, the wind or something.” I flick on my phone's little light, approach the front door, and listen. All I hear is my own breathing and the blood shunting in my ears, so I turn back. “Could be anything in a building like this. There's lots of—”

A deep bang freezes me, then another. Not knocking—it's like an animal trying to smash its way through the door. I take three slow steps backward, into the coffee table again, and stand, shining my minuscule light at the door.

For a second something inside me feels brave and validated when Steph slots herself slightly behind my shoulder, but the feeling evaporates as she takes a deep breath and strides to the door, leaving me behind, showing me how it's done. But she's forgotten the second dead bolt at the top of the door and I come over and slide it down and twist the handle for her. The small victories of the middle-aged man. We peer out onto the landing together, and I edge through the door ahead of her. If anyone's going to be a shield, it's me. The stairwell is also windowless and lightless, only the muffled circles from our phones spreading a little way in front of us. For a second there's no motion, no sound, but then there's a tread on the stairs above us and the sound of someone hurrying up them. Emboldened by the fact that the footsteps are going away rather than toward us, I allow my shock to turn to anger.
I didn't come all the way to Paris to be harassed by petty delinquents.

“Wait there,” I say to Steph, and the dissipating fear in my voice must come across as bravery, because she hesitates. “You can't go out like that,” I add.

She looks down at herself, in her undies and the socks and sweater she was wearing on the journey here, and then back at me. She assembles an I-can-wear-what-I-like look of defiance, but she doesn't make a move away from the doorjamb. She's probably realized what I have—the footsteps are light and skittering away from us. We're not going to be killed or tortured by the owners of these feet.

I poke my head into the narrow eye of the cramped stairwell and call up. “Wait!
Excusez-moi!
” Summoning the few words of French I know. I hear the footsteps creaking on the worn wooden treads another story farther up, and it incites me—they wake us up; then they run away. If this is some kid playing a joke, they should know it's not funny. I head up the stairs, ignoring Steph as she calls, “Mark, don't,” behind me. Rounding to the next landing and the next, I press the switch at each level, but no light comes on and all I have is the phone's weak spot. I check under each door for light—nothing—stop briefly to listen for movement in the stagnant, moldy air, and seconds later I hear a door slamming on the level above me.

The landing on the top floor is even smaller than any of the others—two three-quarter-size doors squeezed awkwardly into the angular decline of the ceiling. A rusted bucket filled with sand stands under an empty bracket for a fire extinguisher. The carpet on the floor is completely worn through; as I approach, the dry wooden boards spike a splinter into my bare foot. Subdued light oozes from under one of the lopsided doors, its surface rough with peeling red lacquer. There's no number, just a small handwritten label reading
ROSNER, M.
I knock with the side of my fist—
ba, ba, bang.
I wait. No movement. Then I kick the door—
See how you like it, arsehole
—but instantly regret it as my cold toes smash against the solid mass.

My stupid bout of anger is quickly spent and I lean back against the wall, rubbing my toes and inspecting the sole where the splinter has gone in. By my phone's light I can see the long black line getting fainter as it digs deeper into my sole, and now that the effects of the cold and shock are wearing off, it's starting to ache.

I turn away and go down two steps, the wounded hero returning from battle, but now I hear a voice on the other side of the door. Chains clatter and the latch clicks over twice. I'm hit by a barrage of angry French that I can't understand and turn to see a short woman with a gray crew cut over a face that's ashen apart from feverish high red blotches under her cheekbones. She's backlit by the soft yellow light of candles or lanterns from within. I get a glimpse of canvases stacked against a wall and a table overloaded with containers brimming with brushes and scraps of material and pencils and stacks of colored paper, and a waft of pungent air emerges with the woman, thick with an acrid tang of piss and oil and fish, and some sort of waxy chemical odor. She's wearing a ratty scarf and a coat like an old, ugly carpet, still beaded with melting sleet. Now that I see who my bogeyman is, it's almost funny, but not quite—she's so unpleasant.

I raise my hands and say, “I don't understand what you're saying, so you may as well stop,” and turn away. There's no point in being here.

As I'm heading down the first steps, she takes in a breath and says, in a considered, resonant tone, “You must not come inside here, in my home, and disrespect for me.”

My temper is shot from interrupted sleep and the sour adrenaline in my veins. I know I should just leave it, but I say, “Disrespect? You're the one bashing on my door for no good reason. Unless you've got a teenage kid in there with an attitude problem.”

This shuts her down. Like a switch has tripped, all the fire drains from her face. “No, there is no child.”

“Well, can I go now?” I say, aware that I'm the one who chased her up here in the first place.

She backs into her apartment. “You be careful here. It is not for living.”

I don't know what she means by that, but I can't criticize—this woman's English is far better than my French. I limp down the stairs, my toes and the splinter throbbing in earnest now. Steph's still in the doorway when I get down to the third floor, but now she's pulled on her jeans and shoes.

“It was just a woman from upstairs,” I say, embarrassed. I must have looked very stupid reacting the way I did, launching off into the darkness in a bite-size rage.

To my relief, Steph smiles tiredly. “I know. I heard. I thought I'd leave you to it. I would have come and rescued you if I'd heard you scream.”

I stroke her arm. “Thanks. She was so grumpy!” I laugh. “An artist or something.”

“Bound to be crazy, then.”

“Of course. Talk about local flavor—we have our own artiste in a garret.”

