Gaelio stumbles on the large carpet his mother had cleaned just last week—some men were over—spilling the entirety of his champagne glass on one of the red splotches on pristine white. The artist who made the carpet, his mother informed him when he was seven or eight, had committed suicide shortly after the completion of the carpet itself. Gaelio had spent the afternoon looking at the splashes of red on white in the dim light that came in through the window overlooking Rue du Bac, imagining the deep red of blood staining the floors of the artist's home. He'd thought of McGillis too and thought maybe he'd find interest in the story of the artist. He remembers now, when McGillis prevents him from falling on his face, holding him up by the waist, he remembers and drapes his arm around McGillis's shoulders.

'I never told you about this carpet, did I?'

'Just try to stand on your own two feet.'

'I don't have anything else to drink... The artist killed himself.'

'Stand up straight, everyone's watching.'

Gaelio shrugs himself out of McGillis's hold, dusts himself off of imaginary dirt, and looks around the room with his most beautiful smile. Perfectly alright. His parents' guests, if they had indeed been watching, are preoccupied with themselves now. If there are those watching them—the daughter of what's his name, his father's associate—it's not precisely him but McGillis they have in mind.

'Will you get me more?' he says, holding onto the lapels of a short waiter with his right hand, one of the staff her mother regularly hires for events like her son's graduation. He likes those uniforms his mother chooses for them, make them look stylized, she has good taste, he thinks, the carpet be damned. His left hand plays with the waiter's tie only a second before he continues. 'Gin, this time. Champagne's too bubbly.'

As soon as the waiter leaves he turns again to his friend, who's engaged in conversation with Carta and a blond man that seems very familiar. They talk of the FLN, or maybe Fédération de France du FLN. Either way it's boring, he lets them know, and Carta turns to him, gloved hand covering her small mouth.

'A sci-poli graduate, signed up for the Master en Sociologie, and he can't even find it in himself to discuss Algeria.'

'Uh, I don't really understand what you mean,' he starts but then the waiter is back with his gin and tonic so Gaelio hugs him. 'Be my friend all night,' he says and the waiter nods timidly.

'Leave him alone,' Carta says, prying Gaelio's arms from around the waiter's shoulders. 'There's other people here.'

'But it's my party.'

'We also graduated, so it's not just yours.'

'Well, I suppose that's fine. We should go somewhere else soon, it's so stuffy in here, and mother keeps giving me that look.'

'My father will be here any minute, so I agree we should leave.'

'You two are incorrigible.'

'And you're coming with us,' Gaelio tells Carta. 'I know you brought pants to change out of that dress. You're just as terrible.'

'I think you look beautiful in that dress,' the blond guy says.

Gaelio barely registers it, he keeps trying to place his blond hair and delicate features but comes up with nothing.

'Oh please,' she scoffs.

'I agree,' McGillis says and Gaelio giggles into his almost empty glass, 'you really do.'

'P-please,' she says again, almost stuttering.

'Go change in my room so we can-' Gaelio starts but the waiter is back with another gin and tonic.

'Oh! You really are my best friend tonight!' he kisses the waiter on the cheek twice.

'I saw you were almost done...'

'A blessing, an angel!'

'Do you want anything else,' he asks the other three but they all shake their heads.

'Thank you,' McGillis says, then turns to Carta. 'It's about time for my father to arrive so if you won't change then we should go.'

'I have to finish my drink, McGillis,' Gaelio tells him, gulping down as fast as he can.

'I think it'll take you less to do that than it'll take Carta to change outfits.'

'Yeah, yeah,' he hands the empty glass to the waiter and starts on the full one.

'Guess it can't hurt,' Carta says, trailing off. Without a word she leaves in the direction of Gaelio's room.

'Are you coming with us?' McGillis asks the blond man.

Gaelio vaguely wonders if his friend feels as if he's looking in a mirror when he speaks to that man.

'If Ms Carta wants me to...' the poor sap says.

She sure knows how to pick them, Gaelio's about to say when his mother looks his way with her cocked eyebrow, signaling his time for exit.

'We should go,' he interrupts himself to finish what's left of his gin and tonic, 'it's time.'

