“I remember a fat woman kneed your friend from Paris, and he was on the floor in the kitchen, and I was trying to help him.”

“Mrs. Massaquina kneed Kamal?”

“Who is Mrs. Massaquina?”

“Landlady. Pain in the ass.”

“Well, I think it was her.”

“Listen, it doesn’t matter. You have to know a few things. Your name is Xavier Ricco.”

“I thought it might be.”

“And you are a construction worker. Can you say construction worker?”

“Kunshukin wirka.”

“Not good. Try again. Construction worker.”

“Kun-shuk-tan wirka.”

“And your wife is Linda Ricco.”

“Rafik, I cannot say these things. Just tell me when you are coming to take me home.”

“I can’t right now. This is bad. How—”

The nurse had come back in the room and was smiling at Aziz, saying something. She was black, and she had an accent that made him think she had been born in Africa. Nigeria, maybe.

“—do you, Aziz?” Rafik was asking something at the same time as the nurse.

“Yes,” he said in English to the nurse, hoping that was the answer needed.

“You said yes!” Rafik was almost shouting.

The nurse checked to see if the phone was still in the right place and then left.

“I know I said yes,” Aziz said.

“Okay, okay. Look, this is the deal. We took you in there three nights ago—”

“Three . . .?”

“Listen, just listen. Heather took you in with another secretary she works with, and this person, this Linda, said she was your wife, and Heather said she was your sister.”

“I still have not met Heather.”

“Aziz, I need you to listen.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“They only took you because Linda does have a husband, and insurance, so you kind of became him. We said you got mugged and beat up, and they took your wallet and all your identification.”

“But—”

“But there was the problem with your feet. And they didn’t fit with your being robbed and stuff, so we said you were a construction worker but kind of like a day worker, and you’d been out of work and been taking these day jobs, down in Chelsea where the men line up, and that somehow you’d gotten on a job where there was some dangerous shit, some acid, and gotten badly fucked up by this, and you were on your way to the doctor’s when this asshole jumped you outside the house, and we found you passed out.”

“Why do my feet have no skin?”

“What?”

“My feet, they have no skin. I can tell. Something is wrong, Rafik, very wrong.”

“Goddamn.”

“I am telling you. No skin.”

“Didn’t you ask them?”

“Rafik!”

“Oh, yeah, right. Right. Hold on. Hold on. Heather wants to talk to you.”

“Aziz?”

“Yes.”

“I talk Arabic no good,” she said very slowly, in Arabic. “Rafik, come over here.”

“Aziz, Heather is going to say something, and I am going to say it to you in Arabic, okay?”

“Sure.”