A solo traveller in Paris, France, is terrified when a lonely stranger tries to force his way into her apartment, prompting a haunting reflection on vulnerability and identity in faraway places. This story was selected as the winner in our “When Things Fall Apart” travel writing competition.
Fingers. Gripping the door. Right in front of my face. For a short, endless moment, I study them. Long and fine. Almond-shaped nails with little pink half-moons peering out from beneath the skin. I see them picking through leftover chicken meat, pulling it from the bone. Running absent-mindedly through a head of hair. Rummaging in a pocket. I study the lines etched in the skin. A wild web of fissures and crevices that patterns out, compulsively, in all directions. What made these lines? What gestures performed, again and again? These stranger’s fingers, so close, I could kiss them.
He slams his weight against the door, and I brace, deepening my stance. Fortifying. I look down at his foot jammed between the door and the frame. A filthy, scuffed-up sneaker peering in. I kick it with my bare foot.
Honey, he pines.
Honey, please, it’s me!
It is 3 am. I am in Paris. A 20-something Australian on the other side of the big wide world. I am staying in the apartment of a friend of a friend of a friend. The apartment, in the 19th arrondissement, is neat, tight, and booklined. A central, oblong living space, which opens into a kitchenette at one end and houses a dark little bedroom at the other. My bathroom is a narrow, enclosed alcove which doubles as the storeroom, requiring me to empty a lifetime’s gatherings each time I need to pee. And my bedroom is a single mattress on the floor of the main living space, beneath a bookshelf and beside a tall French window. Each morning, I lie here and watch the sky lighten, feeling a small rush in my chest. To be all alone on the other side of the world. Under the same sky, but so different.
The friend’s friend’s friend–a fine-boned, retired Russian émigré who loves asparagus and Russian cinema–has gone away for the night. Nervously left me alone here. So when I am woken by a pounding at the door which does not let up, I begin to worry it might be her, having forgotten her key.
But when I open the door, a man. Speaking to me as if he knows me. Desperately. Imploringly. As if he just went out to grab a packet of cigarettes and can’t understand why his wife–me–won’t let him just slip back into bed.
Honey, it’s me! Don’t you recognise me?
Half his face and a portion of his chest are inside the room now. His bloodshot eyes look directly into mine–
Honey?
I smell his breath. His sweat. His hair cream. How did he get in the building? He shoves at the door, and I brace. And how did he know I speak English? The thought slips sideways through my mind and vanishes as I press my whole weight against him–against the door, a sturdy chunk of wood that shudders between us.
This was twenty years ago, so there is no mobile phone in my back pocket. I consider calling out, but who would answer? The neighbours are silent. It’s the middle of the night. I’m alone in this city. It’s the first time I’ve travelled abroad. Each day I open the apartment door, tiptoe down the winding staircase, and heave the heavy door of the building open. I feel the rush of unfamiliar air against my face. A rush of freedom–to be unadorned by my country, my city, my culture, my name. To just be a body on the streets. Exploring.
Each day I walk like this. Not following a map, a plan, an aim. Like this, I find Parc de Buttes-Chaumont and lose myself in the curling labyrinth of paths. On a bench, I take out the paper bag of pêches plates I bought at the fruit stall on the corner and my book. I am reading Paul Auster’s Book of Illusions, enjoying the double sense of being in Paris as his protagonist finds his way through the same city. I slurp at the peach juice, trying to catch it as it runs down my chin, through my fingers, marking the pages–a trace through the words, like a trail on a map.
I look up and see an elderly woman, curved like a question mark, and led down the path by a small, sprightly dog. The tiny guide speeds deliberately and urgently forward–its little legs, a blur–the sense is that it knows exactly where it is going, and, at the same time, it appears to be entirely delighted by the passage to get there. Its whole body quivers, taking in the smells and sensations. Occasionally, the dog and woman stop–it is not clear who initiates this pause–rest for a moment and allow the midmorning air to ruffle hair and fur. As if taking a collective breath before continuing.
I follow them. They guide me out of the park, through tiny streets and into the clamour and colour of Rue de Belleville, across Boulevard de Belleville, down Rue du Faubourg du Temple, past République until we eventually wind our way into Le Marais. I trip over cobblestones and dog shit as I peer into antiquarian bookstores, boutique art galleries, and a flower shop that bursts onto the street–the scent of fresh cut flowers, earth, and wet pavement, vivid in the air.
