A Lonely and Curious Country Read online

  “Ah, Monsieur Leulliette!” Blandot caught at Yves verbally the way a beggar clutches at a man’s lapels. “Monsieur: have you seen Youcef? His friends here have not seen him for days. They are worried.”

  “Youcef?” The name meant nothing to Yves.

  “The young man in the room below yours. On the fifth floor. The Algerian gentleman. These are his friends.”

  The three Arabs nodded at Yves and – surly, suspicious – muttered their names: Hakim, Moussa, Ahmed.

  Yves smiled at each in turn.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know him. I haven’t seen him.” He might have, for all he knew: on the stairs, checking the ever-empty pigeonholes downstairs for mail, lounging on a street corner. How would he know? They didn’t all look alike, of course not, he’d never say that. But he didn’t know any of them, and there were quite a few. The one who had identified himself as Hakim faced Yves and made staccato points with a jabbing cigarette:

  “Youcef say man upstairs smoke hashish all time! Smell make him sick! Sleep bad! Sick! Not answer door yesterday! Not answer today! Borrow key – room empty! Stink of hashish – ash all over floor! No Youcef!”

  “Hashish? I’ve noticed that, too. I thought it was coming up from below.”

  Blandot nerved himself: “I do not want anyone smoking hashish in my house, thank you very much, gentlemen. There are plenty of tenants who will not give me such trouble. Should I call the police?”

  A sudden flurry from all in the doorway indicated that, no, they would prefer it if Monsieur Blandot did not call the police. Hashish was merely something of which they had heard tell. An idea struck Yves.

  “The police. Could your friend have crossed the bridge and gone into the center of town? There are so many cops around these days, what with… everything. And, with him being Algerian… Well, you know how the police feel about you. Have you checked the hospitals?”

  “Not yet.” Hakim’s eyes fell and he muttered despondently to his companions, resigned to finding his friend, if at all, in a hospital bed, cell or morgue.

  “You can use the pay phone in the hall,” said the landlord. “Had that installed in ’53 – knew it would come in handy.”

  The Algerians flowed past Yves toward the dusty telephone, hanging neglected on the wall.

  “It’s not unusual for people to leave unexpectedly,” whispered Blandot. “It happens! Especially with…” He nodded in the direction the Arabs had taken. “But this one was paid up to the end of the month, and I have his deposit, too (which is forfeit), so that is a little curious.” Blandot shrugged. “That’s life! He seemed all right, for one of…” He nodded toward the Arabs again.

  As Yves turned to go, he paused on the threshold as a thought struck him.

  “I don’t suppose, Monsieur Blandot, that he could be in the other room on my floor?”

  “No, no.” Blandot spoke urgently and paled beneath his stubble. “That room is unoccupied.”

  Hakim stamped back along the hallway: “What room? I thought he had only room on top floor.” His cigarette indicated Yves.

  “No,” said Yves. “My room is on the west of the sixth floor, but there is a door opposite, on the east side. Could your friend have gone in there?”

  “No,” asserted Blandot, rising in his seat insofar as he could. “There is a little room, as you say. But it is unoccupied. No one has been in there for years.”

  “Oh, that can’t be right, Monsieur Blandot.” Yves shook his head. “No, I’ve often heard someone moving about on my floor at night. I assumed that room was in use.”

  “You must be mistaken. The door is kept locked.”

  Hakim stubbed out his cigarette on the doorframe: “We go look.”

  ***

  With the keys relinquished reluctantly by Blandot, Yves and Hakim ascended the chimney-like staircase, every step a creak. Another one of the Algerians followed close behind. Moussa, was it? Or Ahmed? The third remained downstairs, persisting with expensive, erratic and fruitless phone calls. At each landing, Yves glanced at the doors of what must have been the Algerians’ rooms, and those of the other, more furtive tenants whom – he presumed – had already been quizzed. On the fifth floor, Hakim walked to Youcef’s room and pushed open the door.

  “See! All his thing here.” Hakim raised his head and flared his nostrils. “Smell hashish, yes? Hash?”

