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potential terrorists in their eyes – especially if you look like you come from that part of the world. Do you know about the system of being controlled here? The police are legally allowed to stop anyone and demand to see their papers. No papers, and they can lock you up, or if you have papers and no residency permit – la carte de séjour – it's the beginning of the end.'
     
'You mean, if I stay on after my initial six-month visa and the cops stop me in the street . . .'
     
'You won't get stopped. You're American, white . . .'
     
'Have you ever been controlled ?'
     
'Not yet – but that's because I avoid certain places, like the Strasbourg Saint-Denis or Châtelet métro stations where the police often check papers. In wealthy areas I also try to stay away from the intersections of big thoroughfares. After four years, you get very adept at looking around corners, knowing just how far to walk down a certain street.'
     
'How can you live like that?' I heard myself saying (and immediately regretting that I spoke without thinking). Adnan didn't flinch or bridle at such a direct question.
     
'I have no choice. I can't go back.'
     
'Because . . .'
     
'Trouble,' he said.
     
'Bad trouble?'
     
'Yes,' he said. 'Bad trouble.'
     
'I know what that's all about.'
     
'You can't return home either?'
     
'I suppose there's nothing legally stopping me,' I said. 'But there's also nothing for me to go back to. So . . .'
     
Another silence. This time he broke it.
     
'You know, monsieur , if you need somewhere cheap in a hurry . . .'
     
'Yes?'
     
'Sorry,' he said, suddenly shy. 'I shouldn't be interfering in this way.'
     
'You know somewhere?'
     
'It isn't very nice, but . . .'
     
'Define "not very nice".'
     
'Do you know what a " chambre de bonne " is?'
     
'A maid's room?' I said, using a literal translation.
     
'What used to be a maid's room, but is now a tiny studio apartment. Maybe eleven meters square in size. A bed, a chair, a sink, a hotplate, a shower.'
     
'But in bad condition?'
     
'Not good.'
     
'Clean?'
     
'I could help you clean it. It is down the hall from my own chambre de bonne .'
     
'I see,' I said.
     
'As I said, I don't want to intrude into your . . .'
     
'How much is it a month?'
     
'Four hundred euros. But I know the man who manages the building, and I might be able to get him to drop the price by thirty or forty euros.'
     
'I'd like to see it.'
     
Adnan smiled a shy smile.
     
'Good. I will arrange it.'
     
The next morning, when Brasseur came in with breakfast, I announced that I would be checking out tomorrow. While arranging the tray on the bed, he casually asked, 'So Adnan is taking you home with him?'
     
'What are you talking about?'
     
'Just what I heard from the chef, who lives down the corridor in the same building as Adnan: " He has a new boyfriend – the American who has been so sick ."'
     
'You can think what you like.'
     
'It is not my affair.'
     
'That's right, it's not your affair – as there is no affair here.'
     
' Monsieur , there is no need to reassure me. I am not your priest – or your wife.'
     
That's when I threw the orange juice at him. Without a pause for reflection, I made a grab for the glass and hurled the contents at him. It scored a direct hit on his face. There was a moment of stunned silence – as the juice dripped down his cheeks and pulpish bits lodged in his eyebrows. But then his shock turned into cold rage.
     
'Get out,' he said.
     
'Fine,' I said, jumping out of the bed.
     
'I'm calling the police,' he said.
     
'For what? Baptism by fruit juice?'
     
'Believe me, I'll think of something unpleasant and damaging.'
     
'You do that, I'll tell them about all the illegal workers you have here – and how you're paying them slave wages.'
     
That stopped him cold. He pulled out a handkerchief and started mopping his face.
     
'Maybe I'll just fire Adnan.'
     
'Then I'll make an anonymous call to the cops and tell them how you use