Paris Echo

Description

An urgent and enthralling new novel about injustice and betrayal from the author of Birdsong and A Week in December.Set in 2006, Paris Echo follows Hannah, a thirty-one-year-old American post-doctoral researcher looking into the lives of women during the German Occupation of Paris in 1940-44, and Tariq, a nineteen-year-old boy who has run away from his home in Morocco, searching for sex and adventure.
    
Through their culture clash we are taken back into the hidden Paris of the Dark Years, the Algerian War and the simmering discontents of the banlieue. As both main characters fight to preserve their integrity and their sanity, they find their future shaped by the lives of the dead, by the ghosts of the Paris Metro. Shortlisted for the National Book Awards (UK)
A Times (UK) Best Book of 2018
A New Statesman Best Book of 2018“Faulks immerses readers into a haunted Paris. . . . Exhilarating. . . . Fans of Paula McClain and Ian McEwan will enjoy Faulks’s touching tale of two Parisian visitors looking to reimagine their self-identities in a changing world.” ―Publishers Weekly“Briskly told and engaging. . . . [Paris Echo] is an entertaining novel with memorable characters. A fun romp through Paris and history.” ―Kirkus Reviews“Enveloping. . . . Faulks offers a subtle but affecting portrait of friendship while exploring the immense difficulty of making sense of the larger world.” ―Booklist“Superb.” —The Observer (UK)
“[An] exquisite book. . . . A deeply affecting, wholly unsolemn treatment of some of the 20th century’s darkest moments” —Daily Mail (UK)
“Tariq is one of Mr. Faulks’s most memorable charmers . . . and Paris Echo, for all its tragedy, one of his most buoyant novels, flawlessly paced and deftly constructed. Here this agile writer . . . moves gracefully back and forth between shadow and light, weaving together disparate stories but never too neatly.” —The Wall Street Journal
“Both thoughtful and thought-provoking with memorable characters and a profound sense of the past in the present.” —Sunday Express (UK)
“Faulks is doing what he does best.” ―The Times (UK)
“Paris Echo is another impressive achievement. . . . There is humour and humanity in this bold, perceptive novel.” —Express (UK)
“The prowess of [Faulks’s] storytelling makes him a graceful guide through ‘the great world of the past.’ . . . Cunningly crafted. . . . France’s unquiet histories are brought to life by a master storyteller.” —Financial Times (UK)
“Master storytelling. . . . [An] intriguing and moving story that shows how the future is shaped by the past.” —Women & Home“This is a deeply cinematic novel. . . . Paris Echo is brimming with facts and hard truths about how people act during war that we could all benefit from knowing.” —Evening Standard (UK)
“Romantic. Intriguing. Beguiling. . . . Paris Echo takes readers to places tourists don’t visit . . . [and] is so intimately, so evocatively like Paris.” ―The Sunday Times (UK)
“Paris Echo does not disappoint. . . . A stimulating read.” ―John Boyne, The Irish Times
“Here is Paris in all its beauty and squalor. . . . Intelligent, moving. . . . A love letter to Paris and indeed to France.” ―The Scotsman (UK) Sebastian Faulks worked as a journalist for 14 years before taking up writing full-time in 1991. In 1995 he was voted Author of the Year by the British Book Awards for Birdsong. He is also the author of Human Traces, On Green Dolphin Street, Charlotte Gray, The Fatal Englishman, The Girl at the Lion d’Or, Engleby, and the James Bond novel Devil May Care. He lives in London with his wife and three children. One Maison Blanche I was taking a pee in the bathroom when I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face looked so beautiful that I turned to look more closely, spraying the tiles round the toilet in my hurry. I shook my zib and put it back inside my boxers so I could study my face. It was like someone had drawn a faint shadow beneath the cheekbones, then put a touch of mascara on my lashes. The eyes had a depth I’d never seen before. I put my head to one side and smiled, then furrowed my brow as though I was being serious, but the eyes stayed the same – twinkling with a kind of humour and experience. This was the face of someone old beyond my years.
How could it be I’d never noticed before just how beautiful I was? Not regular handsome maybe like an old-time film star and not indie blank like a modern one. More a mix of soul and sexiness. With noble bones.