  Yves stepped forward and found his nose and lungs filling with an intoxicating aroma that made him, for a moment, light-headed. It was without doubt the smell he had noticed in his own room, but fresher, stronger.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Hash.” And yet, even as he said it, Yves was thinking: ‘No, that’s not hash. At least not any kind I’ve ever smelt.’ Blinking hard into the gloom, he saw that the window opposite stood wide open, the strong breeze blowing through it carrying the odor his way. The sharply defined square of the window, high above the city, revealed a patch of blue sky, still illumined by the long-set sun. Then he heard a click as Hakim flicked on the room’s one weak light bulb, hanging unshaded from a cord in the center of the ceiling.

  “See! There is clothe! There is shoe! Why go, no clothe, no shoe? See! Is ash on floor! Ash on table. Ash on chair. Ash on bed.”

  “Yes.” Yves nodded. “Ash.”

  It was very fine, very pale, very light, blowing against them, carried by the breeze. Yves and Hakim and Moussa (or Ahmed) slapped their legs to brush it from their trousers.

  “Did you open the window?” asked Yves.

  “No.” Hakim shook his head. “Was like.”

  “You don’t think he could have jumped, do you? Or fallen?”

  The missing Youcef had obviously taken something – the smell alone proved that. Could there have been some LSD involved? Made him think he could fly? Yves had heard of such things. He made so bold as to tiptoe across the room, planting his feet in ashy prints he presumed to have been made earlier by the searching Algerians. He was halfway to the window when Hakim said, wearily: “I already look.”

  Although Yves did not doubt the Arab’s ability to look out of a window, the opening – and the lingering image of the deep blue horizon – drew him on. Two weeks he had lived upstairs without a window to look through. This could only be, what? Three meters below his? He wanted to see the view. He rested his hands on the sill but immediately drew them back as he felt the grit: they were covered in ash. It was odd to find it here too, given the breeze. Yves put his hands back on the windowsill and leaned out. Below him, vertiginously and infinitely far, was the murky neighborhood of the Rue d’Auseil, speckled with scabs of light enough to pick out its hovels and alleyways, its steps and weed-broken pavements, the smoky factories beyond and the warehouses beyond them. The bridge and the sewer-like river were, thankfully, shielded from view. Yves pulled up his gaze and cleansed his palette: Paris dazzled brilliantly all around, dressed for a spring night, beautiful as ever. His immediate vicinity was the only morbid lesion on her face.

  Yves breathed in the evening air, cool, refreshing. He twisted now and looked up to confirm his orientation was correct. It was: above him, below the steeply angled eaves, barnacled to the side of the house, was the black mass of his dormant window, encased behind inert shutters. ‘I must look through that window,’ he thought. ‘I will look through it. Tonight.’

  “Hey, come on, yes? What you do?” Hakim was getting impatient. Although the Algerian had wrested control of the keys as soon as Blandot handed them over, Yves now realized that he was essential to the proposed search. He was to be Hakim’s witness to whatever would be found in the room facing his, and to testify that the Arabs removed nothing. He stepped back briskly, nose wrinkling at the dust he kicked up, and pulled the door shut behind him. Then he led the Arabs to the sixth floor.

  “That’s my room.” Yves pointed across the cramped, top-floor landing. Hakim threw a brief, suspicious look his way. “He’s not in there!” Yves added, before sighing in resignation. “All right! Let’s be thorough.” He unlocked his
own door and pushed it hard, generating an air current strong enough to circle the room and come back out before he had even switched on the light. The air smelt much the same as the room below. “See!” Yves said this boldly, though embarrassed by the dishevelment of his room: the piles of clothes (some washed, some not); the posters that did not fully conceal the stains on the walls (Godard’s Breathless sharing honors with screen-printed agitprop by Anne-Marie’s arty friends); the stacks of Camus and Sartre beside a cramped writing desk; the small typewriter and disarrayed papers (neglected, half-finished essays), weighted down by an overburdened ashtray; the waste basket choked with paper.

  Yves was a little offended that the Algerians did indeed step into his room to see, opening his wardrobe and peering under the bed.

