Read Online The Woman in the Fifth by Douglas Kennedy - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Kennedy
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hate cigarette smoke. But it didn't strike me as the right moment to ask him not to light up in my little room. He took a half-drag on his cigarette, the smoke leaking out of his nostrils.
'You American?' he asked.
'That's right.'
'So fuck you.'
He smiled as he said this – a crapulous smile, his eyes gauging my reaction. I remained impassive.
'Adnan a dead man. When they send him back to Turkey, he dies . . . in prison. Four years ago, he kills a man. A man who fucks his wife. Then he finds out the man does not fuck his wife. But the man still dead. Bad. Very bad. That's why he come to Paris.'
Adnan – a killer on the run? It didn't seem possible. But, then again, nothing about this set-up seemed possible . . . and yet, it was the reality into which I had slipped.
The cigarette fell from Omar's lips on to my just-cleaned floor. He ground it out with his shoe. Then, with another loud, aromatic burp, he abruptly left, reeling into his adjoining room. Immediately, my housekeeping instincts took over. I opened the window to air out the smoke. I picked up the cigarette butt and used kitchen paper to clean up the flattened ash on the linoleum. Then I went outside to use the toilet and found Omar's large unflushed turd greeting me in the bowl.
I pulled the chain – and felt myself tensing up into a serious rage. But I forced myself to pee and get back into my room before the rage transformed into something dangerous. When I was inside, I turned on the stereo and boomed jazz – in the angry hope that it might disturb Omar. But there were no bangs on the wall, no shouts of 'Turn that crap down'. There were just the edgy dissonances of Ornette Coleman, penetrating the Parisian night. Eventually, his grating riffs became too much for me, and I snapped off the radio and sat in the half-darkness of my room. I stared out at all the minor scenic adjustments I had made . . . and considered the energy I'd expended to try to set up house in a place which could never be anything more than a grungy cell. That's when I started to cry. I had wept here and there over the past few weeks. But this was different. This was pure grief . . . for what I had lost, for what I had been reduced to. For a good fifteen minutes, I couldn't stop the deluge. I lay prostrate on the bed, clutching on to a pillow, as all the accumulated anger and anguish came flooding out. When I finally subsided, I felt drained and wrung out . . . but not purged. This kind of grief doesn't go away after a good cry . . . as much as I wished it would.
Still, the cessation of my sobs did force me to pull off my T-shirt and jockey shorts and stand under the sputtering shower head for a few minutes, towel myself down, then drop a Zopiclone and finally surrender to chemical sleep.
I didn't wake up until noon, my head fogged in, my mouth dry. When I went outside to use the toilet, I found the seat crisscrossed with urine. Omar, in true dog style, had marked his territory.
After brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink, I dressed, scooped up several invoices from yesteday and went downstairs and rang the bell for Sezer Confection . Mr Tough Guy answered the door, the usual scowl on his face.
'I want to speak with your boss,' I said.
The door shut. Two minutes later it opened again. He motioned for me to follow him. Comme d'habitude , Sezer was sitting at the table, the cellphone on the desk, his gaze never leaving the window as I walked in.
'Tell me,' he said.
'I replaced the seat and hung up a lampshade in the toilet on my floor.'
'Congratulations.'
'The seat, the brush and the lampshade cost me nineteen euros.'
'You expect reimbursement?'
'Yes,' I said, putting the receipts on his desk. He looked at them, gathered them together, then crumpled them up into a ball and tossed it on to the floor.
'I don't think so,' he said.
'The toilet seat was broken, there was a bare lightbulb—'
'No other tenants
'You American?' he asked.
'That's right.'
'So fuck you.'
He smiled as he said this – a crapulous smile, his eyes gauging my reaction. I remained impassive.
'Adnan a dead man. When they send him back to Turkey, he dies . . . in prison. Four years ago, he kills a man. A man who fucks his wife. Then he finds out the man does not fuck his wife. But the man still dead. Bad. Very bad. That's why he come to Paris.'
Adnan – a killer on the run? It didn't seem possible. But, then again, nothing about this set-up seemed possible . . . and yet, it was the reality into which I had slipped.
The cigarette fell from Omar's lips on to my just-cleaned floor. He ground it out with his shoe. Then, with another loud, aromatic burp, he abruptly left, reeling into his adjoining room. Immediately, my housekeeping instincts took over. I opened the window to air out the smoke. I picked up the cigarette butt and used kitchen paper to clean up the flattened ash on the linoleum. Then I went outside to use the toilet and found Omar's large unflushed turd greeting me in the bowl.
I pulled the chain – and felt myself tensing up into a serious rage. But I forced myself to pee and get back into my room before the rage transformed into something dangerous. When I was inside, I turned on the stereo and boomed jazz – in the angry hope that it might disturb Omar. But there were no bangs on the wall, no shouts of 'Turn that crap down'. There were just the edgy dissonances of Ornette Coleman, penetrating the Parisian night. Eventually, his grating riffs became too much for me, and I snapped off the radio and sat in the half-darkness of my room. I stared out at all the minor scenic adjustments I had made . . . and considered the energy I'd expended to try to set up house in a place which could never be anything more than a grungy cell. That's when I started to cry. I had wept here and there over the past few weeks. But this was different. This was pure grief . . . for what I had lost, for what I had been reduced to. For a good fifteen minutes, I couldn't stop the deluge. I lay prostrate on the bed, clutching on to a pillow, as all the accumulated anger and anguish came flooding out. When I finally subsided, I felt drained and wrung out . . . but not purged. This kind of grief doesn't go away after a good cry . . . as much as I wished it would.
Still, the cessation of my sobs did force me to pull off my T-shirt and jockey shorts and stand under the sputtering shower head for a few minutes, towel myself down, then drop a Zopiclone and finally surrender to chemical sleep.
I didn't wake up until noon, my head fogged in, my mouth dry. When I went outside to use the toilet, I found the seat crisscrossed with urine. Omar, in true dog style, had marked his territory.
After brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink, I dressed, scooped up several invoices from yesteday and went downstairs and rang the bell for Sezer Confection . Mr Tough Guy answered the door, the usual scowl on his face.
'I want to speak with your boss,' I said.
The door shut. Two minutes later it opened again. He motioned for me to follow him. Comme d'habitude , Sezer was sitting at the table, the cellphone on the desk, his gaze never leaving the window as I walked in.
'Tell me,' he said.
'I replaced the seat and hung up a lampshade in the toilet on my floor.'
'Congratulations.'
'The seat, the brush and the lampshade cost me nineteen euros.'
'You expect reimbursement?'
'Yes,' I said, putting the receipts on his desk. He looked at them, gathered them together, then crumpled them up into a ball and tossed it on to the floor.
'I don't think so,' he said.
'The toilet seat was broken, there was a bare lightbulb—'
'No other tenants
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