It’s colder down here. It smells of damp, of mold. My phone throws only a very weak beam into the darkness but I can see the orange glow of a light switch across from me. I press it and the lights come on, the little mechanical timer clicking down: tick tick tick tick tick. I’ve probably only got a couple of minutes before it goes dark again. I’m definitely in the basement: a wide, low-ceilinged space easily double the size of Ben’s apartment; several doors leading off it. A rack in the corner that holds a couple of bikes. And leaning against one wall there’s a red moped. I walk over to it, take out the set of keys I found in Ben’s jacket, fit the Vespa one into the ignition and turn. The lights hum on. It hits me: so Ben can’t be away on his bike somewhere. I must have been leaning against it because it tilts under me. It’s now that I see that the front wheel is flat, the rubber completely shredded. An accident? But there’s something about the total decimation that feels intentional.
I turn back to the basement. Perhaps whoever it was has disappeared behind one of those doors. Are they hiding from me? A shiver of unease as I realize I may now be the one being watched.
I open the first door. A couple of washing machines—one of which is on, all the clothes whizzing around in a colorful jumble.
In the next room I smell the bins before I see them, that sweetish, rotten scent. Something makes a scuffling sound. I shut the door.
The next is some sort of cleaning cupboard: mops and brooms and buckets and a pile of dirty-looking rags in the corner.
The next one has a padlock on the door but the door itself is open. I push inside. It’s stuffed full of wine: racks and racks of it, floor to ceiling. There might be well over a thousand bottles in here. Some of them look seriously old: labels stained and peeling, the glass covered in a layer of dust. I pull one out. I don’t know much about wine. I mean, I’ve worked in plenty of bars but they’ve been the sort of place where people ask for “a large glass of red, love” and you get the bottle thrown in for an extra couple of quid. But this, it just looks expensive. Whoever’s keeping this stuff down here clearly trusts their neighbors. And probably won’t notice if just one little bottle goes missing. Maybe it’ll help me think. I’ll pick something that looks like it’s been down here for ages, something that they’ll have forgotten about. I find the dustiest, most cobweb-covered bottles on the bottom racks, search along the rows, pull one out a little way. 1996. An image of a stately home picked out in gold. Chateau Blondin-Lavigne, the label reads. That’ll do.
The lights go out. The timer must have run down. I look for a light switch. It’s so dark in here; I’m immediately disorientated. I step to the left and brush up against something. Shit, I need to be careful: I’m basically surrounded by teetering walls of glass.
There. Finally I spot the little orange glow of another light switch. I press it, the lights hum back on.
I turn to find the door. That’s odd, I thought I left it open. It must have swung shut behind me. I turn the handle. But nothing happens when I pull. The door won’t budge. What the hell? That can’t be right. I try it again: nothing. And then again, putting everything into it, throwing all my weight against it.
Someone’s locked me in. It’s the only explanation.
Concierge
The Loge
Afternoon and already the light seems to be fading, the shadows growing deeper. A rap on the door of my cabin. My first thought is that it’s him, Benjamin Daniels. The only one who would deign to call on me here. I think of the first time he knocked on my door, taking me by surprise:
“Bonjour Madame. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m moving in on the third floor. I suppose that makes us neighbors!” I assumed, at first, that he was mocking me, but his polite smile said otherwise. Surely he had to know there was no world in which we were neighbors? Still, it made an impression.
The knock comes again. This time I hear the authority in it. I realize my mistake. Of course it isn’t him . . . that would be impossible.
When I open the door, there she stands on the other side: Sophie Meunier. Madame to me. In all her finery: the elegant beige coat, the shining black handbag, the gleaming black helmet of her hair, the silk knot of her scarf. She’s part of the tribe of women you see walking the smarter streets of this city, with shopping bags over their arms made from stiff card with gilded writing, full of designer clothes and expensive objets. A little pedigree dog at the end of a lead. The wealthy husbands with their cinq-à-sept affairs, the grand apartments and white, shuttered holiday homes on the ?le de Ré. Born here, bred here, from old French money—or at least so they would like you to believe. Nothing gaudy. Nothing nouveau. All elegant simplicity and quality and heritage.