They’re never a problem. I think they kind of like my company. I can be as raunchy as any of them.”
Great. We know what the problem isn’t. I prodded some more.
“How do you avoid being mistaken for one of them?”
“Oh, I don’t try. I just sort of blend in. Otherwise I’d be defeating my own purpose. The girls know I don’t turn tricks, so they just, I don’t know, go along with it.”
I didn’t ask the obvious.
“If a guy hassles me, I just say I’m not working right then. Most of them move on.”
There was another pause as she continued her mental triage, considering what to tell me, what to keep to herself, and what to scoop into a heap, not tendered, but accessible if probed. She fumbled with a tassle on her briefcase. A dog barked in the square. I was sure she was protecting someone, or something, but this time I didn’t goad her.
“Most of them,” she continued, “except this one guy lately.”
Pause.
“Who is he?”
Pause.
“I don’t know, but he has me really creeped out. He’s not a john, exactly, but he likes to hang out with prostitutes. I don’t think the girls pay much attention to him. But he knows a lot about the street, and he’s been willing to talk to me, so I’ve been interviewing him.”
Pause.
“Lately, he’s begun following me. I didn’t realize it at first, but I’ve started noticing him in odd places. He’ll be at the Métro when I come home at night, or here, in the square. Once I saw him at Concordia, outside the library building where I have my office. Or I’ll see him behind me, on a sidewalk, walking in the same direction I am. Last week I was on St. Laurent when I spotted him. I wanted to convince myself it was my imagination, so I tested him. If I slowed down, so did he. If I speeded up, he did the same thing. I tried to shake him by going into a patisserie. When I came out, he was across the street, pretending to window shop.”
“You’re sure it’s always the same guy?”
“Absolutely.”
There was a long, laden silence. I waited it out.
“That’s not all.”
She stared at her hands, which, once again, had found each other. They were tightly clenched.
“Recently he’s started talking some really weird shit. I’ve tried to avoid him, but tonight he showed up at the restaurant. Lately it’s like he’s equipped with radar. Anyway, he got off on the same stuff, asking me all kinds of sick questions.”
She went back inside her head. After a moment she turned to me, as if she’d found an answer there she hadn’t seen before. Her voice was tinged with mild surprise.
“It’s his eyes, Tempe. His eyes are so weird! They’re black and hard, like a viper, and the whites are all pink and flecked with blood. I don’t know if he’s sick, or if he’s hung over all the time, or what. I’ve never seen eyes like that. They make you want to crawl under something and hide. Tempe, I just freaked! I guess I’ve been thinking about our last conversation, and this shitfreak you’re cleaning up after, and my mind took the first bus outa there.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t read her face in the darkness, but her body spoke the language of fear. Her torso was rigid and her arms were drawn in, pressing the briefcase to her chest, as if for protection.
“What else do you know about this guy?”
“Not much.”
“What do the girls think about him?”
“They ignore him.”
“Has he ever been threatening?”
“No. Not directly.”
“Has he ever been violent or out of control?”
“No.”
“Is he into drugs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know who he is or where he lives?”
“No. There are some things we don’t ask. It’s an unspoken rule, sort of a tacit agreement down here.”
Again there was a long silence while we both weighed what she’d said. I watched a cyclist pass along the sidewalk, pedaling with unhurried strokes. His helmet seemed to pulsate, blinking on as he passed beneath a streetlamp, then
Great. We know what the problem isn’t. I prodded some more.
“How do you avoid being mistaken for one of them?”
“Oh, I don’t try. I just sort of blend in. Otherwise I’d be defeating my own purpose. The girls know I don’t turn tricks, so they just, I don’t know, go along with it.”
I didn’t ask the obvious.
“If a guy hassles me, I just say I’m not working right then. Most of them move on.”
There was another pause as she continued her mental triage, considering what to tell me, what to keep to herself, and what to scoop into a heap, not tendered, but accessible if probed. She fumbled with a tassle on her briefcase. A dog barked in the square. I was sure she was protecting someone, or something, but this time I didn’t goad her.
“Most of them,” she continued, “except this one guy lately.”
Pause.
“Who is he?”
Pause.
“I don’t know, but he has me really creeped out. He’s not a john, exactly, but he likes to hang out with prostitutes. I don’t think the girls pay much attention to him. But he knows a lot about the street, and he’s been willing to talk to me, so I’ve been interviewing him.”
Pause.
“Lately, he’s begun following me. I didn’t realize it at first, but I’ve started noticing him in odd places. He’ll be at the Métro when I come home at night, or here, in the square. Once I saw him at Concordia, outside the library building where I have my office. Or I’ll see him behind me, on a sidewalk, walking in the same direction I am. Last week I was on St. Laurent when I spotted him. I wanted to convince myself it was my imagination, so I tested him. If I slowed down, so did he. If I speeded up, he did the same thing. I tried to shake him by going into a patisserie. When I came out, he was across the street, pretending to window shop.”
“You’re sure it’s always the same guy?”
“Absolutely.”
There was a long, laden silence. I waited it out.
“That’s not all.”
She stared at her hands, which, once again, had found each other. They were tightly clenched.
“Recently he’s started talking some really weird shit. I’ve tried to avoid him, but tonight he showed up at the restaurant. Lately it’s like he’s equipped with radar. Anyway, he got off on the same stuff, asking me all kinds of sick questions.”
She went back inside her head. After a moment she turned to me, as if she’d found an answer there she hadn’t seen before. Her voice was tinged with mild surprise.
“It’s his eyes, Tempe. His eyes are so weird! They’re black and hard, like a viper, and the whites are all pink and flecked with blood. I don’t know if he’s sick, or if he’s hung over all the time, or what. I’ve never seen eyes like that. They make you want to crawl under something and hide. Tempe, I just freaked! I guess I’ve been thinking about our last conversation, and this shitfreak you’re cleaning up after, and my mind took the first bus outa there.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t read her face in the darkness, but her body spoke the language of fear. Her torso was rigid and her arms were drawn in, pressing the briefcase to her chest, as if for protection.
“What else do you know about this guy?”
“Not much.”
“What do the girls think about him?”
“They ignore him.”
“Has he ever been threatening?”
“No. Not directly.”
“Has he ever been violent or out of control?”
“No.”
“Is he into drugs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know who he is or where he lives?”
“No. There are some things we don’t ask. It’s an unspoken rule, sort of a tacit agreement down here.”
Again there was a long silence while we both weighed what she’d said. I watched a cyclist pass along the sidewalk, pedaling with unhurried strokes. His helmet seemed to pulsate, blinking on as he passed beneath a streetlamp, then
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