At a royal blue gate, the pair pause. The woman bends over her bag, fishing for something, while her little guide sits patiently. The woman pulls out a key and turns it in the lock, opening the gate into a cobbled courtyard. The little dog hesitates. On y va, Georges, I hear the woman whisper to her companion, and the gate closes behind them.
I continue to wander my way to the Seine, following it for a while. Peering over the high wall that lines the river, I watch the murky water and the people along its shore: two friends sit on the edge, swinging their legs, deep in conversation; a mother pushing a stroller; a man smoking; another reading a book. I cross a stone footbridge from Île Saint-Louis. A busker manipulates a marionette for a small crowd. I stop and watch. The puppet is a musician. He plays the violin. His head tilts, leans into the body of his instrument like a lover, listening to his beloved. His arm sweeps with its tiny bow, and his body swoops and sways with the music. Everyone watches this wooden being–entirely convinced by his presence. And the busker all but disappears, a strange shadow pulling on strings above his head.
Across the bridge, I enter a walled garden. Flowers burst and hum with bees around a high fountain. Gravel crunches underfoot. I sit on a stone bench and take out my book. It opens at the peach stain, my finger follows its trail around darkened letters and words. If I could follow this trail, I wonder where I would end up. I lift my eyes from the pages and look up. And there she is, our lady, Notre Dame. Spindly spires reach to the sky, and buttresses fan out like spider legs around circular windows and arches. I go to her and run my hand along her stony skin as I find my way inside. Inside this cavernous body, her enormous stained-glass window hangs like a cyclops’ eye. Radiating. It paints the floor, the other bodies, the skin of my hands and arms with its coloured light. I stare up into it.
Honeeeey!
He screams. I close my eyes and lean my whole being into the door. This cannot be happening. This has to stop. In my mind, I calculate how to throw my weight against the door, relaxing off for just a fraction of a second in order to pull back, gather momentum, and slam towards it. I feel this movement in my body. See it play out in my mind. Rehearsing. But I cannot risk pulling back from the door, even for a second.
Honey, darling, pleeease. Just let me in so we can go back to sleep.
And then…How can I explain it? It’s as if the door became my mind, and with a little extra weight, it just swung open. Paff! Just like that. And I stand on the other side. A wife lying in bed. Waiting for the familiar sound of her husband’s shoes on the stairs. The cold night air ruffles the curtains, caresses her cheeks. What is he up to now? Her question covering a loose-limbed fear that perhaps we all carry: that what we have, we don’t really have. Who we are, we don’t really know. We’re just waiting for the plug to be pulled, the switch to be flicked, and feel it all flutter away.
I feel the pressure ease from the other side of the door. I see his foot slip out. His fingers release. I slam the door shut, turn the key, flick the deadlock. My left shoulder is numb. My body aches. I step back and watch the door. The lock. The little gap under the door. It is suddenly so quiet.
Honey?
I hear from the other side. And then nothing.
I stand for a long time watching the door. Listening. Ready. Every sound, every move of the air on my skin is electric. I am so tired. I don’t know how long I stand there like that, but at some point, I give in and go back to bed. I lie down on my back and pull the blanket over me. I listen for the sound of shoes on the stairs. Feel the cold night air, fresh on my cheeks. I stare at the ceiling. Shadows flicker across the plasterwork, elongate, disperse. The apartment creaks. Traffic hums and shrieks outside the window. Voices echo. I am here on the other side of the world. A small body, on a single mattress, in a Paris apartment, in the 19th arrondissement, in a faraway country, on a different continent, on a turning planet, in the Milky Way, somewhere, out there, in some corner of an expanding universe.
The next morning I wake to the sound of a key turning in the lock. My host sneaks in, closes the door quietly behind her, and shuffles into the bedroom. I get dressed and head out. I open the door. The stairs are covered in water. It pools on each step. Did he melt? I wonder as I tiptoe down. The front door is ajar and wavers slightly in the wind. Sunlight shafts through the oscillating gap. I grip my fingers around the door and pull it open. It is windy today. The air cuts right through me as if I’m not even there. I step out into it.
