ghostsâ laments.
Because that was what he was â a maker of ghosts and death works. The suspect passengers, the ones he made disappear, had to be dispossessed of the thickness of the living. They became a mirage of the living. Nonentities. Removed from the thickness of life. Of the nation. They became, like his father, vague traces, sketches in pencil or black ink stains, stillborn portraits, unformed sculptures into which the artist had not had time to breathe life. He was an artist of death who, during his childhood in Trois-Collines, had been able to practise on the dog Pontos.
36
ASKIA THOUGHT back to his flight, to what he had done to extricate himself from the murderous night. After years of hunting down the enemies of the nation, he had moved into a different field. A new specialty. He became a bodyguard. The Cell offered various positions according to oneâs tastes and aptitudes: tailing, interrogation, assassination, close protection. The Cell was bursting with talent. Askia was assigned to protect important people. People who mattered. Who made decisions. Who travelled because they needed to expand their network. He waited. Impatient as a fledgling waiting for the baptismal sky, for flight. Three months into the new job, the politician he was guarding was given a mission. Askia never learned what it was. It was that kind of mission. They landed at Charles de Gaulle in Paris. For him this was a new beginning. He would hold on, tooth and nail, to the pavement of exile. Two days after they arrived, taking advantage of his night off, he left the hotel on Rue de Rivoli where the members of the mission were staying. He put the Cell behind him, crossed the line. Thatâs what they said in the Cell whenever one of them deserted. His college friend Tony, who lived in the Barbès district, was expecting him. He had been able to leave the country thanks to a scholarship. For six months Askia holed up there, going out only rarely, at night. Tony had warned him: Paris wasnât the best place to hide from the Cell. He thought Askia should go farther away, across the Atlantic, to America â some forsaken Caribbean island or a backcountry town in Maryland. Or to Montreal, where Tony knew people who could help his friend, people who never responded when he wrote to them.
Askia touched the spot above his eye â the swelling had gone down somewhat. Zak had not punched him very hard. Just enough for the cops to believe his story. Apparently it was nothing serious. The cops had taken his deposition, his charges against X, and he had left the station.
He took an ointment out of his first-aid kit and rubbed it on the bruise. Back behind the wheel, he thought about the charges. Against X. And he smiled. Because he had been an X. A no-name driver. Like Zak, in those Cell cabs, planting death in the heart of the tropical night.
He decided not to go back to work. There was someone he wanted to see. Monsieur Ali of Port Said, a no-name with whom he occasionally chatted. He had met Monsieur Ali by the Auguste-Comte entrance of the Jardin du Luxembourg, directly across the way from Oliaâs apartment. Monsieur Ali, the chestnut vendor. He had smiled at Askia and gone back to roasting his chestnuts, making sure not to burn them. It was late, the tourists were gone, but Monsieur Ali could not stop roasting chestnuts. He made paper cones, which he then filled with chestnuts. He used newsprint or pages torn out of old books. He put ten roasted chestnuts in each cone and charged two euros a cone. Monsieur Ali of Port Said was there, preparing cones of chestnuts for the tourists, and Askia sat down near him on the curb. The chestnuts were cooking on the grill. From time to time Monsieur Ali of Port Said fanned the embers. He said he made paper cones and pyramids so as not to forget the country of his father. It made him happy when he succeeded in shaping a beautiful large cone.
Monsieur Ali had survived, thousands
Because that was what he was â a maker of ghosts and death works. The suspect passengers, the ones he made disappear, had to be dispossessed of the thickness of the living. They became a mirage of the living. Nonentities. Removed from the thickness of life. Of the nation. They became, like his father, vague traces, sketches in pencil or black ink stains, stillborn portraits, unformed sculptures into which the artist had not had time to breathe life. He was an artist of death who, during his childhood in Trois-Collines, had been able to practise on the dog Pontos.
36
ASKIA THOUGHT back to his flight, to what he had done to extricate himself from the murderous night. After years of hunting down the enemies of the nation, he had moved into a different field. A new specialty. He became a bodyguard. The Cell offered various positions according to oneâs tastes and aptitudes: tailing, interrogation, assassination, close protection. The Cell was bursting with talent. Askia was assigned to protect important people. People who mattered. Who made decisions. Who travelled because they needed to expand their network. He waited. Impatient as a fledgling waiting for the baptismal sky, for flight. Three months into the new job, the politician he was guarding was given a mission. Askia never learned what it was. It was that kind of mission. They landed at Charles de Gaulle in Paris. For him this was a new beginning. He would hold on, tooth and nail, to the pavement of exile. Two days after they arrived, taking advantage of his night off, he left the hotel on Rue de Rivoli where the members of the mission were staying. He put the Cell behind him, crossed the line. Thatâs what they said in the Cell whenever one of them deserted. His college friend Tony, who lived in the Barbès district, was expecting him. He had been able to leave the country thanks to a scholarship. For six months Askia holed up there, going out only rarely, at night. Tony had warned him: Paris wasnât the best place to hide from the Cell. He thought Askia should go farther away, across the Atlantic, to America â some forsaken Caribbean island or a backcountry town in Maryland. Or to Montreal, where Tony knew people who could help his friend, people who never responded when he wrote to them.
Askia touched the spot above his eye â the swelling had gone down somewhat. Zak had not punched him very hard. Just enough for the cops to believe his story. Apparently it was nothing serious. The cops had taken his deposition, his charges against X, and he had left the station.
He took an ointment out of his first-aid kit and rubbed it on the bruise. Back behind the wheel, he thought about the charges. Against X. And he smiled. Because he had been an X. A no-name driver. Like Zak, in those Cell cabs, planting death in the heart of the tropical night.
He decided not to go back to work. There was someone he wanted to see. Monsieur Ali of Port Said, a no-name with whom he occasionally chatted. He had met Monsieur Ali by the Auguste-Comte entrance of the Jardin du Luxembourg, directly across the way from Oliaâs apartment. Monsieur Ali, the chestnut vendor. He had smiled at Askia and gone back to roasting his chestnuts, making sure not to burn them. It was late, the tourists were gone, but Monsieur Ali could not stop roasting chestnuts. He made paper cones, which he then filled with chestnuts. He used newsprint or pages torn out of old books. He put ten roasted chestnuts in each cone and charged two euros a cone. Monsieur Ali of Port Said was there, preparing cones of chestnuts for the tourists, and Askia sat down near him on the curb. The chestnuts were cooking on the grill. From time to time Monsieur Ali of Port Said fanned the embers. He said he made paper cones and pyramids so as not to forget the country of his father. It made him happy when he succeeded in shaping a beautiful large cone.
Monsieur Ali had survived, thousands
Similar Books
