The Age of Reinvention by Karine Tuil Read Free Book Online Page B

tell him until they get there. All she says is that they will live in Paris “from now on”—that phrase speaks of change, a break from the old, a promise of the new. Pumped with excitement, they carry their suitcases and Tati bags onto the Métro. The bags are worn and frayed. People stare at them as if they’re gypsies. In silence, they eat the tuna and candied lemon sandwiches that Nawel made, checking every ten minutes that they are still on Line 10. They get off at the Porte d’Auteuil station, as the woman from the RATP explained to them: she took pity on them when she saw them standing in front of the map on the wall, their faces showing panic like children lost in the woods. We’re almost there . They bump shoulders as they heave the bags—no wheels, loaded with their poverty—along the sidewalk. Samir takes the heaviest ones: Nawel is weak now, her belly huge. “This is it.” She points to a tall building in cut stone, decorated with marble statues. The place is luxurious! Samir’s never seen anything like it. This is where we’re going to live? There are no names on the intercom, only initials. Samir is impressed. They enter the lobby and he goes into raptures—have they won the lottery or what? But disenchantment sets in quickly. There is an elevator, but it’s private: you can only enter it with a key. Samir is leaning on the call button as hard as he can when a man in his sixties appears and explains that he can’t use it: “You have to be an owner, and you have to have paid for the elevator’s installation. Anyone who didn’t vote for it at the last general assembly has to take the stairs.” With these words, he enters the elevator and the door slides shut in front of their eyes. Nawel motions with her hand: Don’t get mad, son. Don’t react . At every landing they reach, Nawel says: “It’s a bit higher.” By the time they make the sixth floor, they are panting, soaked with sweat, dry-mouthed and damp-palmed: they don’t have enough strength even to complain when they discover the place where they’re going to live from now on : a tiny attic room, ten square meters, the only light source a window in the roof. The ceiling is low, the space divided by exposed beams. They have to lower their heads like penitents as they walk—but what sin are they expiating? Samir says nothing. He looks for the bathroom. What century is this? He finally finds it out on the landing, at the end of a dark, narrow hallway: it’s a Turkish toilet, the enamel filthy and the stink pestilential. The door has no lock. Samir goes inside, pulls down his pants, and, standing there—legs parted, gaze fixed on the jet of urine to make sure he doesn’t get splashback on his shoes—he begins to cry. When he has finished—pissing and weeping—he goes back to the room and helps his mother rearrange things. The advantage of living in such a tiny space is that this does not take long. His mother manages to cook a chicken with olives to celebrate their new home. Ten minutes after she switches off the camping stove, there’s a knock at the door. They open it to two students who live in neighboring rooms. 1 In a panic, Nawel apologizes to them for the noise, the smells— we didn’t mean to disturb you ; she spends her whole damn life apologizing—but in fact, they have not come to complain. They were attracted by the aroma, they’d never smelled anything like it, and she invites them in to share the meal. After that, the four of them will often eat dinner together. The students bring drinks and cakes. The food is wonderful, the air warm, and everyone laughs.
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    Samir has figured it out. The attic room belongs to his mother’s boss, François Brunet. He must have bought it to accommodate a young au pair who would give English or German lessons to his sons. He must have bought it to “invest