L. is tall, pink and slightly pop-eyed. He looks young to me, for a businessman, but I've got to that age when everybody looks young. Whenever there is a decision to be made, he glances over at H., the Egyptian ('We call him the Egyptian', says the secretary, although, as we discover, it's difficult to know why ; about two thirds of the company's labourers are Egyptian). H. looks back at him and nods. H. is smallish, with bright intelligent eyes. He looks up at me, and for an instant we both know who we are ; his smile fades and he looks away and then darts his eyes back into mine.

I., who is selling us the flat, and whom we surmise must have already fixed himself a commission from L., begins to tell us all how it should be done. I. is beginning to think that I don't like him, and he's right, but he thinks its because he's Kabyle whereas it is is, in fact, because he's him. L. doesn't like him either, and sneers at him. It's late July, and hot.

When we move in, a couple of weeks later, L's building company does too. L is, I suppose, a small businessman ; he must have a team of about thirty people working for him. All of them are either recent immigrants, who have little grasp of the language, or incompetents.

K. is one example ; he's about my age, but looks older ; he's already had two heart-attacks and has been laid off by the big firm that used to employ him. He tells Marie he has had to give up on the drink and cigarettes, but his face is red and heavily traced with purple, and you can hear him breathing. I feel sorry for him at first, until we get to see the wall he's put up to mark out the new bathroom.It leans precariously out into the corridor. It transpires that he doesn't use a plumb line.

As for J., he's a case. He's a gay young fellow - can't stay in place. During the summer months, he's made it to plumber, but every joint he fixes leaks, and every tile he lays is crooked. Up and down the stairs goes J., searching for a lost tool or a mislaid joint. I say to L., 'Your young lad, there, he can't concentrate. Can't stay on a job longer than five minutes.' 'You're right about that,' says L. 'I've told him before ; he already lost me a customer over in St. Ouen because of that.' I don't think L. really knows what's going on.

H. does ; Marie and I play games with H., because he knows what we're doing and has the grace to be embarrassed. Gives us some satisfaction for the money. The ex-drunk is replaced by an Italian mason, who makes some attempt to straighten up the wall, or at least to cosmeticise it behind a relatively flat surface of tiles. He's been hired just for this job ; 'These people are real cowboys', he tells us, but we've already figured that out for ourselves.

The electricians are okay. Nothing fancy - they're right off the boat from Cairo, and nobody's told them about finesse, but accuracy they can do. One of them leaves the marks of his stubbed out cigarettes all over the ceiling, and the others tread boot-marks into the polished floors. They'll need revarnishing. P., who, remarks Marie, always looks as if he is on the run from the CRS, is grateful for words ; when we give him a bottle of mineral water, he holds it up questioningly. 'Eau', we say, and he repeats after us, with a slight frown, and then nods his thanks. He doesn't bother to clean his boots, though.

L. can get away with the shoddy work because of the kind of place Clichy is. People are moving all the time, and despite the aura of community that the Place de la Republique gives off, with its small boutiques and shaded cafés, no-one really knows anyone else. L. advertises by hanging tracts out on local shop-doors, with rip-off telephone contact slips. No point in our taking them down ; H and J will be round in the morning sticking up new ones. There'll be other customers, moving in like we did, with a pressing need for someone to do the work right now. L. himself is ripped off by his workers ; the whole thing is like some crazy rickety old hay cart, trundling faster and faster down-hill, and you know that sooner or later there'll be a corner it can't take.

After L., we get Mr. B. Mr B. is small and crisp, and stares up at me through thick spectacles. He tells us what he can do and how he can do it. As he talks, you can hear an undertone of pride in his voice - 'you'll see,' he says, 'it'll look like the icing on a cake. I know about plastering.' He does too, and so do his two brothers. They're even smaller than he is ; we call them the dwarves, and feel slightly guilty about it. 'But', I say to Marie, 'dwarves are intelligent, hard-working and competent.' Marie laughs, but I can tell she's not convinced.

The work is well-executed and they are cheaper than L. D., the younger brother, tells Marie about his wife. He married her back in Portugal when she was fifteen. Everything was okay then, but when they came to France she met this other woman, who took her out to discos and night-clubs. One night, he told her not to go, but out she went. He's asking for a divorce. 'What can I do?', he asks Marie. ' She'll get the children, because I can't prove that I earn very much.' It turns out that Mr. B. has only declared him as a part-time worker to the social-security people. It doesn't worry him much. 'We'll be back in Portugal soon', he says. They play the state lottery and know pretty much what they're going to do with the money when they win.

I meet H. in a bar. He pretends not to know me. Pity. I liked H. It's just that he hasn't worked out that he can't afford not to be honest.

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