The Radiant City by Lauren B. Davis Page B

chicken and spinach. Very good. Tell him, Saida.”
     
    “I’d love to but I can’t.” He is shy, suddenly, at the comfort he feels here, does not entirely trust it, and is therefore happy to have dinner at Anthony’s to use as an excuse.
     
    “You come back, then?” says Joseph.
     
    “Sure.”
     
    “Tomorrow?”
     
    “Joseph, do not be rude. Mr. Matthew is very busy,” says Ramzi.
     
    “I’ll come back soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
     
    “Good,” says Joseph, rubbing his head. “I’ll be here.”
     
    As Matthew leaves, Saida calls out, “Thank you.”
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter Eleven
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Anthony lives in a rented house on a tiny road known as Villa des Tulipes, in the upper 18th arrondissement, at the porte de Clignancourt. From the metro, Matthew crosses rue Belliard, at the edge of the great flea market, Les Puces, through the throng of North Africans and Arabs selling everything from roasted corn on the cob to carpets from the back of vans. He finds Villa des Tulipes and as he turns onto it, is taken by the sense of calm on the tiny street. It is very old, and cobblestoned, the surface beneath his feet curving in an aged hump. Too narrow, really, for cars. If he reaches his arms out he can probably touch the iron fences and concrete steps on either side. The lane is a comfortably shabby assortment of small attached cottages, mostly one storey, but some with two, and is lit by the buttery light from old-fashioned street lamps.
     
    Anthony lives on the bottom floor of one of the cottages, which is painted sky blue with dark green trim. A fig tree and a lilac bush grow in the postage-stamp garden. From an open window drifts laughter, the smell of roasting meat, and Etta James’s barrelhouse voice singing “At Last.” Matthew flips the latch on the gate, crosses the tiny garden and knocks.
     
    Suzi opens the door and kisses him on both cheeks. She smells of roses and beneath that, something tangy, like lemons. She wears no wig and her hair is dark, cut in the short gamine style of Paris. She looks at least five years younger than usual, and Matthew realizes she is wearing almost no makeup other than a little lipstick. Her skin is pale and she has a few blemishes .
     
    “Come on in. You are the last.”
     
    Matthew can’t help but notice her eyes. The pupils are extremely small.
     
    “Sorry I’m late. Hey, Jack.”
     
    “Hey. Good to see you. Suzi, get out of the way and let him in.”
     
    The entranceway is indeed so small that there is no room for the two of them. Suzi smiles and steps back. “Anthony is in the kitchen,” she says. “So are we.” Matthew follows her.
     
    The walls in the hall are painted midnight blue and decorated with gold-foil stars. The kitchen, which Matthew can see at the end of the hall, is warm, pale terracotta. The floor throughout is wooden. To the right is a small bedroom, the walls painted a serene shade of mossy green. Peeking in, he sees a large wooden cross hanging on the far wall over the futon bed, a bronze Buddha in the corner and stacks and stacks of books.
     
    The kitchen is really part kitchen and part everything else. The back wall is made up almost entirely of paned glass and looks out onto a garden only slightly larger than the one at the front, in which an ancient-looking olive tree grows. A low wall, topped with metal fencing, backs the garden, beyond that are apartments, but at some distance. Matthew assumes the rail tracks run between the apartments and the house, and that the house is built on the side of the drop. At the right side of the back wall is a fair-sized alcove that houses the refrigerator, the stove, sink and the door that leads to the outside.
     
    Anthony stands at the pot-cluttered stove, wearing a large white apron. The room itself is furnished with a low table, surrounded by cushions, at which sit two Asian girls. There is also a futon sofa covered in a colourful blanket and more cushions. Jack