The factory closed the week before Christmas. The owner had moved his operations to Bangladesh. Emanuel had spent eleven years on the assembly line. It was the only job he knew. Marta, his wife, could no longer cut hair. Her condition made her hands tremble to the point that her clients had begun to complain about nicks on their necks and ears. They were three months behind on rent, the electricity was shut off. Their kids were eating crackers and trekking through the snow with holes in their shoes.
Emanuel had once had luck betting on football matches. That ended, as all good things do. He owed Ahmad, his bookie, three thousand francs. The man had already taken his scooter. Now the threats began.
“Your wife is very lovely,” he said. “It would be a shame to put her to work, if you know what I mean.”
“You know my situation,” Emmanuel said.
“Meet me tonight,” Ahmad said, “and your problem will be solved.”
Emmanuel tucked the children into bed, kissed his wife, and put on his threadbare coat.
A wet snow was falling. Sloshy puddles had appeared on the street. The air was cold enough to make Emmanuel’s teeth chatter. He slipped into a dive bar he had often passed but never entered. Some men were yelling at the barmaid. Emmanuel ordered a glass of whiskey and downed it in a gulp. He ordered two more and found himself quickly drunk.
Ahmed was waiting on the street in the posh neighborhood he’d directed Emmanuel to.
“What do you want?” Emmanuel said.
Ahmad lit a cigarette. “Not far from here lives a banker. You’re going to rob him.”
They walked a few blocks and stopped in the shadows of the hedgerows surrounding a grand house.
“See that window?” Ahmad said. “Climb in. Go up the stairs. The bedroom is on the right. In the banker’s closet, you’ll find a large, gilded box filled with his dead wife’s jewelry. All you have to do is get the box and bring it here.”
“How do you know this?”
“In another life, I was a woodworker. I built his cabinets.”
Emmanuel clambered through the window. The house was dark but for a sliver of moonlight through the window. In the living room, a portrait of the banker and his wife hung above the mantle. Emmanuel crept up the stairs and snuck into the bedroom. The banker was snoring loudly. There was something ridiculous about the old man’s head on its enormous pillow.
Emmanuel knew that if he didn’t take the box this very moment, he never would. Do this for your family, he thought. The box sat glimmering on a shelf. He snatched it quickly, too quickly, and slammed his knee into the closet door.
“Who’s there?” the banker said.
Emmanuel’s foot snagged on the rug. No sooner had he fallen than the banker punched his back. Somehow in the dark, Emmanuel found the box and smashed the banker’s face. The old man staggered back and crumpled to the floor.
“I’m so sorry!” Emmanuel cried. “I’m so sorry!”
The banker’s eyes fluttered, his lips bubbling with spittle and blood. “Help me, please!”
Emmanuel wanted nothing more than to get away, but the banker gripped his coat. The old man was surprisingly strong. Emmanuel had to wrench himself loose, finger by finger. He ran down the stairs and out the door. Ahmad stood across the street, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Emmanuel thrust the box into his hands. Ahmad opened it and smiled.
“Your debt is settled,” he said.
Emmanuel stumbled home and collapsed to the bathroom floor. He lay there for a long time, praying that God would not punish a man in this position.
After a time, he felt better. He undressed and crawled into bed beside his wife.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“Go back to sleep,” he said.