"greet" this legitimate visitor. Now if the person who rings the door doesn't say, " I am here to see Monsieur Monde ," you press 2-4 on the keypad. This will send a signal that there is an unwanted presence in the alley. Once again, the people downstairs will take care of the problem.'
'It sounds like the people downstairs worry about unwanted guests.'
'I will say this once more. What goes on downstairs does not concern you – and it will never concern you. Believe me, my friend, it is better that way.'
'And say the cops just happen to show up in the alley . . .'
'No problem,' he said, walking over to the door next to the toilet and unbolting it. 'This is never locked. If you see the cops on the screen, you exit here. There is a bolt – very strong – on the other side. It will buy you a few minutes' time, as the cops will have to break the door down. By the time they do that, you will be out of the building. The passage behind here leads down to a basement. There is another door there which leads to a passage into the adjoining building. When you come out of that building, you will be on the rue Martel. The cops will have no idea.'
'This is insane,' I heard myself say out loud.
'Then don't take the job.'
'Promise me that whatever is going on downstairs isn't so morally reprehensible . . .' I said.
'No one is being involuntarily harmed,' he said.
I paused, knowing I had to make a decision immediately.
'I will never have to directly meet anyone?' I asked.
'You come at midnight, you go at six. You sit in this room. You don't leave. You see the people who come here on the monitor. They don't see you. It is all very elegant.'
'OK,' I said, 'we have a deal.'
'Good,' Kamal said.
After taking me again through all the various numbers I had to press, and handing me the assorted keys, he said, 'There is just one thing. You must never come here before midnight, you must leave promptly at six. Unless you see the police on the monitor, you must never leave the room until six.'
'Otherwise I'll turn into a pumpkin?'
'Something like that, yes. D'accord? '
' D'ac .'
'So you are clear about everything?'
'Yes,' I lied. 'Everything is perfectly clear.'
Eight
N OTHING HAPPENED THAT first night. I set up my laptop. I forced myself to work – my eyes straining under the single naked lightbulb. I pushed myself into writing five hundred words. I turned up the radiator and discovered that it gave off no more heat. I drank the two litres of Evian. I peed several times in the toilet and was grateful that I didn't need a bowel movement, as I couldn't have handled standing up to do it. I read some of the Simenon novel – a dark, sparely written tale about a French actor getting over the breakup of his marriage by wandering through the night world of 1950s New York. Around four in the morning, I started to fade – and fell asleep sitting up at the desk. I jolted awake, terrified that I had missed something on the monitor. But the screen showed nothing bar the glare of a spotlight on a doorway – an image so grainy it almost seemed as if it was from another era, as if I was looking at the past tense just downstairs.
I read some more. I fought fatigue. I fought boredom. I drew up a list of what I'd buy this afternoon to fix the place up. I kept glancing at my watch, willing 6 a.m. to arrive. When it finally did, I unlocked the door. I turned off the light in the room. I closed the door behind me and locked it. I hit the light for the stairs. At the bottom of them, I stood for a moment, trying to hear any noises from the big steel door at the end of the ground-floor corridor. Nothing. I unlocked the front door. Outside it was still night – a touch of damp in the air, augmenting the chill that had crawled under my skin during those six hours in a badly heated concrete box. I locked the door, my head constantly turning sideways to scan the alleyway and see if anyone
'It sounds like the people downstairs worry about unwanted guests.'
'I will say this once more. What goes on downstairs does not concern you – and it will never concern you. Believe me, my friend, it is better that way.'
'And say the cops just happen to show up in the alley . . .'
'No problem,' he said, walking over to the door next to the toilet and unbolting it. 'This is never locked. If you see the cops on the screen, you exit here. There is a bolt – very strong – on the other side. It will buy you a few minutes' time, as the cops will have to break the door down. By the time they do that, you will be out of the building. The passage behind here leads down to a basement. There is another door there which leads to a passage into the adjoining building. When you come out of that building, you will be on the rue Martel. The cops will have no idea.'
'This is insane,' I heard myself say out loud.
'Then don't take the job.'
'Promise me that whatever is going on downstairs isn't so morally reprehensible . . .' I said.
'No one is being involuntarily harmed,' he said.
I paused, knowing I had to make a decision immediately.
'I will never have to directly meet anyone?' I asked.
'You come at midnight, you go at six. You sit in this room. You don't leave. You see the people who come here on the monitor. They don't see you. It is all very elegant.'
'OK,' I said, 'we have a deal.'
'Good,' Kamal said.
After taking me again through all the various numbers I had to press, and handing me the assorted keys, he said, 'There is just one thing. You must never come here before midnight, you must leave promptly at six. Unless you see the police on the monitor, you must never leave the room until six.'
'Otherwise I'll turn into a pumpkin?'
'Something like that, yes. D'accord? '
' D'ac .'
'So you are clear about everything?'
'Yes,' I lied. 'Everything is perfectly clear.'
Eight
N OTHING HAPPENED THAT first night. I set up my laptop. I forced myself to work – my eyes straining under the single naked lightbulb. I pushed myself into writing five hundred words. I turned up the radiator and discovered that it gave off no more heat. I drank the two litres of Evian. I peed several times in the toilet and was grateful that I didn't need a bowel movement, as I couldn't have handled standing up to do it. I read some of the Simenon novel – a dark, sparely written tale about a French actor getting over the breakup of his marriage by wandering through the night world of 1950s New York. Around four in the morning, I started to fade – and fell asleep sitting up at the desk. I jolted awake, terrified that I had missed something on the monitor. But the screen showed nothing bar the glare of a spotlight on a doorway – an image so grainy it almost seemed as if it was from another era, as if I was looking at the past tense just downstairs.
I read some more. I fought fatigue. I fought boredom. I drew up a list of what I'd buy this afternoon to fix the place up. I kept glancing at my watch, willing 6 a.m. to arrive. When it finally did, I unlocked the door. I turned off the light in the room. I closed the door behind me and locked it. I hit the light for the stairs. At the bottom of them, I stood for a moment, trying to hear any noises from the big steel door at the end of the ground-floor corridor. Nothing. I unlocked the front door. Outside it was still night – a touch of damp in the air, augmenting the chill that had crawled under my skin during those six hours in a badly heated concrete box. I locked the door, my head constantly turning sideways to scan the alleyway and see if anyone
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