a shock of hair and a serene face â sitting in a corner and reeking of urine. A man with the cup and drama of his misery placed at his feet. On his chest the Negus of the metro carried a rectangular piece of cardboard bearing a message: A coin and I bless and cover your flight . Askia approached the man while rummaging in his pockets. The man chortled. His chin danced and displayed the ruined landscape of his teeth, the landscape of his gladness at trading a smile with the world.
They hurried towards the turnstiles. Olia hoisted her leg over the horizontal bar blocking the narrow passageway and slipped her small body through the tiny space between the ground and the gate that swung open to let commuters through. Askia was taken aback. She had retained something of the rebel, the outlaw. He searched in the pockets of his jacket and eventually pulled out a folded ticket that he inserted in the slot of the machine, but it would not let him pass. The horizontal bar refused to yield to the pressure of his legs and the small electronic screen flashed red: Ticket not valid! He repeated the procedure. Ticket not valid! Pushed the bar. Ticket not valid! Back in his corner the Negus giggled and said, âI see youâre not valid. You donât have the right ticket to get through the gates of Lutetia. Youâre not valid! You donât have the right ticket to go to the ball on the other side of the barrier!â Then the Negus handed him a ticket and Askia passed through the turnstile and joined Olia, who was waiting for him with a teasing smile. She was being somewhat derisive because she had believed that he, the rhapsode, could open any door in the world.
He started imagining that Sidi had returned to Paris. He pictured his sire in the metro, pushing a shopping cart filled with his belongings and food, some stew from the food bank where he had made a stop. People were bothered by the smell, turned heads in his direction, then uttered obscenities, but some smiled too because he was funny, this man in the metro pushing a shopping cart filled with his belongings and some stew. They scrutinized his long silhouette from the immaculate turban to the oddly clean bare feet. Askia could not say why he imagined Sidi barefoot. Then he saw him on the street, walking towards his loft, the land of the frescos.
They went down ten steps to the platform. Their train would be there in about ten minutes. Askia thought back to his city on the shores of the Atlantic, a station where trains no longer stopped because there were no tracks left. On the board bolted to the concrete wall above their heads, illuminated letters and numbers indicated the stations remaining before their stop: Luxembourg, Port-Royal, Denfert-Rochereau. Seeing the series of names, Olia was thinking out loud of another series, her metro line, the stations she went through before getting off at Opalchenska: Vardar, Konstantin, Velichkov. So Askia in turn was prompted to silently perform the same mental gymnastics. He saw in a flash the green minibuses of his coastal city, the bus ride that invariably cost fifty francs, the ride to Kodjoviakopé, which first had to go through Bè, Amoutivé, Hanoukopé, Nyékonakpoé . . .Â
The train finally arrived amid the plaintive tune of its brakes. They chose car number seven because Olia was superstitious. She believed that nothing could happen to her in car number seven, that no evil spirit would slow their ride in car number seven, because the music had whispered to her, Take car number seven, Olia  . . . She was reassured. She was not afraid.
23
THEY WERE frightened when they came out on the sidewalk in front of the old building. Horrified by the apocalyptic scene of flames licking at the windows, making the panes explode and crash in splinters on the asphalt below with the sound of tolling bells, tolling for the bodies inside the building, bodies letting out earth- and
They hurried towards the turnstiles. Olia hoisted her leg over the horizontal bar blocking the narrow passageway and slipped her small body through the tiny space between the ground and the gate that swung open to let commuters through. Askia was taken aback. She had retained something of the rebel, the outlaw. He searched in the pockets of his jacket and eventually pulled out a folded ticket that he inserted in the slot of the machine, but it would not let him pass. The horizontal bar refused to yield to the pressure of his legs and the small electronic screen flashed red: Ticket not valid! He repeated the procedure. Ticket not valid! Pushed the bar. Ticket not valid! Back in his corner the Negus giggled and said, âI see youâre not valid. You donât have the right ticket to get through the gates of Lutetia. Youâre not valid! You donât have the right ticket to go to the ball on the other side of the barrier!â Then the Negus handed him a ticket and Askia passed through the turnstile and joined Olia, who was waiting for him with a teasing smile. She was being somewhat derisive because she had believed that he, the rhapsode, could open any door in the world.
He started imagining that Sidi had returned to Paris. He pictured his sire in the metro, pushing a shopping cart filled with his belongings and food, some stew from the food bank where he had made a stop. People were bothered by the smell, turned heads in his direction, then uttered obscenities, but some smiled too because he was funny, this man in the metro pushing a shopping cart filled with his belongings and some stew. They scrutinized his long silhouette from the immaculate turban to the oddly clean bare feet. Askia could not say why he imagined Sidi barefoot. Then he saw him on the street, walking towards his loft, the land of the frescos.
They went down ten steps to the platform. Their train would be there in about ten minutes. Askia thought back to his city on the shores of the Atlantic, a station where trains no longer stopped because there were no tracks left. On the board bolted to the concrete wall above their heads, illuminated letters and numbers indicated the stations remaining before their stop: Luxembourg, Port-Royal, Denfert-Rochereau. Seeing the series of names, Olia was thinking out loud of another series, her metro line, the stations she went through before getting off at Opalchenska: Vardar, Konstantin, Velichkov. So Askia in turn was prompted to silently perform the same mental gymnastics. He saw in a flash the green minibuses of his coastal city, the bus ride that invariably cost fifty francs, the ride to Kodjoviakopé, which first had to go through Bè, Amoutivé, Hanoukopé, Nyékonakpoé . . .Â
The train finally arrived amid the plaintive tune of its brakes. They chose car number seven because Olia was superstitious. She believed that nothing could happen to her in car number seven, that no evil spirit would slow their ride in car number seven, because the music had whispered to her, Take car number seven, Olia  . . . She was reassured. She was not afraid.
23
THEY WERE frightened when they came out on the sidewalk in front of the old building. Horrified by the apocalyptic scene of flames licking at the windows, making the panes explode and crash in splinters on the asphalt below with the sound of tolling bells, tolling for the bodies inside the building, bodies letting out earth- and
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