He dropped his gaze again, and lapsed into a reverie so rich in thought and feeling that his head twitched and his lower lip trembled in the turbulence of it. I was worried. I'd seen men go under before. In prison, I'd watched men succumb, fragmented by fear and shame, and then slaughtered by solitude. But that was a process: it took weeks, months, or years. Didier's collapse was the work of seconds, and I was watching him crumple and fade from one heartbeat to the next.
I moved around the table and sat beside him, pulling him close to me with an arm around his shoulder.
"Didier!" I hissed in a harsh whisper. "I've got to go. Do you hear me? I came in to find out about my stuff-the stuff I left with you while I was at Nazeer's, getting off the dope. Remember?
I left my bike, my Enfield, with you. I left my passports and my money and some other stuff. Do you remember? It's very important.
I need that stuff, Didier. Do you remember?"
"Yes, but of course," he replied, coming to himself with a grumpy little shake of his jaw. "Your things are all safe. Have no fear of that. I have all your things."
"Do you still have the apartment in Merriweather Road?"
"Yes."
"Is that where my things are? Do you have my things there?"
"What?"
"For God's sake, Didier! Snap out of it! Come on. We're going to get up together and walk to your apartment. I need to shave and shower and get organised. I've got something... something important to do. I need you, man. Don't fuck up on me now!"
He blinked, and turned his head to look at me, his upper lip curling in the familiar sneer.
"What is the meaning of such a remark?" he demanded indignantly.
"Didier Levy does not fuck up on anyone! Unless, of course, it is very, very early in the morning. You know, Lin, how I hate morning people, almost as much as I hate the police. Alors, let's go!"
At Didier's apartment I shaved, showered, and changed into the new clothes. Didier insisted that I eat something. He cooked an omelette while I went through the two boxes of my belongings to find my stash of money-about nine thousand American dollars-the keys to my bike, and my best false passport. It was a Canadian book, with my photo and details inserted in it. The false tourist visa had expired. I had to renew it quickly. If anything went wrong in what I planned to do, I would need plenty of money and a good, clean book.
"Where are you going now?" Didier asked as I pushed the last forkful of food into my mouth, and stood to rinse the dishes in the sink.
"First, I have to fix up my passport," I answered him, still chewing. "Then I'm going to see Madame Zhou."
"You what?" "I'm going to deal with Madame Zhou. I'm going to clear the slate. Khaled gave..." I broke off, the words failing, and the thought of Khaled Ansari momentarily bleaching my mind with the mention of his name. It was a white blizzard of emotion storming from the last memory, the last image of him, walking away into the night and the snow. I pushed past it with an effort of will.
"Khaled gave me your note in Pakistan. Thanks for letting me know, by the way. I still don't really get it. I still don't know how she got so mad that she had to put me in jail. There was never anything personal in it, from my side. But it's personal now. Four months in Arthur Road made it personal. That's why I need the bike. I don't want to use cabs. And that's why I've got to get my passport tidied up. If the cops get in on it, I'll need a clean book to hand over."
"But you don't know? Madame Zhou was attacked last week-no, ten days ago. The mob, a mob of Sena people, they attacked her Palace and destroyed it. There was a great fire. They ran inside the building and they destroyed everything, then they put the place on fire. The building still stands. The staircases and the upstairs rooms still exist. But the place is ruined, and it will never again open. They will pull it down at some time soon. The building is finished, Lin, and so is she, La Madame."
"Is she dead?" I asked through clenched teeth.
"No. She is alive. And she is still there, so they say. But her power is destroyed. She has nothing. She is nothing. She is a beggar. Her servants are searching the streets for scraps of food to bring to her while she waits for the building to come down.
She is finished, Lin."
"Not quite. Not yet."
I moved to the door of his apartment, and he ran to join me. It was the fastest I'd ever seen him move, and I smiled at the strangeness of it.
"Please, Lin, will you not reconsider this action? We can sit here, together, and drink a bottle or two, non? You will calm down."
"I'm calm enough now," I replied, smiling at his concern for me.
"I don't know... what I'm going to do. But I have to close the door on this, Didier. I can't just... let it go. I wish I could.
But there's too much that's-I don't know-tied up in it, I guess."