I flipped the glass to magnifying and back to normal. I held a hand mirror up to turn the reflection on itself, so it sat right-way-on. I backed against the wall, then went fisheye close. It made no difference. True, I’d smoked a little kif, but only a little, which was all I liked, and I’d had a Coke to keep my sugar level up (a tip from a boy in my year). I felt happy to think this person was me. No harm could come to someone who looked like that. The ways of peace and righteousness were ours. Not to mention soft-skinned girls and travel to distant places.
 
We stared into one another’s eyes for a few more minutes.
Then he spoke.
He said, ‘You got to get out, man. You gotta get out.’
I felt myself nodding in agreement.
Because I’d known this anyway, for quite a while. There was nothing shocking in what he said, it was more of a relief.
‘Go now.’
‘I will. Any day now.’
We lived just outside the medina, the old town, in a whitewashed house. There was another family on the ground floor, but an outside staircase led to our front door. We had the top two floors and a roof terrace with a view towards the sea. My stepmother used to hang the washing up there, which pissed my father off. ‘How can I bring people home when they have to sit next to a row of wet shirts?’ I had nothing against my stepmother except that she was not my mother. That, and the fact that she always repeated herself. Once she’d locked on to a piece of news or a point of view, she couldn’t let it go. ‘All our problems are caused by the Arabs of the Gulf, especially the Saudis,’ she told us one January. In September she was still saying this like something she’d just stumbled on.
In the middle of the terrace was a taifor, a kind of low table. It had a woven cloth, orange and red, and small shiny discs that reflected the sun. On it was a box of cigarettes and coloured glasses for tea. My father asked men he hoped would invest in his business to come up and admire the view while he unlocked his supply of whisky. He offered it round with a leer that made me feel sick. There were tons of places in town you could buy liquor. Some of them had only boxes of tissues or cat food in the window, but everyone knew you couldn’t run a specialist tissue shop. You only had to go a few paces in, past the Kleenex, and there were rows of Johnnie Walker and Glenmorangie above the lager and Moroccan wine.
Then my father told me to go and do some studying. Down in my room at the back of the house, I opened my books. I was studying economics, though ‘studying’ may be too strong a word. True, I’d done well at school when I was young, but it was only because I was good at languages. I’d learned French from my mother, who was half French herself. Her father was from a French settler family in Algeria – one of those they called pieds noirs, or black feet, because the original ones (a hundred years before) had had shiny leather shoes. Normally the generations of settlers married others of their own, French people, but my grandfather took a liking to an Algerian woman in Oran (Algerian Granny) and they were married, though in what religion I don’t know. They moved to Morocco and then to Paris, where my mother, Hanan, was born one day in the early Fifties. I don’t know why they had such itchy feet. Maybe they saw trouble coming in Algeria. I guess the Arab name was a gesture from my French grandfather to his Algerian wife now they were stuck in Paris. Hanan, any dictionary will tell you, means ‘mercy’ or ‘clemency’, so maybe he was trying to be nice.
It was in Paris that Hanan, my mother, was brought up and where perhaps she should have stayed. But in her early thirties she went to Morocco on a visit to some cousins and it was there she had the misfortune to meet and marry Malik Zafar, a would-be businessman, who, in 1986, became my father.
My mother died when I was ten. Or maybe I was nine. I wasn’t aware at the time how ill she was and went off to school one day telling her I hoped her ‘cold’ would be better by the evening. She did look thin and had trouble speaking. I was later told she had had cancer of the oesophagus, though I hardly knew what either word meant. Her legacy was my ability to speak French.
For a time, I went to the American School of Tangier, where the lessons were all in English and the girls wore Western clothes. There were daily doses of classical Arabic, as well, but it got too expensive for the son of a flaky businessman. I was sent instead to a school in the Ville Nouvelle, where I got distracted, stopped reading and only just scraped into college at the end of it.
And at college there were more girls. There was also a woman who taught politics, Miss Aziz. She had hair so black it had a purple glow in the light that came through the lecture-room windows. It was thick, with a slight wave, chopped off just above the shoulder. Like other women, she wore trousers most of the time, but once she wore a black skirt to the knee with a white shirt and three rows of big red beads. Towards the end of class, I noticed that a thin strip of white lace had slipped below the hem of the skirt and settled on the black nylon that covered her legs.