Not a second later one of the servants walks solemnly to the door and opens it to greet Monsieur Fareed and the boy that's always with him. Gaelio swears he can hear McGillis's teeth clench.

'That's our cue,' he whispers into his friend's ear and takes him by the arm, leading him towards the rooms. Carta's just exiting Gaelio's bedroom and the way her eyes widen at the sight of her two friends for only a second lets Gaelio know she gets what happened.

'We'll take the back door. Your blond friend is lost, we'll say a prayer for him on our way to Oberkampf.'

In the back room the staff hired for the night smoke cigarettes and trade quips but all stand at attention and silence when Gaelio and his friends come in the door.

'Don't mind us,' he says, 'we're making our daring escape.'

'Thank you for your hard work tonight,' McGillis says and Carta and Gaelio exchange a look.

'Don't wait up for us, Nounou,' Gaelio tells Mme Dupin when she watches him in stern silence, the way she used to watch him steal bread as a child.

In a corner of the room, sullen and quiet, is the angel-waiter, and Gaelio winks at him, bows, and drags the r when saying Merci before him and his friends are out the door in the crisp air of the summer night.

In the back of the taxi Gaelio leans his head on McGillis's shoulder and listens to him and Carta discuss whatever it is they're discussing until they ask for his opinion.

'I don't have one,' he says, firmly.

'How can't you?' she says, always one for passion.

'I don't know, what's the topic?'

'Algeria,' McGillis's offers.

'Oh who cares, it's late.'

'Many people care.'

'Well, I think they should return, the country's been independent for a while. Why should they stay? Les pieds-noirs have all returned, no? That's what independence is.'

'It's not as simple, Gaelio,' McGillis says in that tone he uses when he wants Gaelio to know he's said something stupid but won't ever clarify what it was.

'Then you'll explain it to me three days from now, when my hangover's let up. Right now, let's focus on what's at hand.'

He can hear Carta sigh in barely concealed exasperation but McGillis's shoulder's always been comfortable enough for car rides for Gaelio to care enough to be too offended.

Waking up is the hardest part of the day. But Mr Crank always tells him that if he can withstand that moment when he's first thrown back into the real world, then that's half the battle. The loads come in at 5:30. If he's had a waiting job the night before then he barely gets any sleep, but unloading the flour sacks at different patisseries along with Mr Crank is his favorite part of his day. Of his life. They work in silence, passing the heavy sacks from hand to hand, into the patisserie, then they drive off to the next one, in silence. Sometimes Rosemary Clooney sings on the radio of the car. Sometimes she doesn't. When he first started, some of the bakers gave him pieces of bread left over from the night before and patted his head. Mr Crank patted it too, dusting his dark hair with specks of white flour.

Today's different, though. Mr Crank's sitting at the table for breakfast when Ein comes into the small kitchen.

'We're taking the day off,' he says, staring at his cup of coffee.

'Why?' Ein asks, sitting himself opposite the old man.

It's a while before he replies, but when he does he looks at Ein.

'You didn't forget what day's today, did you?'

Ein searches for a date in his mind and then it hits him.

'Are we going to Montreuil?' he asks.

Mr Crank nods, his eyes back on his coffee.

'I can't believe it's almost been ten years,' Ein says.

Mr Crank nods again before saying 'It's also been almost ten years since that. Not much has changed.'

Ein nods again.

They're silent on the way to Montreuil-sous-Bois (his mother always said the full name), no Rosemary Clooney on the radio. And they're silent standing at her grave with the flowers, petals weary from the trip, stems tired from Ein's grip. As he did when he was just a child and they'd stood in front of that grave before he took Ein in as his own kid, Mr Crank poses a hand on Ein's shoulder and says a prayer for the dead. He thinks his mother was a Catholic but he can't be sure. His father was an atheist. There's some sort of poetry in the fact that he's buried where she was born and vice versa. Like they've sought each other out but never quite found more of each other aside from their countries.

