soul-shattering cries, bodies falling together with the glass onto the cold asphalt.
The fire had broken out on the ground floor. From there it climbed to the upper floors, engulfing, scorching, charring the damp, porous, cracked walls. Driven by a merciless wind, it seared the walls and the people. No part of the building was spared. The whole thing was ablaze. They stood rooted before the reddening structure, the dead windowpanes at their feet. Wailing. Moaning. The last signs of life, of a clinging to hope. On the ledge of an overheated window, a pair of feet testing the void for a place to stand. But the void was powerless and had nothing to offer the feet but its inability to bear them. The hands gripping the window frame let go, and that was all. Askia started for the front door of the building. Olia grabbed his sleeve and held him back. It would do no good, she said, the cries could hardly be heard anymore, and what that meant was obvious. Besides, sirens were approaching and the red of the fire trucks. The firefighters of Lutetia coming to the rescue of the poor creatures trapped in the ruins of the smoking tomb. Olia shouted that the firemen were going to collect the remains and harvest the writing of the dead, the burnt letters on the wall.
The smell of burning was the same â O horrific childhood! â as what he and his confederates had smelled that time at the garbage dump in Trois-Collines when they had tried to burn Pontos, Father Lemâs dog. Rigo, the cruellest among them, had gone to steal some gasoline at the Texaco station in the business district. After that they had only to wait, because they knew that Pontos would come as usual to get his scraps at the dump, the maternal provider for all of them. And so, before the onset of twilight heavy with the stench of rotting garbage, the dog appeared, muzzle twitching, tail held low. The children fell upon him. With a strength born of despair he freed himself, but they managed to burn his tail. O Pontos, why did those kids hate you so?
24
THE BUILDING was burning. In the hearth of the night Olia stood frozen. Perhaps she too was dead, a charcoal statue unable to grasp what was happening, an unhappy piece of work created by that cynical artist, fire. Whose ends were murder and ashes everywhere. In the end, death and ashes. The firemen who eventually came found the end result, and blamed it on the gas raging through the slit throats of the old buildingâs pipes.
Askia saw the sequence of events. The events previous to their arrival on the scene. Sidi lying on the floor beneath the frescos. Before the shock of the fire he had gotten up to look out through the smashed shutters of the loft at the grey facade of the building across the way, a lighted window framing a woman in black who was savouring the pleasure of at last witnessing the apocalypse she had so desired, her feverish eyes riveted on the loft. And below, in the silence of the street, the dark metal ring of a gas outlet where a doddering old man had stopped to warm himself, holding his shopping bags and a doubtful treasure just salvaged from the green garbage bins of the building across the street. He was thinking of the generosity of the trash bins of Lutetia. As green as hope.
The window. When the fire broke out, that was where Sidi was going to escape. Jumping into empty space. But he wanted to take the shopping cart with his belongings, his souvenirs, and some leftover stew. He made an about-face. Stepping in the direction of the cart, he bumped up against a greasy box that was lying there. He fell and struck his head against one of the pillars of the loft. He blacked out, and when he regained consciousness, it was too late. The windows were hung with curtains of flames, the staircase was a furnace. He watched the fire consume the columns, the walls, and the towers painted on the cement. The fire seized hold of the clay fields, the yellow savannah, the horrified people in the frescos,
The fire had broken out on the ground floor. From there it climbed to the upper floors, engulfing, scorching, charring the damp, porous, cracked walls. Driven by a merciless wind, it seared the walls and the people. No part of the building was spared. The whole thing was ablaze. They stood rooted before the reddening structure, the dead windowpanes at their feet. Wailing. Moaning. The last signs of life, of a clinging to hope. On the ledge of an overheated window, a pair of feet testing the void for a place to stand. But the void was powerless and had nothing to offer the feet but its inability to bear them. The hands gripping the window frame let go, and that was all. Askia started for the front door of the building. Olia grabbed his sleeve and held him back. It would do no good, she said, the cries could hardly be heard anymore, and what that meant was obvious. Besides, sirens were approaching and the red of the fire trucks. The firefighters of Lutetia coming to the rescue of the poor creatures trapped in the ruins of the smoking tomb. Olia shouted that the firemen were going to collect the remains and harvest the writing of the dead, the burnt letters on the wall.
The smell of burning was the same â O horrific childhood! â as what he and his confederates had smelled that time at the garbage dump in Trois-Collines when they had tried to burn Pontos, Father Lemâs dog. Rigo, the cruellest among them, had gone to steal some gasoline at the Texaco station in the business district. After that they had only to wait, because they knew that Pontos would come as usual to get his scraps at the dump, the maternal provider for all of them. And so, before the onset of twilight heavy with the stench of rotting garbage, the dog appeared, muzzle twitching, tail held low. The children fell upon him. With a strength born of despair he freed himself, but they managed to burn his tail. O Pontos, why did those kids hate you so?
24
THE BUILDING was burning. In the hearth of the night Olia stood frozen. Perhaps she too was dead, a charcoal statue unable to grasp what was happening, an unhappy piece of work created by that cynical artist, fire. Whose ends were murder and ashes everywhere. In the end, death and ashes. The firemen who eventually came found the end result, and blamed it on the gas raging through the slit throats of the old buildingâs pipes.
Askia saw the sequence of events. The events previous to their arrival on the scene. Sidi lying on the floor beneath the frescos. Before the shock of the fire he had gotten up to look out through the smashed shutters of the loft at the grey facade of the building across the way, a lighted window framing a woman in black who was savouring the pleasure of at last witnessing the apocalypse she had so desired, her feverish eyes riveted on the loft. And below, in the silence of the street, the dark metal ring of a gas outlet where a doddering old man had stopped to warm himself, holding his shopping bags and a doubtful treasure just salvaged from the green garbage bins of the building across the street. He was thinking of the generosity of the trash bins of Lutetia. As green as hope.
The window. When the fire broke out, that was where Sidi was going to escape. Jumping into empty space. But he wanted to take the shopping cart with his belongings, his souvenirs, and some leftover stew. He made an about-face. Stepping in the direction of the cart, he bumped up against a greasy box that was lying there. He fell and struck his head against one of the pillars of the loft. He blacked out, and when he regained consciousness, it was too late. The windows were hung with curtains of flames, the staircase was a furnace. He watched the fire consume the columns, the walls, and the towers painted on the cement. The fire seized hold of the clay fields, the yellow savannah, the horrified people in the frescos,
Similar Books