We were all majoring in economics. It was a dull subject, but my father made me do it. Miss Aziz’s politics class was a compul­sory module in the course and it had a bit of history in it too. One day she told us about the wars of the last century and how the Europeans came to North Africa. She talked about the colonisers as though she wasn’t sure they were quite human. They were cultured all right, the way she told it, but they were addicted to killing in a way that no number of symphonies could make up for.
All this was new to me. I didn’t know exactly when the Europeans had first come to my country or what they wanted from us. But they’d left a lot behind in the names of boulevards, squares and churches. Listening to Miss Aziz describe the Spanish and the French as creatures of a slightly different species, I wondered if this was how they’d seen us, too, when they first arrived in North Africa – primitive bandits on a coastal strip above an endless desert. Bandits with religion.
Miss Aziz, at first glance, seemed to do the right things. She was patient with the questions of the class, and when Dr Ahmed, the head of department, put his head round the door and asked her for a word she placed her book face down on the desk and hurried after him. But what was different about her was that she seemed to carry a world in her head that was not the world we knew. She never returned an essay late and she was polite to Hamid, the toothless janitor who swept the courtyard while the rest of us just laughed at his fat ass when he wasn’t sitting on it. And I can’t imagine Miss A ever raised her voice in the staffroom. So why did she give off this sense of rebellion?
Laila, my girlfriend, noticed the same thing. She used to call Miss Aziz ‘the Messenger’. It was the name of an American televi­sion show in which an average family had adopted a boy who turned out to be an alien. It was a comedy aimed at children, but it was a cult at our college. The kids in the family were always begging to be taken away to his home planet, but the Messenger, who was like an ordinary boy except for two extra fingers (and some telekinetic powers), was too grateful to the mom and dad for rescuing him to take the children away, even on a day trip. For all I know, it was a hidden message, sponsored by some religious group – however shit your life is, you’ve got to keep believing, don’t run away.
While my father poured his whisky down the throats of his guests (they never invested, they just drank), I sat on my bed and opened a course book. I was bored. Who cares about history, even if Miss Aziz is teaching it? What’s the point of remembering stuff that happened before you were born? We weren’t ‘remembering’ it anyway. We hadn’t been there – neither had our teachers, nor anyone else in the world – so we couldn’t remember it. What we were doing was imagining it . . . And what was the point of that?
If I wasn’t distracted by thoughts of escape, it was by thoughts of Laila. In my room, pretending to study income distribution, I used to send her text messages on the fancy phone she’d given me when her father bought her a new one. Sometimes she sent me back a picture of herself, playing with her dog or drinking Fanta on the veranda of her house.
I hadn’t slept with Laila. I was nineteen, and I hadn’t slept with anyone. When she first arrived at college, I’m not sure the other guys noticed how pretty she was. At that time, she had very short dark hair, almost like a boy’s, and they all drooled over pictures of blonde girls with hair to the shoulders. But I spotted the weight under her white shirt when she leaned across a table, even though everything was properly buttoned up. Girl students were allowed to wear pretty much what they wanted. Laila’s clothes were modest, but somehow you could tell they were good quality. Maybe she got them sent from abroad or bought them online. After a week or so settling in, she became more confident. She was always laughing. For a while I was afraid she was laughing at me, but then I decided she was just carefree. She didn’t like computer games as much as I did, but she was crazy about The Messenger. That was the moment we clicked. ‘I love it, I love it, don’t you?’ she said when the subject came up. ‘I love the way he’s always sneaking up on people. And when he’s amazed by something in our world he doesn’t understand he just says—’‘
“Frozen fireballs . . . Count me in!”’ we both said at once.
I invited her to come to my house and watch The Messenger one evening when my parents were out. She had no shame about watching a kids’ programme. We sat through five or six episodes on the trot. She mentioned some other shows I’d never heard of, so I guessed at her house she’d got more TV channels. Some of these programmes weren’t even shown in the US, I think, they were just made for export to a youth audience.
Every evening I went up on the roof to smoke a cigarette and looked out towards the sea, in the direction of Europe. If you looked the other way, south over the city, the trees and hills soon became semi-desert. It was all brown, with scars of mining and digging, the last attempt to get something out of the sand, with tipper trucks and lorries parked up and conveyor belts of dirt.