On their way back in the city they see young children playing in the streets in the summer heat. He gets out of the car at Bagnolet. He likes the walk, even if it's long, through Pyrenees and then Belleville, all the way to their apartment on Rue de Rochechouart. He watches the students in the cafes, coming in and out of the metro, free of care for the summer. When he gets home Mr Crank's left already, a note on the kitchen table saying Julieta called for him. Ein dials her number with hesitation. It's either a waiting job at a residence or—

'I need you to cover for me.'

'I can't do that, last time—'

'I know, I know, but I need you to. If they don't pay you I'll pay you myself.'

'That's what you said last time.'

'And I got you that job at that rich house. I wouldn't ask you if it weren't urgent.'

Ein takes a deep breath.

'What time?'

'Be there this afternoon, at 8:30, ask for Elise, she'll tell you the rest.'

'You'll pay me if—'

'I gotta go now. Yes, yes. Bye.'

Au Petit Suisse, where Julieta works, is basically on the other side of town, but Ein likes walking. He doesn't think himself a sentimental person, but something about the anonimity of walking brings him the same kind of comfort that he found on the long walks he took down the streets of Algers, holding his father's hand. The moments in which he is just Ein, nothing else. So he decides the minute she hangs up that he'll walk there, making mental notes of the time it'll take him—assuming they have a uniform at his disposal, he'll have to change there, which means Julieta thought of this and his shift won't be until 9, maybe 9:30, but he can take his own uniform, easily arranged to look like the ones worn at the place, just in case. If he keeps his mind busy then he is just Ein, too.

At a quarter past eight he goes to the bistrot's back door and asks for Elise, who's smoking outside. She nods, ushers him in the back room, shows him his uniform and walks him through the process. He's been there before so he knows.

'She alright?' Elise asks suddenly.

'Hm?'

'Julieta,' she sighs. Maybe she mumbles something. From the syllables and the breath intake Ein knows what it is. He wonders how she knows he's Algerian. Or half-Algerian. Or whatever. But maybe she doesn't mumble anything.

'She's fine. Busy.'

'I see,' she says, and walks away, strikes up a conversation with another one of the servers.

It's nearing eleven when he walks in, the student he waited on some weeks before, the one with the childlike glee, like the gin and tonics were toys and presents. With him are his two friends, and someone Ein doesn't remember seeing that time. The student is talking, animatedly, his hands expressive, and Ein almost smiles when he remembers the bow, and the wink, so he walks up to them.

'Hello,' he says, 'how are you?'

'Oh,' the student looks at him. He's so tall next to Ein, taller than Mr Crank maybe. 'Hello,' he says, 'the other waiter already showed us our table.'

'Yes, of course.'

Of course he wouldn't remember, how could Ein even think that he would. He clenches his fists walking away. He doesn't know the name of the waiter who tends to their table—he never asked and they never offered—and he only glances their way a couple of times, almost sure that someone's watching him wait on the other customers, but can't catch any of them in the act. He watches, distractedly, as the tall student leans closely into the table, as to whisper a secret, and the way he poses his hand on his friend's shoulder, or the way he laughs louder than the other three. But only through a couple of glances. Just before closing time, when he's leaning ever so slightly against the wall, the student comes up to him, startles him to his feet.

'My friend tells me you were the angel that saved my life last time. I'm sorry, I'd had too much.'

'Oh,' Ein looks up at him. He's so tall.

'We're going to his place,' when he says this he turns to his friends, 'right, McGillis?' he asks. One of them—McGillis, probably—nods his head. 'A small thing, with some other friends. I'd like it if you'd come with us!'

'Oh,' Ein says. That's a lot to say.

'Here,' the student hands him a paper, 'this is the address. Just knock on the door, the front one's always unlocked.'

Ein looks at the paper. He wonders if he wrote this down while they were seated at the table, or if he carries around pieces of paper with the address to his friend's place written in them, just in case.

'Thank you,' he says. He wants to turn this down—it's late and he's tired and he won't enjoy it, he knows—but the student looks—hopeful? Genuine, at least. The way he looked when he called him an angel, like he's not lying.

'I'll see you there!' he says, running his hand through the lapels of Ein's uniform again. 'We have to go now, but please come!' And he walks out the door.