“A madwoman in the attic.” Although Steph's joking, the image chills me; it conjures up smoke and death and insanity and blood. I recall that burning tallow smell from the apartment upstairs.

It's only when Steph kicks off her shoes and goes to the couch that I register that the apartment is bathed in safe, sterile electric light. “Hey, you fixed the power.”

“Yeah, the board tripped. It's just there.” She points at the row of switches behind the open front door. “Useful for future reference.”

“Nice one. I'm going to see if there's any coffee. You want some?”

“No, I need to talk to Hayden first.”

Not for the first time today, I'm relieved that I stuck to my guns and Hayden's not here. “I'm sure she's fine.”

“Yes, but you don't know that.” She starts fussing with her phone, muttering under her breath as she tries to find a free signal on the long list of routers it's picking up. By the glaring strip of light in the kitchen, it's easy to locate the cheap and grimy old filter coffee machine in one cluttered corner of the counter. I work out how to plug the thing in and fill it—running the water from the sink for a full minute before it clears and stops spattering—then riffle through the jumble in the cabinet above for a pack of filters and some coffee. There's a patina of mildew on the grounds, so I skim the top layer out of the tin and flick it into the sink before spooning more into the machine. It's going to have to do because there's a knitting needle rammed through my brain that I know is caffeine withdrawal, even though I've never gone cold turkey long enough to suffer it. The hot water will kill whatever mold remains. Besides, I'm not really likely to contract any dire tropical diseases in this cold climate. When the steam starts hissing a smell of coffee into the kitchen, everything begins to feel a lot more homey. I'm actually in a little apartment in Paris. It's seen far better days, but here we are.

I'd be more convinced of our hereness if I could actually see Paris outside, so I raise the blind in the kitchen, but it only reveals another of those thick, slatted metal shutters, swollen with oxidation and thickly painted over. They have to open, though—people live in this apartment and they surely can't live like moles in a cave. I trace the shutter's frame to see where the paint and rust are worn by movement, but I can't see any sign that this one has ever opened. I wriggle the handle, but it doesn't budge. I'm digging at the edge with a bread knife when Steph comes in behind me.

“There're a dozen signals labeled
FREE
, but I can't connect to any of them. We'll have to go out somewhere for wi-fi.” Steph sniffs the air. “Can I get some of that?”

“Of course. There's no milk, though.”

“That's okay. Just a quick fix before we go.” At least our shared addiction is one way we're sure to bond every day—I could never live with someone who drinks herbal tea. I rinse a mug from the cabinet and pour her a cup of stain. “We must remember to get hold of Carla too,” she says.

“Why would you want to talk to Carla?”

“Uh, to find out if the Petits have arrived at our place?”

“Oh, yeah. That.”

“Jeez.”

“Sorry—my brain's still in transit.”

“I'd text her, but the roaming still isn't working.”

Steph sips her coffee, sniffs it, then puts it down.

“Not great, huh?” I say.

“We can buy some milk and decent coffee at the grocery.”

It's good to hear her say “we.” Ever since the attack, we've been tiptoeing around each other, our familiar rhythms disrupted. I've been unsure what to do for Steph, unsure what she expects of me. This morning, it feels like we're doing things as a team again.

“You ready to go?” I say. Even if it's just for coffee and wi-fi, I'm excited by the prospect. I don't want to waste any more of our first day in Paris cooped up in this dingy apartment.

“I'm just going to take a quick shower. I feel disgusting.”

Steph pulls off her jeans in the bedroom and heads into the bathroom. I stand by the door, watching her move, tracing the curves of her hips and her shoulders with my eyes, trying to chart the expressive flop of her hair. She labors under a twenty-four-year-old's self-consciousness. She doesn't believe how beautiful she is; she doesn't realize that she's at the height of perfection. That's probably the reason she's here, now, with me, instead of in a five-star hotel suite with some magnate or billionaire soccer star. She could have her pick and she doesn't know it.

I park myself on the couch in the living room and stare at the stain-dappled wall above the TV as I probe idly at the splinter in my foot. The tip's broken off and there's no protrusion to pull on, even if we had tweezers. The wound's developing a red halo. I dig out a fresh pair of socks and tie on my shoes while I wait for Steph to finish.

We've come straight from a Cape Town summer's hot wind to the damp, bracing cold of a Parisian winter. Despite eleven uncomfortable hours on a plane and standing around queuing and waiting for several more, the transition still feels miraculous, like teleporting. After too many lost years of traveling the same suburban route to and from work, this morning I've already been bombarded with a glut of new sights and sounds and smells. Yesterday we were at home; today we're anywhere but.

If only I could work out how to open those bloody shutters. I make for the tall window in the living room, yanking and rattling at the handle, until finally I realize it's a counterweighted sash that opens up and down, not outward. The locking hook at the top of the lower frame is jammed as if it hasn't been opened for years, but I get the bread knife from the kitchen and start bashing at it with the end of the handle, harder as the hook begins to budge.

At last the window's free; a few well-placed thumps seem to loosen some grit in the frame, and it starts to grate upward. I heave, each tug lifting the sash one more grinding inch, bracing myself against the wall so that I won't flip out of the window when it finally opens. Worried about the noise, I take a break, but oddly the keening, shearing noise continues. I jiggle the frame of the closed shutter—it's not the window making the noise anymore. The sound is coming from outside, not far away. It resolves itself into something I was hoping not to hear—the desolate crying of a child.