Concerto to the Memory of an Angel by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Page A

Karim must be there, waiting for a train to come, to fling himself beneath the wheels.
    At a run, careful not to be seen, he covered the kilometer leading to the place. Spot on! He could see a figure on the overpass looking out at the horizon.
    He approached Karim from behind, and only began to speak to him when he was a few inches away.
    â€œKarim, I think this morning you’re hurting all over.”
    The adolescent swung around, hesitating between his fury at being found, his surprise at seeing Chris, the instructor he had befriended, and the emotion caused by his words.
    â€œYou are hurting, is that it, it hurts?” said Chris again gently.
    Karim wanted to say yes, but to say yes would have been giving an answer, and he didn’t want to answer anybody.
    â€œIt’s your life, Karim, you can do what you want with it.”
    To the rebellious boy it was as if Chris had just read his mind.
    â€œI don’t want to spoil your decision, or the time you’re spending here. The problem is that I am going to stay with you, and if the train comes along, I will stop you from jumping. So yeah, I can see I’m a nuisance.”
    Karim turned away, disturbed by so much understanding.
    â€œLet me make a suggestion, Karim: why don’t I buy you a drink up there?”
    He pointed to an auberge some ways above them, tiny yet visible, a red dot in the middle of the steep slope.
    â€œLet’s go have a chat up there. And after that you can do what you like.”
    â€œI’ll come back here!” shouted Karim, as if to prove that he was not some indecisive weakling.
    â€œOkay,” concluded Chris. “If you want, you can come back here and I’ll leave you alone. But first, come and have a coffee or a hot chocolate with me.”
    â€œYou swear you’ll leave me alone afterwards?”
    â€œI swear.”
    Once the boy was sure his touchy pride had been respected, he shoved his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, all of which meant, “I’m coming.”
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    From the terrace of the inn, higher up, a man had been watching the scene with considerable interest. When he saw that the two figures were coming toward him, he turned his wheelchair and headed back inside to come to a stop between two columns, in a place where he hoped he would not be noticed.
    They came into the room with red checked curtains and tablecloths, cowbells decorating the windowsills. Karim was only convinced it was a café once he saw the espresso maker behind the zinc counter and the pinball machine near the door to the toilets.
    Chris ordered two hot chocolates and they curled their frozen palms around the stoneware bowls before they drank.
    â€œWhy do you want to do away with yourself?”
    â€œBecause I’m good for nothing. All I do is screw up.”
    â€œHow old are you?”
    â€œSixteen.”
    â€œWell, let’s just say you’ve been screwing up until the age of sixteen. Afterwards, you—”
    â€œWhat are you talking about! If you’re made of iron, you stay iron. If you’re made of wood, you stay wood. If you’re made of shit, like me, you stay shit.”
    â€œThat’s not true. You can change. I’m the proof of it.”
    â€œYou? You’ve always been like this!”
    â€œOh yeah? I’ve always been like this, some sort of St. Bernard who thinks about others before thinking about himself? It so happens that when I was your age I couldn’t give a damn about other people, I walked all over them, I thought about no one but myself.”
    â€œYou’re just saying that to—”
    â€œI’m just saying that because it’s true. We don’t stay bad forever, Karim, if we become aware of it, we can improve. We are free, Karim, free!”
    â€œFree, me? As soon as I’m old enough to go to jail that’s where they’ll put me. And they’ll be right. I don’t want