Ein feels some kind of strange mix of elation and nerves and confusion. He tasks himself with cleaning up the bistrot for closedown, readies himself for Elise to tell him they can't pay him because they pay Julieta a salary, and she has a contract, and he has to work this out with someone else, and she's just another waitress, and places the paper on the breast pocket of his uniform. He won't remember until the next day, when he's unloading the sacks of flour, that he left it there, on the breast pocket of a uniform that's not his own.

'Listen to me when I'm talking,' his father says.

'I am listening,' Gaelio replies, cooing at the cat cradled in his arms. 'Aren't we? Yes, we are. Yes, we are.'

'The Tanzanian Ambassador is coming with his son, he's roughly your same age. He's a law student, graduate, I don't know.'

'We don't like lawyers, do we?'

'Please pay attention. I want you to show him around town. He'll be studying at Paris 1 and since—'

'Okay, okay. I get it.'

'Are you sure?'

'How can you doubt me, Papa? Really...'

'The guests'll be here at—'

'Where's maman?' he interrupts, his face buried in the cat's belly.

'Eh, your mother's at the hair dresser's. Why?'

'Did she hire servers?'

'Yes, I think so. I'm not sure. It's only the Ambassador, Fareed and the Issues. Rustal's still in China.'

'But you're not planning on making nounou help out, are you? She's frail,' to illustrate this he holds the cat up and moves its paws softly.

'She probably hired people, I'm not sure. Are we clear on the matter?'

'What matter?'

'The Ambassador's son!'

'Oh, yes. Sure.'

Gaelio calls McGillis twice to make sure he's really coming, despite the fact that his father is too.

'We have to babysit some Ambassador guy—'

'His son.'

'Whatever. Is your phone line still crossed with your neighbor's? Any more riveting stories?'

'I think it's fixed.'

'Aw, why, it was the most interesting thing about your shoddy apartment. The only interesting thing.'

'I thought that was the fact that I can be on my own.'

'Same thing.'

'Anything else? If not I have to get going.'

'I'll see you here.'

He only leaves his room when he hears his mother coming in the door, to greet her, and then to help Mme Dupin put away the groceries. It takes him a while to get ready, and doesn't really realize people have arrived until Carta knocks at his door and then lets herself in.

'What's the point of knocking if you're coming in anyway?'

'What's the point of trying to look beautiful if people can still tell you're a moron?'

'They can't tell. And I'm not.'

'You're a child,' she says looking through his things, a habit from their childhood, when they played at being bickering siblings ratting each other out for any petty offense.

'You are a child.'

'You have competition, by the way.'

'What do you mean?' he asks her reflection in his mirror.

'The Ambassador's son—'

'Oh, is he here already?' Gaelio turns to her.

'No. I met him this morning. He's an even bigger moron than you.'

Gaelio makes a face at her, yanks a box out of her hands.

'Don't touch my stuff.'

'You're too old to still live here, you know? Almost twenty two...'

'You're older still.'

'By four months only!'

'Seems like a long time to me.'

When they enter the large living room he remembers why he'd asked his father about the servers: the short waiter is there, in his fitted uniform, with a tray in hand. Gaelio waves at him from the threshold then crosses the room towards him.

'You're here!' he says, but his mother takes him by the arm before the waiter replies.

'Did you greet our guests, Gaelio?'

'Of course, maman. And you look so beautiful tonight, as usual.'

She takes him to the guests and when he turns the waiter's gone, back in the kitchen probably. The Ambassador and his family arrive and Gaelio takes the opportunity to go into the kitchen, wave at the waiter from the door and ask him for a gin and tonic with a wink.

Iok Kujan, as it turns out, has been in Paris many times before. He doesn't really appear the helpless boy who needs expert guidance around the city that Gaelio's father painted him to be. One of his closest friends, he assures, is Parisian, and he's visited Rustal's place in Marseille, too. He's talking but Gaelio's not really listening, though Carta keeps making faces at him, or laughing non discreetly behind her hand.

When the waiter comes with his second gin and tonic, Gaelio grabs him by the tie before he leaves as fast as he'd done before.

'You didn't come to the party that day.'