  “OK,” said Hakim. “Is good.” With three quick strides, he crossed the landing and pushed the key into the lock of the eastern door. He groaned with the strain as he forced the key in a slow, grating circle. Still the door did not open, until he put his shoulder to it. It revealed only darkness. Hakim reached in and Yves heard his hand sweeping up and down the wall in search of a light switch, but not finding one. The Arab muttered something over his shoulder to Moussa and the two pulled out cigarette lighters and sparked them into life. Yves drew his own. Led at arm’s length by the three flames, they moved inside.

  Vague shapes came into view and faded away again as the area of light expanded and contracted amorphously as the three men moved their arms independently, before realizing that they needed to huddle and concentrate the illumination.

  “Youcef!” Hakim called the name as if shouting into a cavern – which the room might have been, for all they could see of it. “Hallo! Youcef! Anyone here, please? Hallo?” The words fell dead and echoless from his lips, bringing no response. In the silence that followed, they heard the breeze brushing the tiles and rafters just inches above their heads, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet. Nothing else.

  “What is?” Hakim headed in one direction and the others followed. Their pooled light revealed a chair piled high with papers. Nearby, a music stand with a cello propped against it, together with its bow. All were covered with what they thought, for a moment, was more of the ash, before realizing that, no, it was dust. Just dust.

  “Same as the chair in my room,” said Yves, unsure if that meant anything. He picked up the topmost sheet of paper and shook the dust from it. It was music; something with a German title. The sheet below: also music. Yves could not read music and put it back. The men moved slowly around the small room, defining the edges. There were some boxes and an old, old suitcase, packed with clothes, a Homburg hat beside it. Yves picked it up and peered inside in search of a label. ‘E. Zann’ was inked in a shaky hand on a grimy white patch. He set it down on the case. Moussa said something sharp; Hakim nodded.

  “Junk! He says is junk.”

  “Yes.” Yves nodded. “Looks that way.”

  “But you say you hear someone. You sure.”

  “I was. I could have sworn. Obviously, I was mistaken. Sorry.” Hakim said something guttural to Moussa, tilting his head to indicate Yves as he did so. There were a couple more harsh words and a gesture – none of which Yves understood – as the Algerians ushered him out of the room, dragged the door shut and wrestled the lock back into place. “Sorry!” he said again to their backs, as they stamped downstairs to return the keys to Blandot and continue their search elsewhere. Yves still had his lighter in his hand. He lit another Gitanes, returned to his room and sprawled across the bed.

  Youcef. Had he ever seen him? He hadn’t known any of the Arabs’ names before tonight, or which one lived in which room. Now that he knew Youcef was the occupant of the room below his, he was able to conjure a face: about twenty, tightly curled hair, hollow cheeks, pale (for an Algerian), and, quite distinctly now – a frightened expression. Terrified. When had he seen him? When had he ever seen anyone that scared? If it wasn’t for the sickly-sweet fug of the room, maybe he would recall. Yves watched the smoke from his cigarette move horizontally, carried by the breeze that blew again – or, rather, blew still, unceasingly – through the split and moldering frame surrounding his otherwise sealed window.

  ‘I’m opening that!’ He stared at the dusty pane, reflective in the pallid bulb-light because of the black shutters immediately beyond. ‘I’ll find a hammer, pliers –something – take those nails out and force the lock. I’ll smash it, if I have to. Eduard’s right: I need air. And I want to see! As soon as I’ve finished this. Five minutes.’ But the Gitanes smoldered down to his lips, before being stubbed reflexively on the floorboards, as Yves drifted into a half-sleep. A half-sleep studded by dreams and memories, and memories of dreams, and dreams of memories. Of a wind and a sound and a scent that carried meaning and a spirit and a whisper. Of eyes staring, staring, staring into an abyss and eyes – or what served as eyes – staring back. Of an outsider that sought admittance. Of fugitive footsteps in a nighted building, descending and ascending like a Minotaur in a vertical labyrinth. Of stealthy searching and stolen keys and unlocked doors. Of a sleeper waking in terror, hands about his throat, choking, unable to move, choking, choking. Of windows flung open and a howling cosmic Sirocco that scours bodies to powder with the breath of aeons.

