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By Root 299 0

himself this to be able to go on, to convince himself that he wasn’t more of a shit than anyone else. To pass the time between deliveries he would take a few pictures of the landscape and the children. Because they were beautiful, the little ones. His lens stole the innocence of their faces ravaged by war. He figured that later the pictures would help him decide to stop. Did he become attached to the faces, the land, the countries that weren’t supposed to mean anything but contracts, deliveries, such-and-such, a place on his job list? He said that Africa was a passage. For him, for those who’d come before him, for those still going down there and those yet to come. New warlocks come from near or far would pass by there again to re-colonize the niggers.

In the country of his cellar he tried to put an end to the torment of his soul. Askia looked once again at the pictures of the children. Petite-Guinée had gone quiet. Tired out. They climbed back up the stone stairway.

“Askia, it’s boiling inside me and I can’t control it.”

“The emotions?”

“Whenever I go down to look at those photographs. It hits me in the gut and galls my skin every time.”

At the bar he served them both a whisky. Outside, through the gap between the curtains, Askia caught a glance of the white shadow spying on them, perhaps trying to retrieve her train tickets.

33

HE WENT BACK to work wishing for a final meeting with the shadow. One more night, the last act of the dying winter. Once out of the parking lot, he turned right at the first corner. He had driven barely a hundred metres when a man flagged him down. It was unusual, especially at night, to pick up a fare so quickly. He found this piece of luck somewhat odd but could not turn it down. He hoped the client would be the friendly sort, someone he could have a conversation with. The man wore a hat. He settled into the back of the car, removed his headgear. Silence.

“How’s it going, Askia?”

“. . .”

Askia recognized him. The man in the back seat chuckled.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“. . .”

“I must say, you haven’t changed.”

“You neither.”

“Thanks. For the compliment.”

“It’s not a compliment. Just the truth. You haven’t changed, Zak.”

“Yeah, but it’s been a while, Askia. Lots of water and a few corpses under the bridge. And through our hands.”

“. . .”

“And here you are, in this city so foreign to what we were. I guess you left, deserted, because you thought this city, the night here, which knows nothing of your past, could protect you. But you know very well that the past is like a woman who’s in love with you and won’t leave you alone. Your new situation doesn’t change a thing. Sorry, friend. Believe me, I would have preferred to meet you under different circumstances and celebrate another kind of Mass.”

“. . .”

“Like meet you for a drink, have some fun the way we used to, or just shoot the breeze, sitting on the hoods of our cabs after the night shift. But life is cruel. Isn’t it, Askia?”

“. . .”

“You can’t always choose the Mass you’re going to celebrate. You want to stay a choirboy, pure and innocent in your white robe, but then you end up playing the monster. I understand. It was hard work, and eventually it got to you. You’re human. I understand and I respect that. But you know that in our case it’s better to blow yourself away than to run away. Don’t you think it’s better?”

“. . .”

“You’re out of luck, Askia. We found you. This really isn’t the best town to hole up in. Did you forget that it’s called the City of Lights? You can’t hide in the light . . . Sorry.”

“. . .”

“I’m telling you this because we respected each other. Otherwise I would have finished the job by now, but I find this contract repugnant — knocking off a colleague. I see it as another role, a new one, one more after all the roles we’ve had to play. It’s a character role, something completely original; for once, you’ll be the choirboy. Let’s go. Drive, my friend. Go to that wood — you know, where the night shoots its wad in the bellies of the filles de joie.”

Askia did not have to wonder whether