the heart of the cities: Oualata, Kano, Katsina, Zaria, Agadez . . . the skirt of his robe and the mementos in the cart: a photograph, some earth in a small bag, a few coins, a worn-out pair of shoes.
25
MOMENTS OF gloom. The strollers on the banks of the Seine were few. Because of the weather. An icy sky. Olia was away, delivering an order to a client who was in a hurry. The start of another day. Askia raised the collar on his jacket. He noticed that there were more creases on the surface of the water. A bateau-mouche was approaching. After it had slipped by, a good half-hour elapsed before the water could once again stretch out, a smooth, ironed, tranquil bed. Very soon the wrinkles returned. A police boat patrolling the banks. Because there might be someone careless, or suspicious, a sans-papiers who might not be entitled to that spot on the riverbank where he sat freezing, hands quivering, lips too, coughing, hugging his jacket tight to his chest. Askia tried to stand up. How long had he been there motionless, a useless feature in a setting where, on the contrary, everything â people, events â was supposed to move?
Eventually he got to his feet.
He retrieved his taxi at the garage and drove down to the parking lot. He did not have the slightest wish to go back to his squat. Which looked like the building that had burned, a damned rest stop where he had paused to catch his breath. But a place to stop was a trap for people like him. You plant your butt on a riverbank, have a drink, rent a motel room, take a liking to a girl youâve met by chance, and before you know it the sky crashes down and consumes you and your vessel, which was only searching for a harbour and about to moor in the belly of that one-night lover. Of this Sidi had surely been aware. He had gone back to die in the trap of that old rest-stop building. Otherwise he would have pushed his shopping cart farther, towards other passages, other landings.
Olia had said that she had seen the man in the turban again, on the train. He had not recognized her. It was on the number four metro line, which runs from Porte dâOrléans to Porte de Clignancourt, the underground thread between the south and the north of the city. He was travelling from the south of the city northward â that was his life: to leave the South of his childhood and trek towards the North of his wanderings. She had followed him.
Askia believed that if he returned to his ghost building, his squat, he would burn and cause others to suffer. He therefore decided to live from now on in the shifting space of his taxicab. He climbed into the driverâs seat and tilted it back. He preferred not to lie down in the back seat as some of his colleagues did. He had the feeling that if he did he would be taken somewhere. Naturally. That was the seat meant for passengers, who were to be taken somewhere . . . The past. The Cell.
He lay on his back. An atrocious pain shot up his spine. He turned on his side. His body felt heavy. He experienced something resembling sleep, a weight that pressed down on his eyelids in spite of his discomfort. He was propelled into another sky, another universe, a reality with a door opening onto a streetless city.
26
HE HAD ON occasion amused himself by imagining the contours of the streetless city. The contours because, if this city existed, obviously nothing but its contours could be imagined, since it had no streets. It would be a great mass of bricks or concrete where all things would be enclosed: people, animals, objects, projects, plants, all shut inside the grey mass, cloistered in cells for all eternity without any possible view of the outside. The great mass of the streetless city would contain everything â shops, public squares, bars, libraries, churches of every denomination, filles de joie , monks, hospitals, cemeteries â everything except a view of the outside and, perhaps, a street through which the
25
MOMENTS OF gloom. The strollers on the banks of the Seine were few. Because of the weather. An icy sky. Olia was away, delivering an order to a client who was in a hurry. The start of another day. Askia raised the collar on his jacket. He noticed that there were more creases on the surface of the water. A bateau-mouche was approaching. After it had slipped by, a good half-hour elapsed before the water could once again stretch out, a smooth, ironed, tranquil bed. Very soon the wrinkles returned. A police boat patrolling the banks. Because there might be someone careless, or suspicious, a sans-papiers who might not be entitled to that spot on the riverbank where he sat freezing, hands quivering, lips too, coughing, hugging his jacket tight to his chest. Askia tried to stand up. How long had he been there motionless, a useless feature in a setting where, on the contrary, everything â people, events â was supposed to move?
Eventually he got to his feet.
He retrieved his taxi at the garage and drove down to the parking lot. He did not have the slightest wish to go back to his squat. Which looked like the building that had burned, a damned rest stop where he had paused to catch his breath. But a place to stop was a trap for people like him. You plant your butt on a riverbank, have a drink, rent a motel room, take a liking to a girl youâve met by chance, and before you know it the sky crashes down and consumes you and your vessel, which was only searching for a harbour and about to moor in the belly of that one-night lover. Of this Sidi had surely been aware. He had gone back to die in the trap of that old rest-stop building. Otherwise he would have pushed his shopping cart farther, towards other passages, other landings.
Olia had said that she had seen the man in the turban again, on the train. He had not recognized her. It was on the number four metro line, which runs from Porte dâOrléans to Porte de Clignancourt, the underground thread between the south and the north of the city. He was travelling from the south of the city northward â that was his life: to leave the South of his childhood and trek towards the North of his wanderings. She had followed him.
Askia believed that if he returned to his ghost building, his squat, he would burn and cause others to suffer. He therefore decided to live from now on in the shifting space of his taxicab. He climbed into the driverâs seat and tilted it back. He preferred not to lie down in the back seat as some of his colleagues did. He had the feeling that if he did he would be taken somewhere. Naturally. That was the seat meant for passengers, who were to be taken somewhere . . . The past. The Cell.
He lay on his back. An atrocious pain shot up his spine. He turned on his side. His body felt heavy. He experienced something resembling sleep, a weight that pressed down on his eyelids in spite of his discomfort. He was propelled into another sky, another universe, a reality with a door opening onto a streetless city.
26
HE HAD ON occasion amused himself by imagining the contours of the streetless city. The contours because, if this city existed, obviously nothing but its contours could be imagined, since it had no streets. It would be a great mass of bricks or concrete where all things would be enclosed: people, animals, objects, projects, plants, all shut inside the grey mass, cloistered in cells for all eternity without any possible view of the outside. The great mass of the streetless city would contain everything â shops, public squares, bars, libraries, churches of every denomination, filles de joie , monks, hospitals, cemeteries â everything except a view of the outside and, perhaps, a street through which the
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