Chapter Twenty
M athias had visited the Calais Center for New Migrants only once.
Rayan had just started teaching his acclimation course, and Mathias was curious.
He found it difficult to imagine Rayan—a man who’d proven so good at following orders—in the role of instructor.
The center shared a building with several other service organizations in a business park not far from downtown.
There was little to distinguish it from the other office facades besides a sign by the door in French and English.
Inside, he’d found the reception desk unmanned and continued down a hallway lined with posters for food parcels and legal support.
Flyers pinned to the walls offered a selection of courses on cooking, budgeting, and finding temporary work.
He heard Rayan’s voice before he saw the open door to the classroom.
It was not the voice of authority. Instead, Rayan sounded like he did when he was telling Mathias about a book he’d just finished—impassioned but unsure if what he said made any sense.
Mathias walked a little farther down the hall and could see the first row of students staring at Rayan at the front of the room.
They comprised a range of ages, from younger kids to teenagers, and all were diligently taking notes.
Mathias listened a while longer as Rayan explained about gendered nouns and then saw himself out. He’d never told Rayan that he’d come.
When they’d first arrived in France, Mathias had assumed Rayan would continue his studies, perhaps find work at a local university.
But he’d been lured by another calling—one Mathias had viewed with cynicism until he began to realize how much the work resonated with the parts of Rayan that had never fit into their old world.
Seeing him in front of that class, Mathias had caught a glimpse of who Rayan might have been had his life taken a different turn—had their paths never crossed.
“Did you hear?” Elise asked, poking her head into the office.
She’d been out in the warehouse, supervising Vicente as he shelved a family of brass sculptures she’d found at a flea market in Versailles.
If his appraiser was picky about the pieces she selected, she was even more fastidious about how they were handled.
Mathias was at his desk, moments away from abandoning the Turkish customs document he’d been attempting to decipher. His frustration didn’t make him any more amenable to Elise’s annoying habit of asking a question that required him to ask one back.
He gave an irritated sigh. “About what?”
“The police shut down part of the Jungle. Apparently, there was some kind of riot, and a bunch of people have been arrested.”
Mathias took out his phone and dialed Rayan’s number. When the man didn’t pick up, he stood and pulled on his jacket. “Don’t let Vicente out of sight. He gets distracted this close to clocking off.”
He was about to head out when the phone at his desk began to ring. He picked up the receiver and heard a crackle of static before an automated voice announced, “This is an incoming call from the Calais Police Department. Please hold while you are connected.”
There was a click, and when Rayan spoke, his voice sounded tinny. “Hey.”
At least he’d had the sense to call Mathias at the office and not on his cell. “This had better not be what I think it is.”
There was a long pause. “You’re angry.”
Mathias sucked his teeth, a harshly worded reproach ready to spew from his lips. Instead, he managed a clipped reply. “I’m hanging up.”
If there was one place in the city Mathias had hoped to never set foot inside, it was the Commissariat de police de Calais.
He strode into the station lobby to discover it packed with people.
Several aid workers in blue vests marked with the names of charitable agencies were pressed against the front desk, engaging in a heated exchange with the harried-looking receptionist.
“He’s been unfairly arrested,” a larger man with a graying beard was saying to the woman seated behind the glass screen. “What happened today was an illegal raid.”
Beside him, a dark-haired woman paced agitatedly.
She wore a pale-green scarf around her shoulders that was mottled with smears of reddish brown.
It took Mathias a moment to recognize Laurent and Asmarina Moreau, the couple who ran the new migrant center.
He’d seen them briefly at a community fundraiser for local business leaders that he’d attended at Rayan’s insistence.
Mathias had left early but not before donating a chunk of cash that he’d later used as a tax write-off.
“If you don’t release him, we’ll go to the media. I’m sure the rest of the world won’t hesitate to condemn this city and your actions—”
“Sir, Mr. Ayari’s bail is set at five thousand euro. We can’t release him until the bail is met.”
“Five thousand euro?” Laurent echoed, incredulous. “We’re a nonprofit organization. We don’t have that kind of money lying around.”
Mathias approached the desk and took out his wallet. He peeled a series of notes from the fold and slid them over to the receptionist. Laurent stared at him curiously.
“Can we move this along?” Mathias asked.