'Oh. I thought you'd forgotten.'

'Of course I didn't. We waited for you.'

'He did, that's true,' McGillis, just arrived, chimes in unprompted. He got here a full hour after his father, probably anticipating that his father will want to leave shortly after.

'It is. We all did,' Gaelio says.

'I'm sorry.'

'Then you'll have to come with us today. We're going to McGillis's place again.'

'Oh, I—'

'Where are we going?' Iok asks from his seat.

'McGillis's place.'

'Do you usually party with the help?' he sounds sincere, like he's actually wondering. So Gaelio replies sincerely.

'Oh, he's a friend, right... What's your name?' he turns to the waiter, realizes he's still holding on to his tie.

'Ein Dalton,' the waiter whispers.

'Ein!' Gaelio repeats, 'Ein! You'll come then, Ein?'

Ein looks at Gaelio, and then at the others, and he doesn't say a word.

'He's working, Gaelio. You shouldn't bother the help,' Iok offers.

'Ein, give me your phone number.'

Carta giggles, and Iok very audibly says 'Really?' but McGillis doesn't say anything, he just nods, so Gaelio repeats himself.

'Give me your phone number so I can call you, when you're not working. And you can come with us!'

The tray on Ein's hand trembles. Gaelio takes it for him, worry on his face, then smiles and places a hand on Ein's shoulder.

'Oh! Sorry, you can't write while holding on to all those things. McGillis give me pen and paper.'

Gaelio's found that, for some reason, he can always expect McGillis to be carrying certain things. Chocolate, for one. Pieces of paper, and pens, and a Swiss Army knife. Mostly chocolate, which is good, because Gaelio enjoys chocolate. So of course McGillis hands Ein a pen and a piece of paper and, using the tray as surface, Ein scribbles down some numbers, his handwriting shaky. Gaelio worries he's been straining himself too hard carrying heavy trays around, so he makes a point of going into the kitchen later and telling his nounou to tell the other servers to help him if they see him carrying large stuff.

'My name's Gaelio,' Gaelio realizes he's never told him either. 'Gaelio Bauduin.'

'Yes,' Ein says looking at his feet, 'I knew that.'

'I'm McGillis Fareed,' McGillis extends his hand out for Ein to shake. 'This is Carta Issue, and he's Iok Kujan. It's a pleasure to meet you again, Ein.'

Ein looks at McGillis's hand, takes it, and then excuses himself. He comes back after he's taken two steps.

'Monsieur Bauduin,' he starts, but Gaelio interrupts.

'Gaelio is fine!'

'Monsieur Gaelio,' he says then, 'I need the tray.'

Gaelio starts laughing, pats Ein in the back. 'I'll take it into the kitchen for you!'

'That's really not necessary,' Ein tells him.

'It's fine, it's fine.'

When he returns, Carta gives him a look, her eyes narrowed.

'You really didn't need to take the tray yourself.'

Gaelio rolls his eyes at her.

'I mean it, it makes him look incompetent. He was probably offended.'

'R-really? You think so? I didn't want to offend him.'

'It's fine,' Iok says, 'he'll get over it. You asked for his phone number even though he's from a different standing. That probably means a lot to him anyway.'

'I also needed to speak to nounou, I didn't think the tray thing—'

'Don't worry so much, Gaelio. You can explain yourself later. He'll come with your gin and tonic again anyway.'

'Where's he from?' Iok asks.

'You think he knows? He didn't even know his name until now,' Carta laughs.

'I just forgot to ask!'

'I'm impressed you can recognize that his accent's foreign,' McGillis tells him.

'I went to l'Ecole française back home, I had French classmates, and from other places too. I think he might be Algerian.'

'Doesn't really matter, does it?' Gaelio says. 'You can ask him if you want.' Then he changes his tone, a little, addresses only McGillis. 'Your father's leaving. Coast is clear.'

McGillis laughs and then takes a sip of his kir royale.

In the kitchen, Mme Dupin and the other two servers present tonight tell Ein to stick to pouring drinks for Monsieur Gaelio and his friends for the rest of the night. He sees to the preparation of a gin and tonic, spices and all, then goes down to the living room where the small group of friends is huddled in the large couch.

