breaking it down and sending it around to other funding entities.”
“Will do,” I said, and as Fred sat there looking stunned I wrote down the address of the Hanoi Hilton and handed it to Marie-Laure, who glared down at the slip of paper as though it were an enemy to be vanquished.
• • •
Annick showed up at the hotel unannounced again, and though I chided her for it I was actually glad to see her. I also took her to task for failing to show up last night at the club.
“What club?” she said.
“You sent me a text.”
“I did no such thing.”
“It was from your number.”
“Oh, my God.” She looked stricken. “Bruno.”
Bruno. Where had I heard that name in the last day or two? “Who’s that?”
“My boyfriend. He took my phone, the dirty fucker.”
Now I remembered Bruno. “He’s not a stupid-looking white kid with long blond dreadlocks, is he?”
“Not anymore. He cut them off this morning.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He was upset, he got home really late last night.”
The thing was getting more complicated than I liked. I made a solemn vow to myself that for the rest of the trip I was going to be faithful to Marie-Laure, at least to the degree of staying away from any woman having anything to do with young Bruno.
Just as soon as I finished up with Annick. One last time; after all, it would have been rude to kick her out.
SAMEDI, SEPT MAI
I STOPPED BY FRED’S APARTMENT ON THE WAY to the Hanoi Hilton and it was—I’m not kidding—smaller than my bathroom at home. It was on the sixth floor of a building in the tenth, a building whose stairwell smelled overpoweringly of a hundred years’ worth of dust and ammonia, whose railing rattled and creaked as I mounted the floors. Two elderly women were screaming threatening obscenities at one another through the door of the apartment at the end of the hallway as I knocked on his door, and when he opened it I was shocked at the size of it.
“Hey,” he said. He pointed at the table, where an old electric typewriter sat. “Take a seat.”
I couldn’t help but notice that there was only one chair. “Where are you going to sit?”
“I know a place I can get another chair when we work.”
“You know what, this is awfully small and I get a little claustrophobic. Why don’t we work back at the hotel?”
He gave me a blank look, not sure whether to be hurt or not. “This is where I do all my work,” he said.
“Do you work on a typewriter?”
He nodded. “When I can. I hate using the computer.” At that moment the screaming started up again, and even through the closed door every filthy syllable was completely clear.
I nodded in the direction of the shouting. “That ever get a little distracting?”
“Sometimes. They’re a mother and daughter. They’re at it every day since I moved in.”
Scanning the apartment, I saw no bed. “Where do you sleep?”
He pointed to a chest of drawers, atop which lay a pair of blankets and a pillow. “I bed down on the floor. It’s good for your back.”
“And what do the ladies make of that?”
Baffled, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the termagants down the hall. “Those two?”
“No, I mean what happens when you meet a girl and bring her home and she finds out you’re planning to fuck her on the floor?”
“Oh.” He shrugged, looking as sad as I’d seen anyone look in a while. “Doesn’t happen very often anymore.”
“Why not?”
“They’re all after guys with money and good jobs. Nice apartments. Cars. I work in a bookstore and I sleep on the floor.”
“Bullshit, man. You’ve given up.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re a big TV star, all you have to say is ‘Hello’ and bang, she’s going home with you.”
“You’re a famous novelist.”
“Famous? My book sold less than five thousand copies.”
“Marie-Laure read it.”
“She’s a statistical anomaly.”
“Look, Fred. When’s the last time you got
“Will do,” I said, and as Fred sat there looking stunned I wrote down the address of the Hanoi Hilton and handed it to Marie-Laure, who glared down at the slip of paper as though it were an enemy to be vanquished.
• • •
Annick showed up at the hotel unannounced again, and though I chided her for it I was actually glad to see her. I also took her to task for failing to show up last night at the club.
“What club?” she said.
“You sent me a text.”
“I did no such thing.”
“It was from your number.”
“Oh, my God.” She looked stricken. “Bruno.”
Bruno. Where had I heard that name in the last day or two? “Who’s that?”
“My boyfriend. He took my phone, the dirty fucker.”
Now I remembered Bruno. “He’s not a stupid-looking white kid with long blond dreadlocks, is he?”
“Not anymore. He cut them off this morning.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He was upset, he got home really late last night.”
The thing was getting more complicated than I liked. I made a solemn vow to myself that for the rest of the trip I was going to be faithful to Marie-Laure, at least to the degree of staying away from any woman having anything to do with young Bruno.
Just as soon as I finished up with Annick. One last time; after all, it would have been rude to kick her out.
SAMEDI, SEPT MAI
I STOPPED BY FRED’S APARTMENT ON THE WAY to the Hanoi Hilton and it was—I’m not kidding—smaller than my bathroom at home. It was on the sixth floor of a building in the tenth, a building whose stairwell smelled overpoweringly of a hundred years’ worth of dust and ammonia, whose railing rattled and creaked as I mounted the floors. Two elderly women were screaming threatening obscenities at one another through the door of the apartment at the end of the hallway as I knocked on his door, and when he opened it I was shocked at the size of it.
“Hey,” he said. He pointed at the table, where an old electric typewriter sat. “Take a seat.”
I couldn’t help but notice that there was only one chair. “Where are you going to sit?”
“I know a place I can get another chair when we work.”
“You know what, this is awfully small and I get a little claustrophobic. Why don’t we work back at the hotel?”
He gave me a blank look, not sure whether to be hurt or not. “This is where I do all my work,” he said.
“Do you work on a typewriter?”
He nodded. “When I can. I hate using the computer.” At that moment the screaming started up again, and even through the closed door every filthy syllable was completely clear.
I nodded in the direction of the shouting. “That ever get a little distracting?”
“Sometimes. They’re a mother and daughter. They’re at it every day since I moved in.”
Scanning the apartment, I saw no bed. “Where do you sleep?”
He pointed to a chest of drawers, atop which lay a pair of blankets and a pillow. “I bed down on the floor. It’s good for your back.”
“And what do the ladies make of that?”
Baffled, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the termagants down the hall. “Those two?”
“No, I mean what happens when you meet a girl and bring her home and she finds out you’re planning to fuck her on the floor?”
“Oh.” He shrugged, looking as sad as I’d seen anyone look in a while. “Doesn’t happen very often anymore.”
“Why not?”
“They’re all after guys with money and good jobs. Nice apartments. Cars. I work in a bookstore and I sleep on the floor.”
“Bullshit, man. You’ve given up.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re a big TV star, all you have to say is ‘Hello’ and bang, she’s going home with you.”
“You’re a famous novelist.”
“Famous? My book sold less than five thousand copies.”
“Marie-Laure read it.”
“She’s a statistical anomaly.”
“Look, Fred. When’s the last time you got
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