But what happened if you looked north? What went on up there across the sea? Spain, France, where the invaders had come from . . . Way beyond that, Germany. The people in Europe all had new cars and watches. And green woods and forests. The labels on the clothes had been put on by who they claimed to be, not knocked off in China like ours. The girls were blonde and wore short dresses, showing their legs. The bars weren’t hidden in expensive hotels or in underground dives where you might get beaten up by an old alcoholic. The liquor places were on every corner, and women drank there too, ordering wine and cocktails.
Smoking my cigarette, I pictured this, through the low clouds and the grey sea on which I could see a far-off container ship.
I knew I had to go, but it was hard to get the courage up. My father would explode if I said I was quitting college. He really thought four years studying was going to make a difference – that with a degree I’d somehow have life on a string. I knew the only way to escape from all this was to leave the country. All that was holding me back was Laila and the feeble hope of sleeping with her.
Laila lived in a big house about a mile out of town. Inside her own grounds she wore Western skirts and dresses as well as the usual jeans. They weren’t very short, but they were elegant and you could see the honey-coloured skin of her legs. There was a housekeeper, Farida, a woman with sleepy eyes. She wasn’t old, she was middle-aged, maybe thirty-five. She was tame like a cow. She brought in tea, she swept the floors, pushed back the stray bits of hair that came loose from her clip. She adored Laila, who was the only person who could make Farida lift up her heavy eyelids into a smile. The rest of us she drifted between, putting down cups, picking up ashtrays. Or else you’d see her carrying armfuls of washing down the corridor to a distant laundry. Sometimes lying on my bed at home I imagined that Farida asked Laila to her room at the back of the house and asked her to Faul_9780385687300_2p_all_r1.indd 17 8/13/18 3:41 PM8undress her and help her shower at the end of her long day’s work. There was a lot of kneeling down and straps and buttons to undo and many underclothes before Farida was ready for the shower, by which time Laila seemed to be naked as well, which was only fair.
The trouble with having fantasies was that I was never sure I was alone. In my bedroom wall was a moucharabia, a carved wooden screen, that gave on to the landing, where anyone could see through the gaps. In the small towns the shopkeepers spied through the shutters and the screens and only opened up when there were enough people in the street. You never knew if you were being watched. All my life was like that.
Laila had a younger brother called Billy and a cute little sister called Najat and they’d sometimes barge in when we were watching The Messenger or playing cards, but they didn’t hang around. In the last year at the boys’ school, the year before college, I’d given a kicking to a kid who’d been making life difficult for Billy, so he was kind of grateful, plus he could take a hint. I also gave him a Radiohead tee shirt of mine. Actually he was a bit of a dude and was growing up so fast I’d thought he’d soon outrank me.
Was I in love with Laila because she’d given me some encouragement and was therefore my best bet? I don’t know. But it pained me to see her and to go home without having done it with her. It really hurt. If I’d been offered the chance to sleep with all twelve girls in our lecture group one after the other or just Laila, just her . . . No contest, even if the twelve included Wasia and Kashira, who by any normal standards were both smoking hot.
I didn’t discuss Laila with other boys, though we did talk about sex in general when we were hanging out. If Laila’s name came up, I changed the subject. But on my own I thought a lot about how great it would be just to feel my zib sliding up inside her. Just that simple thing. I thought it might feel really quite hot, almost burning on the skin. By then of course, thinking about it, I had a huge boner.
My stepmother did nothing. Like all the women I knew, she lived mostly indoors and went out in the afternoon to the houses of her sisters or her friends. We weren’t rich, because my father’s schemes never came to anything, but we weren’t as poor as some families in the medina. We had a cleaner, for instance – a very large unsmiling woman who came in once a week. She only charged a few coins. And my stepmother did the cooking. I think she was interested in that. The other thing she liked was birds. She had two cages with small songbirds in them. ‘They remind me of my childhood in the Rif mountains,’ she said. She also left the door open onto the roof terrace so others could fly into the house, which was built round a light well with a glass roof. The golden-beaked sparrows always found their way upstairs and out again.
