He knocked on my bedroom door about five minutes later, as I was throwing some clothes into my rucksack. His face was whiter than usual.
No joy? I asked.
This time he has gone too far, he said.
His hands were shaking, despite or I guess because of the alcohol.
Meaning? I asked.
He has taken over my bank accounts and credit cards. I have to prove to the bank that I am who I am. In the meantime the bank will do nothing. And I can do nothing.
You have any cash on you?
He took my wallet when – he took my wallet. I don’t have any cash, I don’t have my ATM card, I don’t have my credit cards. And even if I did he’s locked me out of the accounts, cancelled the cards and had new ones issued.
Sounds like you’re buggered, mate. I said this in English, too. It’s probably self-evident which parts I’m speaking in French and which parts in English, but as a public service to the obvious-impaired I will occasionally point these parts out.
I have to go to Paris to speak to the bank in person.
You have your passport?
Yes, but no money for a plane ticket. Or a taxi or a car service or, for example, a sandwich.
I repeat: buggered. Up the junction.
Is it possible to borrow some money from you?
No, it is not possible.
But you know that I am rich.
I know that I’m rich. I don’t know anything about you. I’ve heard these identity theft cases can go on for years.
I was going to lend him money. But I enjoyed toying with him, and we both knew that as a condition of lending him money I would make him help me find his brother and my sister.
I will go to the press, he said.
That’s your play? You want the New York Times and Le Monde writing about how your brother stole your identity and locked you in an abandoned cannery near the East River?
No. But that is the truth.
Sounds like the plot of one of your own novels. All of France will be laughing at you.
All of France is already laughing at me. I don’t care (je m’en fous). I want my life back.
I sat down on the bed and folded my arms in my lap. I was starting to enjoy myself.
Come with me to find my sister. Once we’re sure she’s safe, I will lend you whatever funds you require.
If you have so much money, why are you a translator?
Why are you a writer? If you are a writer.
I tell you I am H! The H!
Yeah, not good enough. I’ve no proof H can write.
I’ve sold thousands of books. I’m the most famous writer in France.
Which only proves that the French have terrible taste. A fact I already know, which is why I live here, where this is common knowledge about the French.
Fine, yes, OK. I agree to your terms. Having no other option. May I please have some money now?