Hidden Depths

Chapter 2 - Paris

Rashid understood French. He and Ameera had hidden behind the language to have secret chats in a flat that was too tiny to escape their eavesdropping parents. These conversations had given him a confidence in the language that was unusual for someone with no French family. It was even more rare for someone who had never actually seen or heard a real live Frenchman.

But as good as he was at understanding what was said to him, his first conversations didn't go as he had hoped. Whether he was asking for directions, or even just buying a drink, every time he opened his mouth he got the same reaction: a slightly surprised look of confusion, a polite yet amused request for repetition, then, finally, a condescending smile followed by a switch to near perfect English.

Rashid didn't know it, but although his grasp of French grammar and vocabulary was excellent, his accent was awful. The real reason French people couldn't understand him was that he spoke French with the same, near impenetrable, Birmingham accent that he used to speak English.

It was beginning to wind him right up. Rash knew he had been smashing his French lessons at school, and Madame Bonsall's testament to his hard work had saved him from suspension on more than one occasion. He couldn't understand why the French were all so eager to dismiss him.

After an ego-bashing hour of embarrassment, he came to the conclusion that French people were as rude as he had been led to believe. In response, he developed a form of communication that used a combination of the odd word of mumbled French, some disinterested grunts, and a dispassionate venture into the art of mime.

Rashid's problems were made worse by his total lack of travel experience. The farthest he had ever been away from Birmingham was Wolverhampton, and that was only because he had fallen asleep on the train. Although he was as streetwise as they come back in Sparkbrook, on the streets of Paris he was completely clueless.

He eventually found his way to the hotel his sister had booked and, following a brief and near silent check in, he made his way along the threadbare carpet to his room. Rashid had never been in a hotel room before, and hadn't really known what to expect, but he had seen enough films to realise that this wasn't the Ritz.

The room was as hot as a sauna and was just large enough to fit a single bed, a table with a small lamp, and a tiny chest of drawers. A pair of grime-ridden curtains hung from a window that was so dirty it almost totally obscured the view of the bins outside. Rashid opened the window, closed the curtains and then got into bed and cried.

Before the sun had a chance to penetrate his grimy curtains, Rashid was startled awake by the sudden, deafening and terrifying noise of a huge bin full of glass bottles being emptied into a rumbling rubbish truck outside. The anger at such a rude awakening filled his thoughts so completely that it was a few seconds before the memory of the previous day hit home.

His overwhelming compulsion to jump out the window and feed the truck driver a petit déjeuner of sandwich au knuckle faded, as the slow recollection of his banishment replaced the violent urge. During the tiny amount of time that it took for that awful memory to creep to the forefront of his mind, Rashid experienced the weirdest sensation of impending doom. As awful as it was to remember, the time between forgetfulness and recollection was so scary and confusing that it was almost a relief when that miserable memory finally formed.

He looked down at his bed before peeling back the curtain to peep at the world outside. Day was breaking and although it was clearly still very early, the truck driver wasn't the only one out there. Paris was waking up, and, as the rancid stench of the now empty bottle bin began to fill his room, Rashid closed his window before putting his shoes back on and heading out of the door.

Although he was exhausted, he was glad to be out of his room. It had taken him an age to get to sleep the night before, and he suspected that had he tried to spend the morning dozing, he would have just subjected himself to more hours rerunning the previous day's unbelievable events. He was glad his sister was happy, but although he had no real love for his old life, he also wasn't thrilled to be alone in a big strange city.

His hotel was on a road near the modern art museum that Ameera had wanted to see so much. His sister had often tried to infect Rashid with her love of all things fresh, vibrant and new. Many of their regular illicit conversations, which masqueraded as help with French homework, had centred on her longing to wander amongst the street performers, roller-skaters and artists that buzz around the square outside the Pompidou Centre.

Although he didn't share his sister's enthusiasm for culture, Rashid thought he may as well have a look at what she was always banging on about. Trying to forget his grievances, he headed down the Rue Saint-Denis, in what he assumed was the right direction.

His route took him along the cobbled road, past cafes, pharmacies and expensive-looking hair salons. At first he was impressed by the lack of pound stores and fried chicken shops, but it wasn't long before he noticed that the classy-looking establishments were, in fact, snuggled up next to fake designer clothes stores and pornography shops.

The busy Parisians and time-taking tourists that milled around the street were all watched over by armed counter terrorism police, similar to the ones Rashid was used to seeing back in Birmingham. You could rob a bank in front of these guys and they wouldn't lift a finger, but try shouting 'Allahu Akbar' and you'd be shot into Swiss cheese before you could finish the phrase.

Rashid thought their black jumpsuits and automatic rifles looked strangely out of place in the garishly colourful street. He was craning his neck up to read a sign that spelt out Sexy Centre in metre high letters when he bumped into a pair of boys coming the other way.

For a moment he forgot about the effect that his French was having on the locals, and confidently expressed his apologies. The laughter was as instantaneous as it was demeaning.

One of the boys was half a foot taller than Rash and thicker set, while the other was closer to his size. The taller one chuckled stupidly while the shorter one bent over and slapped his thighs, before looking up at Rashid as if he had just told a hilarious joke. Rash wasn't sure what was so funny but began to smile along. That made the smaller boy double over again.

'You should hear yourself,' the boy gasped out between bursts of laughter. He looked at his bigger friend, put one hand on the boy's fat shoulder and bounced an invisible ball with the other as he tried to compose himself.

'No no, wait.' The boy looked between Rash and his friend. He took a deep breath and struggled to control his grin as he breathed out. What Rashid heard next devastated him.

'Excuuusemoirrr Meeersurrre,' he said, displaying his excellent skills as a mimic. 'Je Suis traaay desol aaay.'

Rashid suspected that his accent could probably benefit from a little improvement. The impression amused its creator more than either member of his audience, but, as the big lad resumed his chuckle, Rashid took advantage of the surprise and directed his retribution at the larger of the two.

The punch connected squarely with the big one's chin, turning his legs to jelly as he fell to the floor with a loud slap. The smaller boy's jaw dropped as his protector collapsed before his eyes. The laughing boy now had an altogether more serious look on his face, as his manner changed from insulting to obsequious in a heartbeat.

The boy began apologising as eloquently in English as he had ridiculed in French, but Rashid thought it best not to stick around and wait for the big one to stand up again. He gave him a shove as he stepped over the big kid and continued his stroll down Rue Saint-Denis.

'I may not be as good at parlez vous-ing as that squirt is,' Rash thought to himself as he walked away, 'but I think they got the message clear enough.'