A couple of days after the guy in the mirror told me to get going, I looked at some flights on the Internet, but they were expensive. Maybe I could get one of the ferries to Europe that were advertised all over town.
You gotta get out . . . Well, all right then. I’d be better off not torturing myself by seeing Laila every day. I’ve done so little work I’m likely going to fail my exams at the end of the year. Even if I don’t, even if I complete the course, it still won’t get me a job worth having. I’ll have a degree in economics and business studies with a Miss Aziz Special in politics (including five hours’ free history). No one’s going to hire me for that. Go to the building site, you jerk, that’s what they’ll say. Go and join the line with the skilled masons and plumbers. So I am going to leave. I’m going . . . Somewhere. Somerealwhere. Somefuckingproperwhere. Paris probably.
I knew almost nothing about Paris, but it was in Europe, they were Christian, they had bars, girls, old buildings, cinemas . . . So before the courage could leave me, I leapt off the bed and went upstairs. As I came near the door of the living room, a strange thing happened. I began to be outside myself, watching. I could see myself as a third person, my tee shirt and jeans, two spots on the chin, skinny arms and messed-up hair.
I saw myself going to tell my father.
There was me, Tariq, going into the living room. My father was sitting on a sofa where he was looking through his glasses at some papers.
‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘Sorry. What are you doing?’ said Tariq.
‘Accounts. They never end. Why aren’t you doing some work? I’m sure you’ve got reading to do.’
‘No, I’m up to date with my reading,’ said Tariq, pushing back the hair from his forehead.
‘Dinner’s in an hour. You can tell me what you want then. And your stepmother. You know how much she worries.’
‘I’m leaving. I’m going to live somewhere else.’
‘God give me strength. You want to give up your studies?’
‘Yeah, but that’s not the reason.’
‘So what is the reason?’
‘I want to live in a different place, a better place.’
My father laughed and put down his papers – so without them he’d be free to laugh harder. ‘Where? Fez? Algiers? I know you always wanted to go there. Think you’re a man for the big city?’
‘No. That would just be . . . bigger.’
‘Where then? Malaysia?’ He was really gasping now. ‘Australia? Why not? Go and be a sheep farmer.’
‘Paris, I think.’
‘What on earth for? You don’t know anyone there.’
‘No, but I’d like to see where my mother grew up. Find out some more about her. And I can speak the language.’
‘Think they’d understand your accent? Anyway, they hate us, the French. They always have.’
Tariq rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t think they’d hate me. I think I’d fit in. There’s a lot of us there.’
‘Oh yes, sure. Living in filthy tower blocks in the banlieue.’
‘I don’t mind where I end up.’
‘And how are you going to live?’
‘Like a peasant.’ Tariq seemed to think for a moment. ‘Like a hero.’
My father dabbed the corner of his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘And what are you going to use for money?’
‘I don’t need money,’ Tariq said. ‘I’ll live off my wits.’
‘Your wits!’
‘I hope so. You know I can speak English like a native.’
‘Yes, like a native of America. All that TV.’
‘And French. My mother—’
‘You truly are a ridiculous child,’ said my father, his shoulders no longer heaving. ‘Go and do some work.’
He picked up his papers and put his glasses on again. Tariq backed slowly towards the door. It looked like he was hoping my father would stop him. With his hand on the doorknob, he hesitated.
‘Well?’ My father looked up from his papers. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Back in my room I heaved out a backpack and stuffed some clothes in it. I took my passport and all the money I’d saved up. It didn’t come to much, though it included some euros I’d got from a Spanish tourist for showing him round. Then I went into the bathroom and took a long hard look at my reflection. The lighting wasn’t so good as the time before and my face looked a bit greasy.
Oh fuck it, I thought. Let’s go.
After walking for about fifteen minutes, I got a lift with a lorry.
There were crates of limonada and Sprite rattling behind us. The driver gave me a cigarette. We drove past Laila’s house and from high up in the cab I could see over the wall onto the lawns. There was a covered electric lamp glowing on the veranda. I wanted her to come out of the house, but I also couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her. I felt for a moment as though someone had grabbed my lungs and was squeezing me to death. Fuck, was this what a heart attack feels like?
I shut my eyes and let the road take me away. CA