  ***

  Eduard was annoyed that Yves did not, after all, join the demonstration the next day; Anne-Marie chagrined that he did not show up for their date. It was only some days later that they noticed he had stopped attending all meetings, happenings and – once they resumed – lectures. Having no proper contact details for Yves, the best Eduard could do was wander the endless cobbled alleyways beyond an unhealthy river, one hot June afternoon. But he gave up at last, unable to find the Rue d’Auseil. He, and all Yves’ friends, concluded that he must, after all, have dropped out. It happened.

  In the third house from the top of the Rue d’Auseil, it took very nearly as long for Monsieur Blandot or any of his tenants to realize that the sole occupant of the sixth floor did not, in fact, appear to be in occupation. When a search was made, all that was found was the typical untidy array of a student’s room, dusted with a thin layer of aromatic ash (or something very like ash) and a shattered windowpane. The prevailing wind must have been blowing against the unlatched shutters, and blowing hard, for Hakim (Blandot’s favored agent that day), was unable to push them open. He did not try for long, and, to placate the crippled landlord, dragged the missing student’s possessions into the room across the landing, as requested. With both rooms secured, he returned the keys. Blandot, for reasons he did not discuss, decided that he would not, in future, permit any further tenants on the sixth floor.

  Paudie O'Brien and the Bogman

  Seán Farrell

  Paudie walked carefully, his slow steps lit by the moon. Right foot, then left, no hurry. Had to be careful. He'd left his home an hour ago and still had many miles to travel. But he knew exactly where he was going. This gave him great comfort.

  He'd walked this path many times in his life before, from a babe to a boy, and though each time was different, he had a good feeling now. He had a great gift with him, and this coupled with his knowing where he was going, so to speak, left him beaming; his dirty brown teeth gleaming dully in the moonlight. He was dressed in the clothes he'd woke in - tanned boots and trousers, and a worn paintstained shirt. The night was quiet and vast. There was no one around for miles.

  The path Paudie walked wasn't well known anymore. It whispered across fields and streams, up and down damp hills, traces here and there. Sometimes it changed, one night as straight as the beam of light that peeked through his keyhole each morning, the next, as curved as the swirling black pool in the river that ran from behind his home.

  He used to try and plot his progress in the stars when he was younger. But he'd been led astray so many times, that he'd learnt it was best to just take your time, and follow the route that seemed right.

  Paudie'd learnt about the path from his mother. O
n the night he was born, through wind and rain that had clattered off her back like sheets of leathered straps, she brought him out here herself, the birthmark on his face a thumbprint from that night. He used to say to her that he remembered it. Black and moist, and stinking, its inkline grooves filling slowly with the blood of his newborn body, before finally taken away, leaving a permanent mark below his right eye. He'd dream of that night again and again.

  Although his mother disagreed, as he grew up, Paudie became well known as a fool. So stupid was he, that he could have been the king of the fools if there was such a thing.

  Paudie O'Brien was simple they said. Touched in the head. His skull filled with water and a brain like a sod of turf. 45 and barely able to boil an egg. He'd be seen at the back of mass on a Sunday, and heard, talking endlessly about whatever seemed to come into his head.

  “There's Tierney now, he has the pigs up at the farm. Awful smelly those pigs are. Awful smell of shite off them.”

  Or you'd see him walk out of Kelleher's grocery, bread and bacon peering out the top of a brown bag, and a couple of bottles of porter to wash them down with.

  “Ah hello Mrs. Murphy, how are you keeping I'm good myself now but I've an awful pain in my leg, I can barely walk on it without being reminded of it. And how is the baby doing is he healthy? Ah good, good and how are you yourself, I heard that Mr. Murphy has fucked off has he? Ah that's terrible terrible but Mrs. Murphy didn't my father do the same and didn't I turn out OK in the end, and even after Mammy dying when I was just 17 and barely able to fend for myself, and sure it's all in God's plan that's what the priest says, and what's the use in worrying.”

  People tolerated Paudie, said hello when they passed him, and blessed themselves when he was gone. But they didn't laugh or joke. Or shake his hand. Or compliment him the way you'd normally congratulate a simpleton for managing to get up in the morning and put on his clothes and brush his teeth without causing himself serious injury. There were rumours, whispers really, about him. Nothing that even amounted to anything as substantial as a story. But they treated Paudie differently, gave him a wide berth. Because for all of Paudie's dimness there was one thing you couldn't call him, and that was harmless.