'They won't let me pass hors d'oeuvres around,' he says to no one in particular.

'That's better, Ein! You can rest. Stay with us,' Monsieur Gaelio hugs his shoulders, taking the glass from his hand.

'Where are you from?' Iok asks him.

Maybe it's Monsieur Gaelio's hold on him, his arm is so long, he is so tall, or maybe it's the question, but Ein feels smaller than he usually does.

'Rochechouart,' he says, barely.

'Oh, Aquitaine?' Mademoiselle Issue asks.

'Eh, n-no. Rue de Rochechouart, in the 9th arrondissement.'

Mademoiselle Issue and Monsieur Kujan laugh, Monsieur McGillis cracks a smile.

'I mean, what country? Where's your accent from?'

Of course he did, Ein, you idiot, he tells himself. Who'd ask about your street.

'Algers.'

'Ah, I thought so,' Monsieur Kujan says, his eyes away from Ein.

'Well,' Monsieur Gaelio says, 'there are great clubs in the 9th, do you have any favorites? Maybe we could go there tonight, then you could come with us after all!'

'I don't really know any clubs, Monsieur Gaelio.'

'Don't you go out? Where do you take your partners?'

'I-I don't have those,' Ein has a prickling feeling all over his back, like when he asked questions in school and others laughed.

'You're so boring,' Mr Gaelio pouts, Ein can see it out of the corner of his eye. Of course, though, he'd think Ein is boring. He's so different. 'Here I was thinking you'd be so fun, what with the gin and tonics and all.'

'That's his job,' Mr Kujan says.

Ein realizes maybe Elise knew he was Algerian because of his accent too. That's probably how all of them know. He'd never really given much thought to it. He knows when people are from Quebec, and he knows when they're not from Paris, and he recognizes the Malian cadence in the voices of his old neighbors, back in Montreuil, but he'd never really put much thought into his accent being from anywhere but himself. As if, like he, it didn't belong anywhere. Neither here nor there.

'But no one's as good at it as he is.' Mr Gaelio's still hugging Ein, despite the latter's attempts to wiggle out from his hold, and somehow that's comforting rather than stifling. 'Doesn't matter. Then we'll have to show you a good time,' he says, flashing his smile at Ein. He's so close. 'We can discover the best clubs, it'll be like an adventure. You can't say no now, you're the only one who's a local to the 9th.' The other three all have their eyes on them. Ein wonders if this is how Mr Gaelio always feels, at the center of attention, people listening to his words, to his thoughts, never invisible.

'I have an early morning tomorrow,' he says.

'Oh, you do?' Mr Gaelio looks so sincere. He's different, somehow.

'Work.'

'What do you work on, so early?' Mr Fareed asks.

'I deliver flour to patisseries.'

They all sound impressed.

'You work so hard, Ein! You should take the day off!'

'I can't, I'm very sorry, Monsieur Gaelio.'

'Don't worry,' Mr Gaelio says the moment Ein catches Mme Dupin peering out of the kitchen door looking for him, surely. 'I'll call you, you'll come when you can, yes?'

'Yes,' he says, feeling the weight of the absence of Mr Gaelio's arm on his shoulders.

'Nounou's calling you,' he says softly.

'Yes,' Ein says again, and leaves.

Sometimes he doesn't know what to make of any of this, so he tries not to dwell on it too hard. In his mind, his mother's death was eclipsed not two months later by the massive massacre of Algerian immigrants—just like she was—at the hands of French police. Hard to reconcile the homeland of his father with this manner of cruelty and violence—having grown up believing in French ideals of solidarity—and hard as well to reconcile for himself an identity as anything other than just Ein. French, Algerian, gaouri, pied-noir, outside the confines of his own home he was never just Ein but all those things, so many things to digest, and none of them gave him—not one nor the other—the right to exist on this earth. So he left with his widowed mother for France, met Crank as his father's old military friend—they'd fought together in the War—and watched with anger and impassiveness alternately how in this city he was not just Ein, either. The massacre that befell those like his mother was not his. The police who brutally murdered them were not of his kin, either.