The woman behind the counter collected the money and shoved a clipboard toward him. “Fill this out, and we’ll begin the procedure for release.”
“Here.” Mathias passed the clipboard to Laurent, in no hurry to commit his information to record.
“Do I know you?” Laurent asked as they stepped away from the front desk.
“No.”
“You’re a friend of Rayan’s?” Asmarina asked.
“Something like that.”
“Well, thank you. We’ll reimburse you for the money. I’ll be filing a complaint with the public prosecutor, and I intend to get back every cent.” Her words were cutting, but she appeared upset. “You should have seen how they treated him. He did nothing wrong.”
Mathias’s eyes narrowed. How they treated him?
Laurent handed in the paperwork, and they stood around in the lobby, waiting.
It was another half hour before the interior door to the station buzzed, and a burly cop with his gut hanging over his belt escorted Rayan out.
Rayan looked pale and a little dazed, his shirt stained with dried blood.
On the right side of his forehead, just below the hairline, was a large red gash.
Mathias slid his hands into his pockets to hide the clench of his fists.
“Did you even bother to administer first aid?” Laurent berated the cop. “He could have a concussion!”
The man gave a shrug and turned away.
“Just wait. You’re going to hear about this!” Laurent called out savagely to the cop’s retreating back. He lowered his voice. “Bastards.”
Asmarina moved to give Rayan a hug. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”
Rayan glanced over at Mathias. “You two should head home. I’m sure this is enough excitement for one day.”
Asmarina seemed hesitant to leave, but Rayan assured her he was fine. Finally, she and Laurent said their goodbyes and stepped away.
“You’ve got something on your shirt,” Mathias said when they’d gone.
Rayan gave him a weary smile. “It looks worse than it is.”
Mathias leaned in to take a closer look. The cut was deep and jagged. He’d need stitches. “Come on.”
They walked to the car parked on the street outside and got in. “You gave them your name?” Mathias asked as he eased out onto the road.
“I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”
“What else did they get?”
“Prints,” Rayan admitted reluctantly. “But I used a different address.”
“Fuck, Rayan,” Mathias muttered. “One curious busybody runs those through the international system…”
“The charge will get thrown out. They know they were in the wrong. I was locked up with a priest, for Chrissakes. There will be pushback, and they’ll want to cover up as much as they can.”
At the lights, Mathias turned the car, heading away from the ocean.
Rayan shifted in his seat. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?”
Mathias saw a glimmer of panic cross Rayan’s face. “No. Just take me home.”
“You think you have a choice here?”
Mathias pulled into the hospital car park and found a spot. Throngs of people were gathered by the entrance. He and Rayan were in for a long wait.
They took a seat in the crowded waiting room, and Mathias fought the urge for a cigarette. Two of his least favorite places in one day. What a fucking treat.
He glanced again at the wound on Rayan’s forehead. “The cops do that?” There’d be more than a letter of complaint coming their way if that was the case.
“No, it was… an accident.”
“Your boss seemed rattled. What happened out there?”
“The police got orders to start tearing things down. They closed the south end of the camp.”
“And you just happened to get caught in the fray?”
“I didn’t feel like playing nice.”
Mathias allowed himself a smile. “Attaboy.”
Rayan leaned back and closed his eyes, and Mathias jostled him with his shoulder. “Not until someone’s seen you.”
“I won’t fall asleep.”
“Famous last words.”
Rayan opened his eyes, and his mouth gave a slight tweak. “Keep me awake, then. Tell me a story.”
“You must think I’m easy.”
“Tell me about the time you lived in Paris or when you started out with the family. The first time you met Tony, anything.”
“I don’t do stories.”
“Then read one from here.” Rayan picked up a magazine from the pile on the table between them and handed it to Mathias.
Mathias flipped through. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me… ‘I left my husband for my blind brother-in-law’?”
“Sounds like a winner.”
After what seemed like forever, a nurse holding a sheet of paper emerged from behind a set of swinging doors. “Mr. Ayari?”
Rayan stood, and Mathias followed him through the doors to a bustling room filled with curtained cubicles. The nurse gestured for Rayan to sit on an empty exam table and drew the curtain closed around them.
“Do you know what it was that hit you?” she asked, inspecting the gash with her gloved fingers.