Page 24 of Exit Party

“I think it was personal,” I say to Pilar. “It belonged to his mother.”

She nods, and we sit together in the quiet, in the lamplight. It’s still raining. “Then we start with his mother,” she says.

“We should start with him,” I say.

“I already did. I couldn’t find anything.” Pilar produces a tablet—discreetly producing objects that I hadn’t previously noticed is among her subspecialties—and shows me the results. There are several people named Sebastian Li on the internet, but none are exactly him.

“The good news,” she says, “is that his mother’s apparently still in Vincennes.”

“Do you have a phone number?” I ask, and then think better of it. “No,” I say, “perhaps a visit would be better.”

There’s more space in Vincennes than in Paris, which depending on my mood I either appreciate or dislike. The first time I came here I found it indistinguishable from Paris, but after all these years the distinctions are obvious to me. The buildings are lower, the streets wider; on the edge of town there’s a massive keep, and beyond that a forest park, surprisingly wild given its proximity to the Paris metro. I’m certain that the address Pilar found is the place I visited all those years ago, and there’s a sense of closing a loop here—the painting came into my life and then left via Vincennes, I find myself thinking, as if Vincennes were some kind of trapdoor in a stage set. In the back of a taxi, I watch the passing streets and try to imagine how the conversation will go. Hi, Gloria, your boy stole my painting. Does she know the degree to which I underpaid her for the painting? Does she think of me kindly? Gare de Lyon slips past in the twilight and I’m remembering past voyages. My first few years here, I travelled all over the country. In those days France was dangerous because everywhere was dangerous, but I loved moving through it, all the ancient towns. I want to fall asleep aboard a southbound train, green fields slipping past the window.

“Madame,” the driver says. Apparently I’ve fallen asleep aboard an eastbound car.

“Oh,” I say. “Thank you.”

He jumps out quickly, opens the door for me, and offers his arm. I emerge very carefully onto the wet pavement with my ugliest, most stable cane. Night is falling, and when my driver leaves, the street holds an air of abandonment.

Gloria’s building hasn’t changed at all since I was here last, or perhaps my memories are shifting to accommodate present conditions. I’ve been thinking a great deal about memory lately, because I have too much time on my hands. The doorbell system has changed, though, that’s one thing. I press a button and a light shines in my eyes, illuminating my face for the camera.

“Who is it?” Her voice is surprisingly clear through the little speaker. I gaze into the camera lens and try to look as harmless as possible.

“Hello,” I say, in English. “It’s me. Ari Soriano. Your old roommate.” She says nothing, so I add more detail: “From that apartment in Echo Park? In LA?”

There are a few beats of quiet, during which I feel her staring at me through the camera.

Then the door buzzes, and I’m in. There’s an elevator, thank god. I think the hallway has been repainted since I was here. It’s a dreamy blue that dulls the senses. A short time later I’m once again before that apartment door. When it opens, Gloria is standing there, and I have a sense of collapsing time: we’ve been in this moment before, but at an interval of thirteen years.

“Ari,” she says. “Please. Come in.”

Her face is softer now, her hair streaked elegantly with grey, but her style hasn’t changed: the white shirt, the jeans, the red lipstick, the carefully unkempt hair pulled back with strands escaping. She’s put considerable effort into the appearance of not trying too hard, and I respect that. The lipstick is perfect.

“Good evening.” I can go months at a time without speaking English, except for greeting passing dogs, and then the language sounds discordant to me. “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this.”

“Not at all.” She’s slipped into French. Gloria steps aside, and I walk into one of the stranger apartments I’ve ever seen. In memory it’s bland and standard-issue—white walls, wood floors, unremarkable detailing—but now the walls are entirely taken over by a mural. It’s a garden at night, almost photorealistic. Deep sky, wide dark leaves, white flowers, a white birdbath glowing softly in the dark.

“My sister commissioned that,” Gloria says, almost apologetically. “She lived with me for a while when she first came to Paris. She has . . . interesting tastes.”

“You have a sister?”

She looks away immediately. “May I take your coat?”

“I—” There’s no easy way to say it. “Gloria, this is somewhat unpleasant, but I’m trying to find your son.”

Something in Gloria falters. I can see that Sebastian is a person she worries about.

“Oh,” she says softly. And then, “Did he . . . did he do something wrong?”

“Yes. He stole a painting.”

Gloria sighs. “Did you go to the police?”

“People like me don’t go to the police.”

She nods and doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

“But I have to imagine he already knew that,” I say, “or he wouldn’t have stolen it so brazenly. He wanted me to know who he was.”