Leaving New York

Chapter 25

I was up early the next day. I met Gar making coffee.

"Morning."

"Morning, Jack."

The ancient electric coffee pot burped, bubbled, steamed.

"Sorry, I was such a baby last night."

"It's good to let it out. No problem, man."

"I made 110,000 Euro salary. All gone. You know what, Jack? My family pushed me to go into the business—to work with Dad, which I did in New York for eleven years. We are going to have to sell this place to get some cash."

Chloe stood at the door, "We are not selling Mama's house. Never. It is my home."

"Well, then you better get cracking selling paintings. I'm done working in the stock market."

"Honey, you're just silly—you loved the research part."

"Well . . ."

I headed to the door.

"Jack, stay. I want you to be a witness. Chloe, the taxes for this place are ten thousand Euros. Then there's electricity--six hundred a month, on and on. The place is falling down—it needs a million in repairs. Do you want to stay here? You'll have to paint fifty paintings at two grand a pop just to cover my salary, Chloe. And even then, the place will slowly disintegrate. You got the car keys, Jack?"

"Yes."

"I'm going for a drive."

He stormed out while Chloe sniffled at the sink.

"I'm sorry about everything."

"Thanks, Jack."

My phone rang.

"Bonjour."

"Jack?"

"Ari?"

"Yes."

"How's your family?"

"We are alright . . . I have a little job working in an office building cleaning at night. It brings us a little money. We have refugee status but no room at a reception center."

"I know it's hard. Where are you calling from?"

"My friend Zelli, it's his extra phone—I borrow it. I just wanted to say hello to my friend who helped us so much."

"I want to bring some more food."

"I must be truthful; things are not very good. My mother is in the hospital."

"Gosh."

"I have had to miss work a few nights--they might fire me. The Red Cross food truck hasn't come."

"I will bring food tonight. Don't worry."

"Thank you—we have not eaten today."

"Can we meet at the store?"

"The "U Express"?

"Yes. What's the address?"

"Rue Guiledot and Rue Hanson."

"How can I reach you?"

"This phone."

"I'll call you when I'm coming."

I remembered the subway station was a block from him. I wouldn't wait until Gar came home with the car. I'd give Ari money--he could buy the food himself. I had two hundred and ten euros. I rushed downstairs, finding Chloe sitting at the big library desk shuffling papers.

"Hey."

"Hey, Jack."

"I need to go out."

"Okay."

The subway car wasn't crowded and got to the station pronto. I called Ari's number, but there was no answer. I went to the store then called him again.

"Bonjour?'

"Ari?"

"Jack."

"I'm at U Express."

"You are? I'm coming."

"Okay."

I looked around at a refugee camp more crowded than ever. The "Connexion" newspaper said 1,200 people were sleeping on the streets waiting for volunteers to host them. The government reception centers were full. French conservatives were changing immigration laws almost daily. Soon they would shorten deadlines for asylum applications, locking people out of the country.

A haggard-looking Ari trotted across the street to me.

"Jack."

"Ari, so good to see you."

"It is good to see you, my friend."

I bought an extra soda and handed it to him. "Thank you, thank you. Can we talk?"

"Sure."

We found a bench in the trash-strewn park where men stripped to the waist bathed in a fountain.

"My mother is dying. She had a stroke last week, another one yesterday."

"God, I'm sorry."

"I was there last night; the end is close. I haven't money to bury her; she'll go in a mass grave."

"Man."

"She is a very good person—we should have stayed in Afghanistan . . ."

"No, you all could have died."

"But we are dying now." Tears rolled down his weathered face.

"I've got two hundred euros here."

"Thank you, Jack, but if you give me money, it is just a temporary fix."

"I know."

"I am a desperate man now. I need an address to get asylum."

"What do you mean?"

"I have to show I have a sponsor. I need a "certificate of accommodation" with a copy of your ID card, a rent receipt or if you own your house, evidence of ownership, and a utility bill."

"Why?"

"It will prove someone is hosting me in this country."

"Ari, I'm sorry, but I'm just living with a couple. I'm not a citizen."

"I see."

"What does hosting do?"

"If I get the certificate, I go to the prefecture to receive permission to remain in France so we can ask for asylum."

I felt helpless.

"Listen, I'm sorry about the certificate, but take the money, please. Maybe there's some other way I can help."

"I take a hundred."

"Is there one person at an agency coordinating your case?"

"No, I just talk to the people who are living on the street, and Zelli, he tells me things. A family hosts him in Montmartre."

"Does he have asylum status?"

"Yes. Zelli is not an illegal immigrant like the boys and me."

"Do you have to have asylum status to live with a resident?"

"No, but we'd still be illegal immigrants."

I hugged him. "Stay strong. I will see what I can do."

I backed away, waving, then turned toward the subway.