A Lonely and Curious Country Read Online Free

a Homburg hat beside it. Yves picked it up and peered inside in search of a label. ‘E. Zann’ was inked in a shaky hand on a grimy white patch. He set it down on the case. Moussa said something sharp; Hakim nodded.
    “ Junk! He says is junk.”
    “Yes.” Yves nodded. “Looks that way.”
    “But you say you hear someone. You sure.”
    “I was. I could have sworn. Obviously, I was mistaken. Sorry.” Hakim said something guttural to Moussa, tilting his head to indicate Yves as he did so. There were a couple more harsh words and a gesture – none of which Yves understood – as the Algerians ushered him out of the room, dragged the door shut and wrestled the lock back into place. “Sorry!” he said again to their backs, as they stamped downstairs to return the keys to Blandot and continue their search elsewhere. Yves still had his lighter in his hand. He lit another Gitanes, returned to his room and sprawled across the bed.
    Youcef. Had he ever seen him? He hadn’t known any of the Arabs’ names before tonight, or which one lived in which room. Now that he knew Youcef was the occupant of the room below his, he was able to conjure a face: about twenty, tightly curled hair, hollow cheeks, pale (for an Algerian), and, quite distinctly now – a frightened expression. Terrified. When had he seen him? When had he ever seen anyone that scared? If it wasn’t for the sickly-sweet fug of the room, maybe he would recall. Yves watched the smoke from his cigarette move horizontally, carried by the breeze that blew again – or, rather, blew still, unceasingly – through the split and moldering frame surrounding his otherwise sealed window.
    ‘I’m opening that!’ He stared at the dusty pane, reflective in the pallid bulb-light because of the black shutters immediately beyond. ‘I’ll find a hammer, pliers –something – take those nails out and force the lock. I’ll smash it, if I have to. Eduard’s right: I need air. And I want to see! As soon as I’ve finished this. Five minutes.’ But the Gitanes smoldered down to his lips, before being stubbed reflexively on the floorboards, as Yves drifted into a half-sleep. A half-sleep studded by dreams and memories, and memories of dreams, and dreams of memories. Of a wind and a sound and a scent that carried meaning and a spirit and a whisper. Of eyes staring, staring, staring into an abyss and eyes – or what served as eyes – staring back. Of an outsider that sought admittance. Of fugitive footsteps in a nighted building, descending and ascending like a Minotaur in a vertical labyrinth. Of stealthy searching and stolen keys and unlocked doors. Of a sleeper waking in terror, hands about his throat, choking, unable to move, choking, choking. Of windows flung open and a howling cosmic Sirocco that scours bodies to powder with the breath of aeons.
     
    ***
     
    Eduard was annoyed that Yves did not, after all, join the demonstration the next day; Anne-Marie chagrined that he did not show up for their date. It was only some days later that they noticed he had stopped attending all meetings, happenings and – once they resumed – lectures. Having no proper contact details for Yves, the best Eduard could do was wander the endless cobbled alleyways beyond an unhealthy river, one hot June afternoon. But he gave up at last, unable to find the Rue d’Auseil. He, and all Yves’ friends, concluded that he must, after all, have dropped out. It happened.
    In the third house from the top of the Rue d’Auseil, it took very nearly as long for Monsieur Blandot or any of his tenants to realize that the sole occupant of the sixth floor did not, in fact, appear to be in occupation. When a search was made, all that was found was the typical untidy array of a student’s room, dusted with a thin layer of aromatic ash (or something very like ash) and a shattered windowpane. The prevailing wind must have been blowing against the unlatched shutters, and blowing hard, for Hakim (Blandot’s