Chapter 1
It was a cool yet sunny day in September when Anisa stood in front of the French embassy early in the morning. She had gotten a call yesterday from her language professor to report here for an interview at 9 am sharp. There was still half an hour left.
Anisa had been unemployed for a whole year now, and she didn’t want to be late for the interview in any way. Sitting on a bench outside the embassy, her stomach kept on lurching. She had been through these kinds of situations so many times now. And every time, after the interview, she was left into despair, helplessness and hopelessness, when the message would arrive,
“We are sorry to inform you we will not be moving forward with your application at the moment.”
She had spent the last whole year surrounded by such responses.
The reason.
She sighed looking up at the trees, birds chirping sitting on its branches. People were walking past her. Some would look at her directly, and some would give her a side-way glance. She was used to this now. Since she had turned 15 she had decided to own up her identity and started wearing a hijab. And since then she had been given these looks. Anisa looked at her hands, folded in her lap and smiled to herself. Not all looks were hostile.
Some were curious.
Other’s judgmental. She looked at the time on her watch.
Quarter to 9.
She looked up at the iron door of the embassy again. People were entering in twos and threes. Their badges pinned to their front, holding their coffees and water bottles, weary eyed and sleepy. The early morning in Budapest had started to get chilly now.
Anisa got up from the bench, picked up her bag and started to walk up and down the sidewalk just to relieve her anxiety. What will she hear today? she wondered. The wait was making her legs feel wobbly.
A car parked under a tree a little away from the embassy gate. Anisa watched—not consciously, just her eyes following every movement—as the engine cut and a man stepped out. He retrieved a coat and a bag from the back seat, movements unhurried, precise. When he started walking towards the gate, his gaze passed over her.
She should look away. Normal people didn’t stare at strangers outside embassies at 8:53am.
But she didn't..
For a single second—maybe less—their eyes held. His were dark. Not curious, not hostile. Just... noticing. Filing her away somewhere.
Then he turned and walked through the gate.
Anisa exhaled. Dropped her gaze to her hands. Why hadn’t she looked away? That was stupid. Careless.
She looked away now. Too late. But she looked away. And now he was gone, and she was standing on a sidewalk in Budapest with her heart beating faster than seven minutes of waiting justified.
Should I enter? Maybe I should. It will take time to get around to the interview hall as well. With a sigh and a shaky hand she entered the code sent to her in the email last night. A beep and the door unlocked. She walked past the iron gate, up the path leading to a wooden door.
Perfume trails from people who passed through ten minutes ago—something floral, expensive, fading. Cool air from outside that hasn’t yet warmed to the building’s temperature, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and damp pavement. The embassy had marble floors, brass fixtures, and smelled like coffee and old wood.
With every step she felt doubt creeping in from all sides. Anisa crossed the lobby. Her footsteps echoed—too loud, she thought, on the marble floor. The cold rose through her thin work shoes. A guard watched her pass. She could smell coffee somewhere, brewing behind a closed door, and underneath it the sharp-sweet tang of furniture polish that had been applied weekly for so long it had soaked into the walls.
Anisa could feel her heart thudding in her chest.
’Hello,’ she said stopping in front of the desk, ‘Good morning.’
The lady behind the screen looked up at her and it took her a moment to register who was standing in front of her, as Anisa saw her eyes move from her head to her face and then she adjusted her face into a smile, ‘Good Morning, how can I help you?’ she said politely.
’Uh, I have an interview today at 9.’ Anisa said, praying her voice would sound more confident during the interview.
’Okay. May I see your ID please.’ she said going through the list of names on the papers in front of her.
Anisa fumbled in her bag and took out her ID card and slid it across the table towards the receptionist. She picked it up and began entering the details in the computer. Anisa looked around. Everything here was French—not the France of postcards, but the France of ministries and protocol.
The tricolor was everywhere: blue, white, and red woven into a runner on the reception desk, repeated in a faded tapestry on the far wall, stamped onto the corner of every framed document. Morning light fell through tall windows in slanted rectangles, dust moving lazily in each beam.
Somewhere a clock ticked—not digitally, but mechanically, each second a small weight dropping. The air smelled of something floral from fresh lilies on a side table. One petal had already begun to brown at the edge.
A few minutes passed and the receptionist’s voice sent a lurch in Anisa’s stomach again.’Ms. Rahman your interview is going to be held in room 57 on the third floor. If you go straight this way you will find the elevators on your right.’ she said, handing the ID card back and pointing towards the lobby on her left.
Anisa picked it up and thanked her in a small voice, she walked up along the lobby and stopped in front of the two doors. One of them said ‘For Staff’. Anisa pressed the button beside the other elevator and waited feeling a bit relieved.
One obstacle done.
She got off on the third floor. The first room in front of her was 50. She looked up and down the long corridor, and found room 57 on the right side, at the far end, right beside the big windows. To her surprise, there was another person sitting outside the room on the waiting chairs. He looked up at her and she was taken aback to see the smile on his face.
'Hello, are you here for the interview?’ he asked in a friendly voice. Anisa tried to smile back.
His accent wasn’t Hungarian, though nothing about him immediately marked him as a foreigner either. ‘Yes, and you?’ she asked, sitting in one of the seats leaving a seat empty between them.
’Me too. I came early though. My interview is at 10.’ Anisa smiled without saying anything. ’I am George by the way. George Brown.’ he said again, holding out a hand towards her.
She looked at his hand. It would be easier to just shake it.
Quick. Impersonal. No one would know.
But she would know. And she was tired of the small erosions that started with “just this once.”
“Nice to meet you, George,” she said instead, trying to sound friendly. “I’m Anisa Rahman.”
Her hand stayed at her side.
And she saw George’s reaction change a bit. He understood her reservation and quickly retraced his hand, ‘Sorry I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’
’No please. It is nothing. I hope I didn’t offend you.’ Anisa replied looking in her lap, her cheeks burning.
’Oh, not at all. I am from England, but I have travelled all over the world quite a lot. I’ve worked in Morocco. I should have remembered.’ he said cheerfully.
Talking to him relieved the anxiety that had been building up in Anisa since morning. He was so easy going, his demeanor very polite.
Neither of them noticed the man standing by the window at the end of the corridor. He had been there since before Anisa arrived—coat draped over one arm, coffee cup half-empty, watching the street below. When she walked past him toward the chairs, his eyes followed. Not staring. Just... noticing.
He heard George introduce himself. He saw Anisa’s hand remain at her side. He saw the empty chair between them.
He did not walk over. He could have. Professional courtesy, introducing himself to candidates. But something made him stay by the window, pretending to finish his coffee, pretending he hadn’t seen anything at all.
That was the first time Adrian Laurent chose to wait.
