Dirty Feet - Edem Awumey [22]
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 building’s 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 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 — people, events — 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,