miracle to him they didn’t crash into each other more often, just as it was a miracle that people didn’t jump on the lines more often. Once Amadou had seen someone try. He had spotted the man a few metres away from him and he had known what the man was about to do as surely as if he had been holding up a sign. Luckily for the man, or unluckily, Amadou was there at his side, his long arm plucking him from certain death and total bodily disintegration; a detail in which the man, if he was a Catholic, would have no interest, since for him the body would be a useless envelope; not the case for a Muslim for whom, as Kader’s mum had told him, the head was required for all valid applications to paradise. Still, Catholic or Muslim, as far as the head was concerned, there would have been no chance of retrieval.
Kader was decidedly not in the mood for Bach now. His arm was throbbing, he missed El Niño and he missed Amadou. He sat on the RER until Châtelet, then changed trains. He had forgotten the interminable corridor and the depressing conveyor belt that was like a sorting machine for passive and active human beings, those who stood still and those who walked. Kader always walked: in the event of an attractive woman coming in the opposite direction, he liked to be seen in motion. At the far end a group of Peruvian buskers blew into their pipes and stamped on the ground. He bounced past them on his trainers, the Adidas bagAmadou had lent him over his shoulder; his mind already turned from this city that had never let him in anyway.
Except, he thought, for that brief moment the summer before, on the day after the World Cup final. That day it had been as if Paris had turned herself inside out, letting her dark lining show itself at last. He remembered how it had felt to take possession of the Champs-Elysées that day and how unlike those Friday and Saturday nights when he and his friends would sit on the low wall that surrounded the entrance to the Métro as if they were afraid to venture too far from the underground where they belonged.
That glorious day after the final was already a well-documented social phenomenon. The media referred to it as the World Cup effect. The newspapers had announced that the collective joy shared that day by France, her immigrants and her immigrants’ children, was the death knell of the National Front. Pure bullshit, of course. The monster, Kader knew, was only sleeping.
Still, it had been a beautiful day. Kader remembered the girl with long silky hair the colour of wheat, tied back in a ponytail. She had creamy skin and greenish-brown eyes. Kader knew, as she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet in rhythm to the crowd’s cries, that she was enjoying his presence beside her, was aware of every single move he made, and when the kids had started banging on their congas and they had all started jumping and she turned and threw her arms around his neck and let him dance with her in an apparently spontaneous outburst, he knew how planned it was and he was thrilled. And later when they had floated with the crowd down to the Place de la Concorde and he had slow-danced with her to the song ‘We are the Champions’, he had buried his face in her long white neck, breathing in the smell of her hair, which even smelt like wheat, like the wheat fields of France, and he was the conquering hero. He smiled now as he remembered looking at the piece of envelope on which she had written a phone number (not, it had turned out, hers) and at her name: Françoise.
When Kader came up into the bright sunshine of the Place de la Porte d’Orléans, he saw that the wound in his shoulder had started bleeding again. He put down his bag and looked about him. The entrance to the périphérique was on the other side of the vastsquare. He looked for a pharmacy where he might get a bandage for his arm but could not see one. Across the street beside the bus depot he spotted a series of benches in a row facing a
Kader was decidedly not in the mood for Bach now. His arm was throbbing, he missed El Niño and he missed Amadou. He sat on the RER until Châtelet, then changed trains. He had forgotten the interminable corridor and the depressing conveyor belt that was like a sorting machine for passive and active human beings, those who stood still and those who walked. Kader always walked: in the event of an attractive woman coming in the opposite direction, he liked to be seen in motion. At the far end a group of Peruvian buskers blew into their pipes and stamped on the ground. He bounced past them on his trainers, the Adidas bagAmadou had lent him over his shoulder; his mind already turned from this city that had never let him in anyway.
Except, he thought, for that brief moment the summer before, on the day after the World Cup final. That day it had been as if Paris had turned herself inside out, letting her dark lining show itself at last. He remembered how it had felt to take possession of the Champs-Elysées that day and how unlike those Friday and Saturday nights when he and his friends would sit on the low wall that surrounded the entrance to the Métro as if they were afraid to venture too far from the underground where they belonged.
That glorious day after the final was already a well-documented social phenomenon. The media referred to it as the World Cup effect. The newspapers had announced that the collective joy shared that day by France, her immigrants and her immigrants’ children, was the death knell of the National Front. Pure bullshit, of course. The monster, Kader knew, was only sleeping.
Still, it had been a beautiful day. Kader remembered the girl with long silky hair the colour of wheat, tied back in a ponytail. She had creamy skin and greenish-brown eyes. Kader knew, as she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet in rhythm to the crowd’s cries, that she was enjoying his presence beside her, was aware of every single move he made, and when the kids had started banging on their congas and they had all started jumping and she turned and threw her arms around his neck and let him dance with her in an apparently spontaneous outburst, he knew how planned it was and he was thrilled. And later when they had floated with the crowd down to the Place de la Concorde and he had slow-danced with her to the song ‘We are the Champions’, he had buried his face in her long white neck, breathing in the smell of her hair, which even smelt like wheat, like the wheat fields of France, and he was the conquering hero. He smiled now as he remembered looking at the piece of envelope on which she had written a phone number (not, it had turned out, hers) and at her name: Françoise.
When Kader came up into the bright sunshine of the Place de la Porte d’Orléans, he saw that the wound in his shoulder had started bleeding again. He put down his bag and looked about him. The entrance to the périphérique was on the other side of the vastsquare. He looked for a pharmacy where he might get a bandage for his arm but could not see one. Across the street beside the bus depot he spotted a series of benches in a row facing a
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