Page 4 of A Life Imagined
Rayan doubted his perspective would have any influence on the decision, but with things as they stood, he was willing to try.“If you think it will help.”
When Rayan returned to the cabin, he found Amer waiting at the front of the line.Amer was a regular at the service office.Cordial and well-spoken, he always greeted Rayan as though they were neighbors meeting on the street.He lived in a small shelter with his daughter and three grandchildren who had traveled together from Misrata.
From their brief conversations, Rayan had discovered Amer was a schoolteacher.The Jungle was full of skilled professionals from all manner of backgrounds—engineers, academics, mechanics.When he spoke with the people in the camp, he kept that at the front of his mind.Rayan knew what it was like to feel as if his intelligence and his personhood had vanished behind the face of poverty.
Amer approached him with a smile and inquired about his health, a question Rayan politely returned.The older man asked if there were any hygiene packs available, and Rayan took two down from the shelf and gathered a few additional toiletries, which he placed inside Amer’s frayed fabric bag.
“Let me carry it for you,sayyid.”
“No, no.Many thanks, young man,” Amer said, threading the bag over his arm.“What a beautiful day we have been given.Wouldn’t you agree?”He gestured toward the window at the cloudless blue sky that filled the pane, sunlight streaming through the glass.
It was a beautiful day.Rayan had failed to notice it, being preoccupied, as he always was when he came to the Jungle—unable to shake the feeling that the camp and its occupants lay in the path of an encroaching storm.
Mathias sat in the café across the street from the warehouse and placed a thick envelope of cash on the table before Charles Aubert.The man took it with an obliging nod and slipped it into his jacket without opening the seal.He knew Mathias well enough by now to know he wasn’t a cheat.
“That couple in Brooklyn wouldn’t stop raving about the painting.You should have seen their place—wall-to-wall art, bunch of yuppie collectors.They sent me on my way with a nice little tip.”Charles took a swig from his cup of coffee, and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.“One of my contacts in New York sent me back with a set of Roman Imperial coins.Do you do collectables at all?They’ve been promised to a dealer in Berlin, but I’m sure he’d be willing to entertain a better offer.”He handed Mathias a sheet of paper with a series of thumbnail photographs.
Mathias was occasionally contacted by clients in North America who were after a particular piece.Charles operated an ad hoc cross-Atlantic delivery service that Mathias employed when the need arose.Of course, there was a reason Charles insisted on being paid in cash—Mathias knew an opportunist when he saw one.
It hadn’t taken him long to exhaust the client list he’d inherited from the previous owner.He’d purchased the business from Renaud Caillouet, a longstanding member of the Calais upper crust who’d run it as a passion project after finding himself the sole beneficiary of an enormous family fortune.When a series of recessions saw interest in high-value art dry up, passion alone couldn’t sustain the enterprise.Neither could the man’s tendency to prop up dwindling profits with large sums of his own money.By the time Mathias bought the business, Caillouet had been trying to get rid of it for years.
There were several things he changed from the outset—the name, for one.He’d opted for an ironic nod to his Quebec origins: Importations Fleurdelisé.Then Mathias had gutted the old warehouse he’d convinced Caillouet to include in the sale and had it completely refurbished.After that, he’d set about aggressively culling the client list, many of whom were friends of the former owner and had only bought pieces out of a sense of obligation.
While Caillouet had operated exclusively in continental Europe, Mathias didn’t see the sense in limiting himself logistically.He followed the money instead.And it was amusing what Americans would pay for a thing simply because it was sourced in Europe.
“Funny thing, actually,” Charles continued as Mathias passed him back the photos of ancient coins.“While I was stateside, I made a trip up north to shift something for a friend.You know how it is.”
He gave a conspiratorial laugh.Mathias knew it wasn’t just art and collectables that he was shifting.Charles clearly had his hand in other, more lucrative ventures.
“I was surprised to discover you two are acquainted.Small world, isn’t it?He, uh, sends his regards.”Charles licked his lips nervously and reached into his jacket to remove a postcard, which he slid across the table toward Mathias.
It bore an image of the Montreal Olympic stadium on the front with the wordsWish you were herearched across the sky.Mathias flipped it over.Scrawled on the back were the initials FDL and a phone number.
Mathias gave Charles a hard look.“Now you’re a carrier pigeon?”He crumpled the postcard in his fist.“Don’t make a habit of discussing my business with your friends up north.We clear?”
Charles gave him a series of rapid nods, more reverent than before.“Crystal.Forget I said anything.”
Mathias dropped a handful of notes on the table and rose to leave.Charles held the sheet aloft.“What about the coins?”
“I don’t want them.”
“Don’t be like that, Mathias,” Charles wheedled as he strode out of the café.
Mathias tossed the crumpled postcard into the trash bin outside and crossed the street to the warehouse.He knew the person behind the initials: Filippo De Luca.The Narcotics head had supply lines that crossed the Atlantic and an army of contacts in Europe who moved product for him—but Mathias hadn’t known Charles was one of them.
He shook his head wryly.Small fucking world, indeed.
The warehouse was the last in a row of buildings located by the entrance to the marina.Behind it was a gravel parking lot and, beyond that, the harbor.It wasn’t much to look at from the outside—a giant steel shed with a set of roller doors that opened into the parking lot for deliveries, with a smaller staff entrance out front.
When Mathias walked into the main storage hangar, he found Elise counseling an irate freight driver, who was slapping a piece of paper with the side of his hand.
Elise gave a relieved grimace when she saw Mathias approach.“Thank God.Vicente is out on lunch, and the driver won’t help unload.”
“Why?”
“Union rules,” the driver answered.“Recipient’s responsible for offloading.It’s in the contract.”He held up the piece of paper he’d been gesturing at, as if Mathias had any interest in reading the small print.
Mathias sighed and reached into his pocket to pull a hundred-euro note from his wallet.He handed it to the driver.“I’m sure the union can make an exception.”
